The path wound through the woods like an old scar, packed earth and trampled roots, wide enough for a dozen people to walk shoulder to shoulder. The air was damp, cool, and smelled faintly of ash carried from the fields ahead. Every few steps, a pale ribbon of morning light slipped between the branches, cutting through the mist.
Argent led the way, one hand brushing the hilt of his rapier, the other steadying the dagger at his side. The others followed close, their footsteps uneven, the wounds from the day before showing. Around them, the forest was restless.
They weren't alone on the road.
Ahead, and to the sides, the woods came alive with movement, groups of people, all walking in the same direction. Some talked in low tones. Others marched in silence, faces hard, weapons slung over shoulders. The smell of oil and steel hung heavy.
No one looked twice at the eight.
To these people, newcomers were as common as smoke.
Argent slowed slightly as the trail curved, his eyes scanning the lines of people ahead. It didn't take long to notice the patterns.
To the right, the same five newcomers they saw talking to the recruiter, walked close together, weapons shining too clean for the dirt around them. Their leather armor still held the stiff sheen of the tanning oil, unbent and unscarred. Each bore the same black and gold insignia, the split crown, the Hollow Crown.
The recruiter from the camp walked ahead of them, gesturing as he spoke, laughter rolling off him. The new five hung on his words, still wide-eyed and trying to hide their fear. Argent watched them pass, the symbol glinting on their shoulders.
"Even their fear looks new," he thought.
To the left, a cluster of rougher figures trudged together, veterans, by the way they carried themselves. Their armor was mismatched, painted over with a patchwork of faded colors and symbols. Some bore insignias Argent didn't recognize; others had none at all. They talked easily among themselves, voices rising and falling in casual rhythm.
"Three hundred merits if I hit the knee before the kill."
"Ha! You couldn't hit a barn if it begged you to."
"Good thing the giants are about as big as one."
"I just need one decent kill to cover the drinks tab. The rest's gravy."
"Better save some for a healer, your liver's due before your armor."
"Eh. If I die first, the temple'll fix both."
"Then first to die pays for the first round."
Their laughter came easy, old and worn at the edges.
Ward caught Argent's glance and nodded toward them. "Smaller factions," he muttered. "Or none at all. Old timers. The ones who treat this just like another day at the office."
Argent didn't answer. His eyes had drifted to another group farther ahead, three figures in full robes and hoods, their pace slow but deliberate. The cloth was a deep purple that shimmered faintly in the light, silver trim at the folds. On each of their backs was a sigil: a circle split by a thin vertical line.
The design caught the eye, but gave away nothing.
They moved like ghosts through the ranks, untouched and unbothered.
Behind Argent, Ryn's voice broke the quiet, small, uncertain, but steady.
"I'm… not used to this," she murmured. "So many people. Just marching to fight monsters like it's a morning chore."
Her tone carried a tremor, but not fear not quite.
Even as she spoke, her stride never faltered. She walked on, hands tight around her bow, eyes forward.
Ferric watched her for a moment, then looked away, hiding a faint smile.
She's saying what we're all thinking, he thought. Only difference is she's brave enough to say it out loud.
The trees began to thin, light bleeding through in wider patches. Veyra glanced up at the sun and frowned.
"We're not heading back the way we came from yesterday," she said.
Veryn nodded, scanning the horizon. "The direction's off. We should've veered north by now if we were going to where we arrived."
Before anyone could answer, a voice boomed behind them.
"Ah! There you are!"
A large hand clapped down on Argent's shoulder, nearly making him stumble from the pain shooting through his body. He turned to see a man towering over him, wide as two men across, with a thick beard streaked in gray and a grin that could split stone. His tunic was half-open, revealing scarred skin and a chest like carved oak.
If I hadn't seen giants before I would think he was one of them.
"Man, I'm glad I caught up to you lot," the stranger said, throwing his arm around Argent like they were old friends. "You're all the talk of the camp! Don't fret about not goin' back to where you came in. That's just the playground for the new blood. We're heading to the real field, much bigger, much messier, much more fun."
The eight exchanged wary looks.
Argent shrugged him off, stepping back a pace. "You've been looking for us?" His tone was cautious, memory flickering back to Mugwort's words about recruiters.
Not another Hollow Crown pitch I hope.
The man blinked, then laughed, loud, genuine, like thunder breaking through the fog. "Oh, no, no! Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not like that fool over there." He jerked his chin toward the Hollow Crown recruiter still chatting up his five fresh victims.
"Ugly face," Ember muttered.
Rime and Ryn both laughed quietly.
The big man grinned wide. "Yeah! Ugly face. That's a good one. Sums up most of the Crown, honestly. Those poor bastards..." he nodded toward the five newcomers "...they just made their first mistake. Accepted the gear."
He kept walking beside them, talking with an easy rhythm that made it hard to tell where the jokes ended and the truths began.
"Looks good, doesn't it? Shiny blades, clean leather. But all that polish hides trash metal. Worse, they've got runes of return carved into 'em. Means when those idiots die, and they will, the gear goes with them."
Veyra frowned. "That sounds… convenient?"
