The market lay before them like the aftermath of a lost battle, banners ripped and hanging limply over the shattered remains of trade. Upturned barrels and overturned crates trailed through the square as though an unseen raider had swept in, leaving no soldier in sight. Ana stepped carefully among the wreckage, each deliberate footfall coaxing another secret from the scarred cobblestones.

A tense stillness gripped the ruined plaza, as if it might breathe its chaos back into being at any moment. Blackened scorch marks marred the walls, stark against the aged wood and stone—proof of a savage attack, but offering no hint of its author.

Caden paused amid the debris. "What do you make of this?" he asked, his voice trembling with both fear and curiosity.

Ana's eyes swept the broken market. "Looks like you weren't alone tonight," she said quietly, her tone edged with certainty. Every scar on the stones whispered of terror.

The old man sagged beside her, his spine curved like a question mark. "They came with the night," he whispered. "Silent as owl wings. By the time the first scream tore through town, half our homes were already burning."

"Demons?" Caden's hand drifted to his sword hilt.

Ana kicked at the charred debris. "Demons don't need strategy."

"We thought so too, at first." The old man's voice cracked. "But men moved among them—black shapes flowing between buildings, never breaking formation."

A hoarse call cut through the square. "Over here!" Garin stood at the far edge, merchant's hands trembling as they never would over coin. The gathered villagers behind him shifted like nervous cattle.

"We thought we could restore order ourselves," Garin said as they approached, each word brittle with shame. "We were wrong."

Ana's mouth thinned to a scar. "What is it?"

Wordlessly, he led them to where the stone wall bore the deepest burn mark. Strange symbols had been carved into the blackened surface, still radiating malevolent heat. Ana's fingers hovered above the markings, never touching. "Territory markers," she muttered. "Someone's staked a claim."

"They're the Syndicate's," Garin whispered, fear shading his words. "We recognized them instantly."

Ana's jaw clenched. "A declaration, then." She pressed her fingertips against the symbols. "They want us to know they're here."

Caden knelt and picked up a bloodstained scrap of cloth. "I thought the Syndicate was just a ghost story," he said, astonished.

"They're all too real," Ana replied, memories of the Syndicate's cruelty surfacing. "And they don't leave messages for fun."

Her expression grew darker by the second. "It's not the symbol," she said. "It's who this belongs to." She flipped the cloth, revealing a familiar weave. "Look—this is from the orphanage blankets."

"Hostages?" Caden's voice cracked.

She shook her head sharply. "Not for ransom or trade. They're offerings."

Panic flashed across Caden's face. "So this attack was just the start?"

Ana tucked the cloth into her belt. "They'll return for more." She lifted her head, meeting the silent crowd. "We know their plan now—and we have one they won't expect."

Garin blinked, hope warring with doubt. "An advantage?"

The old man slumped against the wall. "They want to take everything."

Ana shook him awake with a fierce look. "Not if I stop them." She ruffled Caden's hair in a rare show of warmth. "You've got us. But we must act fast."

Caden squared his shoulders. "We're here to help."

A wary murmur ran through the gathered villagers. Ana raised her voice. "First, find out who's missing. Then gather every tool and supply we can use."

Within the hour, a ragtag dozen townspeople stood before her—armed with rusted farming tools and dented lanterns, their clothes hanging in tatters. Ana surveyed them, mind racing to shape them into a fighting force. "It's not nearly enough," she muttered.

Caden glanced at her, worry shadowed by resolve. He didn't know the full danger they faced, but he knew Ana—and that was enough. There was no turning back now.

Ana glared at the ragtag fighters gathered in the square. She pointed at a lanky teenager whose knuckles turned white around a chipped axe. "You. Name?"

The boy's jaw trembled. He stared at his boots. "R-Reed. I... I came because they took my sister. I won't let them hurt anyone else."

Ana gave a curt nod, then shifted her focus to a broad-shouldered man leaning on a rusted pitchfork. His gray-streaked beard quivered as he straightened his back.

"Granger," he said, voice low but resolute. "I've plowed these fields since I was a boy. If something's coming for this village, I'll plow it under."

Ana studied him. "They could slaughter you."

Granger met her eyes. "They'll have to try."

She exhaled and asked the assembled crowd, "Anyone seen a Schattenschleicher?"

Silence. Reed swallowed. "What's that?"

"A shadow fiend," Ana said. "It drains magic—and life."

Reed's face went pale. "Could someone summon one here?"

"There's barely enough mana for a single enchantment," Ana replied. "Not enough to lure a Death Walker—unless the Syndicate's involved."

