The false Scourge’s stench still clung to them — a metallic tang in the air, heavy as rusted iron. No matter how far they walked from the battlefield, Jack could taste it with every breath. The land itself seemed unsettled; the trees leaned in close, their branches heavy with dripping moss, as if eavesdropping. The scouts kept their weapons ready, not out of expectation, but habit. After that last battle, none of them would be caught unprepared again.

They stopped by a splintered oak at the edge of a shallow vale, the ground beneath them soft with moss and rain-soaked leaves. It wasn’t a camp, not yet — just a momentary pause. This was where they would decide their next move.

The scouts clustered in a loose half-circle, murmuring in low voices. The eldest among them, a grizzled man with a scar running from ear to jaw, was the first to speak up. “Back to the river path,” he said, his tone leaving little room for debate. “We had solid leads before we turned off toward that… thing.”

“That thing was supposed to be the Scourge,” Mike said bitterly, squatting to adjust the straps on his boots. His voice carried the weight of exhaustion — not just from the battle, but from the creeping realization that it had all been for nothing. “If we’d ignored it, we’d have been accused of cowardice.”

Another scout, the youngest of the group with a bow too large for his frame, crossed his arms. “It fought like the Scourge. It looked like the Scourge. How were we supposed to know?”

Eamon stood apart from the group, one hand resting on his staff, eyes narrowed on the valley beyond. “The river path may be compromised,” he said quietly, as if speaking to himself. Then louder, “If that creature was a decoy, it means someone knew we were coming. Someone knew our route.”

The word someone lingered in the air. It wasn’t pointed at anyone, not openly, but the unspoken name hung between Jack, Eamon, Page, Jones, and Mike like an unlit torch. Jack noticed Jones’ eyes flick toward the treeline. Page caught the glance and shifted her stance, one hand brushing the hilt of her weapon.

The scouts, oblivious to the undercurrent, kept arguing. Half wanted to return to the old path. The others suggested pressing deeper into the hills, away from known trails, hoping to catch the real Scourge unawares.

Jack half-listened. His thoughts were still in the fog-shrouded clearing where the false Scourge had fallen. He could still hear that dying shriek — not pained, but almost… amused, as if mocking them for thinking it could be killed.

Jones finally broke from the back-and-forth. “If it was a trap, then someone led us into it. Going back the same way might just lead us into another one.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Mike muttered. “We need a new path entirely.”

The discussion swelled again, voices overlapping until a rustle in the brush cut through the noise.

The scouts reacted instantly — bows drawn, swords lifted, eyes sweeping the treeline. Jack’s heart thudded once, twice, then a figure stepped from the shadows.

Justin.

He walked as if the forest parted for him, the wet leaves clinging to his boots without sound. His dark eyes swept the group casually, though Jack thought he saw the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth — not quite a smile, not quite a sneer.

“You look lost,” Justin said, voice calm and low, the kind that could cut through noise without needing to rise.

The younger scout lowered his bow slightly. “We’re deciding where to go next.”

Eamon’s gaze was steady, unreadable. “We’re deciding our next move,” he echoed.

“Ah,” Justin murmured. His eyes shifted from Eamon to Jack, lingering just long enough for Jack to feel the weight of it. “That explains the hesitation. You’ve already wasted time on the wrong prey once. It’d be a shame to do it again.”

The eldest scout narrowed his eyes. “And you’d know where the right prey is, then?”

Justin’s expression didn’t change, but something in his tone sharpened. “I know this much — chasing shadows blinds you to what’s walking right beside you.”

Jack’s stomach tightened.

The words hung there, heavy and deliberate. The scouts shifted uncomfortably, unsure why the air suddenly felt colder.

Justin stepped past them without waiting for a response, disappearing into the mist as if it had been waiting to swallow him whole. The faint scent of smoke trailed behind him, mixed with something Jack couldn’t quite name — something that made the hair on his arms stand on end.

They stood there for a long moment, the only sound the slow drip of water from the trees.

It was Page who broke the silence. “We should move. The longer we stand here, the easier it is for something to find us.”

But even as they resumed their march, the decision of where remained unsettled — clinging to them like the mist itself: persistent, heavy, and impossible to shake.