"Oh, it is," the man said cheerfully. "'Cept for the part where it's all rented. Crown'll slap a debt on 'em big enough to make a Ledger banker blush. Interest higher than their merit gain for years. And half their earnings go straight back to the faction. They'll spend eternity paying off their own armor."
Ferric's brow furrowed.
He talks too much, he thought. But at least it's the good kind of talk.
The stranger scratched his beard, eyes squinting as if chasing a thought. "It's one of those, what do you call it, pointy schemes? Pyramid things? I don't know. The ones the Earth folk always complain about. Recruiter gets a cut of their take forever. And since they bit on the gear loan, they're basically indentured for life."
After a moment, realization dawned across his own face. He smacked a palm against his chest. "Ah! Sorry, I should've started with that. Name's Grey. Big Grey, if you like. Iron Chorus faction."
The emblem stamped on his shoulder was bold and intricate, a horned helm wreathed in crimson fire.
"We don't recruit like that," he went on, puffing his chest. "Hell, we don't recruit at all. You join the Chorus because you want to, not because someone waved shiny trinkets. We fight for the fight itself. That's the only honest thing left here. The rest of the world can rot in debt and prayer, we'll be singing in the mud."
He grinned again, bright as a torch. "Heard about you eight. Word travels fast. Killed giants day one, then walked back. Then left again before the bruises even set. I had to see what kind of fools pull that off. Thought maybe you'd sing a good song today."
Argent studied him quietly. He didn't seem like a liar. Just… too large for his words, a storm in human skin.
He's not selling anything, Argent realized. He's just curious.
Around him, the others seemed to come to the same conclusion. Rime gave a slow nod. Ember smirked. Even Ferric's shoulders loosened slightly.
Veyra, naturally, jumped in first. "Those three robed people up ahead, who are they? And you mentioned runes of return, what are those?"
Grey chuckled. "Ah, sharp one, aren't you? The robes, those are the Veil. Chroniclers. They write down every damn thing that happens here. When there's no time, no age, no death, someone's gotta make sense of it, right? Problem is, they don't just record. They edit. Never trust 'em. Their tower in the city's full of more lies than a Crown contract."
He shrugged, tone softening. "Usually, only one comes to a province like this. Giants don't bother 'em, they fight with too much honor to kill scribes. But three? That's new. Means something's off."
He talked as they walked, his words threading through the crunch of dirt.
"In the real war provinces, and the fortresses, you won't even see 'em. They hide in the dark and write history from the shadows."
Then his tone lightened again. "Now, runes of return, different story. Those weapons you grabbed? When you die, they stay here. But anything with a rune of return comes back with you. Costs about fifty merits plus a small service charge if you find the right magic smith in the city. Handy if you're sentimental or buy something worth keeping."
Rime glanced sideways. "How many merits for a kill?"
Grey stopped mid-step. "Wait, don't tell me you lot killed giants yesterday and didn't check?"
Rime hesitated, but Ember cut in. "Didn't bother going to the temple and touching the statue. Figured we'd see the numbers when we wake up dead later."
Grey threw back his head and laughed, the sound booming through the trees. "Oh, I like you people! Merits depend on your enemy's strength. When you touch the statue, it shows your current merits, traits, and power score. You can raise power score through fighting, or donate merits back to the temple. That's what makes them so valuable."
He gestured broadly, eyes gleaming. "The giants in the newcomer field are young. Worth maybe two or three hundred each."
"Not bad for your first day, eh? Kill alone, you get it all. Share the kill, it splits based on contribution. Even landing a wound earns you a cut."
His tone dipped, reverent. "The older giants are stronger. Their leader's the real prize. Thirteen feet tall, rarely leaves the fog. They say he's worth ten thousand merits, easy. Enough to supply a force big enough to try and take a small province."
Argent's jaw tightened. His mind drifted back to that final moment, the massive silhouette rising through the mist, the one he made the promise to.
Could that have been him?
The forest began to thin again, and light spilled forward in long, golden streaks. The smell of smoke and blood grew stronger.
Grey slowed, voice lowering. "Looks like we're here."
The trees broke open into a vast, scarred plain, an expanse of torn earth and shattered stone. Grass clung to life only in scattered patches. On the forests' edge, nearly a hundred people gathered, each bearing their own colors, their own symbols.
And beyond them, at the far edge of the fog, the ground shook.
Shapes emerged, massive, hulking silhouettes, their skin marked with the same faintly glowing tattoos they had seen the day before. Giants. Dozens of them, trudging forward through the mist, eyes shimmering blue just like the marks on their skin. Many of them bigger than the ones they fought yesterday.
Around the eight, the veterans straightened, laughter dying in their throats.
For the first time since meeting him, Grey stopped talking. The grin returned to his face, but it was quieter now, something almost reverent.
"Well," he said softly, flexing his shoulders. "Time for the song to begin."
The eight tightened their grips on their weapons. Argent glanced over his shoulder, two of the three robed figures were watching them, their faces hidden, their eyes unreadable.
Why are they focused on us, he thought.
He turned back toward the field, breath steady, heart loud.
The mist shifted. The giants roared.
And the world moved again.