Reed's grip on his axe tightened. "So they're working together."

"They feed on suffering," Ana said quietly. "Every scream makes it stronger."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. An old woman clutched her chest. "Not again..."

"We're not soldiers," Reed whispered. "What can we do?"

"We're survivors," Ana cut in. "That's enough."

Her gaze flicked over the patchwork of tools and weapons. "Axes and pitchforks won't hold it. We need solid barricades."

A metallic clink grated from behind Ana. She spun, catching Garin at the periphery, hunched into himself and palming a stack of coins as if they'd hatch answers if he flipped them enough times. Even in the half-light, the flicker of gold between his fingers was hypnotic—a compulsion, not greed. Something about the rhythm, the sharp, nervous tap-tap, needled at the edge of Ana's control.

She glared; Garin noticed, some vestigial sense of self-preservation making his hands still. "Sorry," he muttered, letting the coins sink into a battered purse, the leather bulk swallowing their voice. He wiped his palms on his vest, then cleared his throat and said, "We could roadblock them. Use carts as a wall." He gestured at the abandoned wagons littering the square—half-gutted, but heavy and serviceable enough to slow a charge.

Ana weighed the idea, mind skipping through formations, kill zones. "South road is the weakest. Main point of entry. If they breach, we funnel them to the granary—biggest building left. Buy time for the rest to run."

Reed opened his mouth, then shut it. Ana turned to Garin. "And gather every scrap of wood and cloth. Torches—they'll need light to see it coming."

Whispers chased one another through the crowd until Granger stepped beside Reed.

"I'll stand on the front line," he said, voice steady.

Others nodded. Garin squared his shoulders and dashed off to marshal supplies. "Runners will warn the neighboring villages. Tell them to stay hidden until we call."

A man spat, "An elven promise means nothing!"

Ana's jaw tightened, but before she could answer, young Caden spoke up, sword slung at his side. "If Ana says she'll protect us, I believe her."

Granger raised a hand, silencing him. "By dawn, we'll be ready."

Ana met Granger's gaze and nodded once. Reed repeated, barely audible: "Ready."

Under her orders, the villagers scattered. Reed led a small band to the wagons; Granger and others hurried to the outskirts. Ana watched them go, Caden at her side. "With me," she said, urgency in her voice, pulling him along narrow alleys toward an old stone building.

"Where are we headed?" Caden panted.

"Storage cellar," she replied, tone brief. Memories stirred within those walls—ghosts she'd hoped were gone.

Inside, damp darkness pressed in. Ana flung open barrels and crates until she uncovered a hidden cache of weapons. "Rusted or not," she said, tossing a sword to Caden, "they're better than pitchforks."

Ana's hand closed on a short sword, heavier than the rest. The balance proved true, not like the lopsided trash handed out to cannon fodder, but something a soldier's wrist would crave. The grip lay warm in her palm, a rare thing in this cold-blooded ruin. She gave it a test swing, muscle memory guiding the arc, and smirked: not bad. She looped it through her belt on the left—her main hand—and eyed the racks for anything more.

Caden looked at her, as if seeing a spark rekindled. While they packed, he ventured quietly, "Why did you leave?"

Her hands paused over a crate. "I thought it was over," she admitted, voice hollow. "I was wrong."

Silence stretched until a mocking whisper slithered through her mind: "Oh look at you go—therapy with your little boy?"

Ana froze. Caden looked up, concern etched on his face. "Ana? What is it?"

"Nothing," she snapped, shaking off the intrusion. "Let's move."

They hauled the weapons into the marketplace, where villagers paused in their work. Ana began distributing blades and spears. "It's not much," she said, "but it's a start."

An elderly man stepped forward, eyes wide. "Where did you get all this?"

Ana met him evenly. "Do you want the truth?"

He hesitated, then laughed ruefully. "Doesn't matter. At least we have it now."

Caden slung his sword over his shoulder, iron weight a promise of protection. "Better than pitchforks," he agreed with a grin.

Soon Reed and the others returned with ropes, rotting planks, chipped stones. Garin shook his head. "We won't hold out long."

Ana looked up at the darkening sky. "Let's see how ready we are." She led Caden through the town, inspecting the hastily built barricades, torches lining rooftops, tattered banners hanging defiantly.

Turning to Caden, she said firmly, "Keep watch. Signal me at the first sign."

He opened his mouth but clenched his jaw, then climbed to a high rooftop, eyes scanning the horizon.

Ana slipped into the tavern, letting the rallying cries outside fade to a distant roar. The air inside was thick as shadows moved among hushed conversations.