The group fell into motion, though not in agreement. The eldest scout took the lead, steering them toward the western ridge — away from both the river path and the deeper hills. “Neutral ground,” he called it, though in truth, no part of the land felt neutral anymore.

The mist thickened as they went, curling low over the forest floor, swallowing their boots in white. Even the sound of their footfalls seemed muffled, as if the world itself had decided to listen instead of speak.

Jack’s hunter’s instincts prickled. It wasn’t the usual awareness of movement in the underbrush or the quiet signs of game passing nearby. This was different — like being the only warm thing in a field of cold eyes.

Behind him, Jones muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Jack to hear. “Feels like walking with a knife at your back.”

Page, ever alert, scanned the treeline. “Not at your back,” she said. “Following beside you. Just outside sight.”

Eamon said nothing, but Jack noticed the old sage’s grip tightening on his staff every so often, like a man checking to make sure a weapon is still in hand.

The scouts moved in practiced formation, but the arguments from earlier had bled into their silence. They no longer glanced at one another for silent signals or checked each other’s positions. Instead, their eyes darted outward, searching the fog.

Hours passed like that, broken only by brief stops to drink or adjust gear. Yet every time they halted, Jack felt the same thing — a stillness in the air, and then a faint, almost imperceptible shift, as if something else paused when they did.

The first true sign came when the youngest scout stopped abruptly, raising a hand. “Tracks,” he whispered.

They gathered around. In the wet earth, faint but fresh, were the impressions of boot prints. They weren’t theirs — the tread was different, narrower, and the spacing between steps was too long for an ordinary stride.

Mike crouched low, tracing one with his finger. “Whoever it is, they’re not carrying much. And they’re fast.”

“Or,” Page said quietly, “they know how to move when they’re being hunted.”

The eldest scout looked over his shoulder into the fog, his jaw tightening. “We move faster. No more stops.”

The pace quickened. The mist made the ground slick, roots grabbing at their boots. Jack’s breath came harder, but the prickle on the back of his neck only sharpened.

At one point, he glanced to his right and swore he saw movement — a shadow slipping between the trees. By the time he turned his head, there was nothing but hanging moss swaying gently.

When they finally reached the base of the ridge, the scouts decided to set up a temporary camp. They didn’t light a fire — not here, not with the feeling pressing on them.

They posted two scouts on watch, each facing opposite sides of the camp. Jack volunteered to take the second shift with Page.

As the others settled, the night deepened, and the fog thickened further until it felt like they were inside a cloud. The forest sounds — the occasional bird, the wind in the leaves — were muted to the point of silence.

Then Jack heard it.

A faint crunch of leaves, deliberate and slow, just beyond the veil of white.

Page heard it too. Her hand slid toward her weapon, her posture shifting.

But nothing came.

And somehow, that was worse than seeing what was there.

The silence pressed in, heavier with each passing second. Jack’s grip on his bow tightened, the leather creaking softly under his fingers. The fog moved in slow, languid swirls, making it impossible to tell if something was shifting in the mist or if it was just his eyes playing tricks on him.

Page didn’t speak. She only angled her stance slightly, positioning herself so her back was close to Jack’s without either of them turning away from the white void. Her breathing was steady, measured, but her other hand flexed once at her side — ready.

Another crunch. Closer.

It was faint, but deliberate. Not the random rustle of an animal foraging — this was slow, patient, aware.

Jack strained his ears, every muscle in his body wound tight. He thought he caught a shape in the fog, taller than a man, standing utterly still. But then the mist curled, and it was gone, leaving only empty white.

He glanced at Page. She met his eyes briefly, her expression unreadable, and gave the faintest shake of her head. Don’t. Not yet.

Minutes passed — or maybe longer. Time seemed to stretch here, each heartbeat echoing like a drum in his ears. The sound didn’t come again, but the sense of being watched remained, coiled around them like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

When their shift finally ended, neither spoke a word to the scouts replacing them. They simply returned to their bedrolls, lying down but not closing their eyes. Sleep didn’t come easily — every flicker of mist at the edge of camp felt like it was hiding something.

By dawn, the feeling hadn’t faded. If anything, it had followed them into the light. And though no one mentioned it outright, the unease was clear in the way the group packed quickly, in the way eyes lingered a moment too long on the trees, and in the way conversations died mid-sentence.

They were being hunted. That much was certain.

What wasn’t certain was by whom.