Morning broke pale and washed-out, the kind of light that made the plains look endless and flat as hammered steel. Ren kept to the left flank as usual, bow in hand this time, an arrow already nocked. The odd behavior in the wildlife hadn’t eased, but now there was something else—a weight in the air, subtle but growing.

  By midmorning, he was sure they were being followed.

  Not just in the way plains predators sometimes shadowed travelers, curious and calculating. This was organized. Human. His Threads picked up faint disturbances just beyond visual range—short, purposeful shifts, then stillness. Whoever they were, they knew how to move quietly.

  Ren didn’t call out. Instead, he sent two short, sharp pulls through the filament threaded up his left sleeve—the silent signal he’d worked out with Sinclair weeks ago.

  Sinclair’s head turned fractionally, just enough for Ren to catch the acknowledgment. A moment later, the column slowed. Guards shifted subtly in position, hands going to weapons in a motion that looked like casual readiness but wasn’t.

  They crested a low rise, grass brushing their boots, the ruin of a long-fallen marker stone jutting out of the earth ahead. That’s when the wind shifted—and the smell hit.

  Oiled leather. Sweat. The faint copper of old blood. Not from their own group.

  Ren’s senses sharpened.

  Left, four. Right, two. Back—no, wait… three. Small spread.

  The first arrow came from the right. Ren saw it a heartbeat before it crested the grass, loosed from an overdrawn shortbow. He moved before thinking—Thread Surge flooding him, the world tilting into slow motion as he twisted aside, plucking the arrow out of the air with his mechanical hand.

  “Contact!” he shouted.

  The plain erupted.

  Figures burst from the grass in staggered waves—eight, no, ten of them—lean, ragged men and women with mismatched armor and weapons blackened to kill the shine. Bandits at first glance, but their faces were half-covered in strips of dark cloth, and crude symbols were painted on their exposed skin in flaking ochre.

  The first clash was violent. One attacker vaulted over the marker stone, swinging a spiked club at the nearest guard. The guard caught it on a shield, steel sparking as the club’s teeth bit deep, before slamming the shield forward to send the man reeling.

  Sinclair’s ward-lines flared gold, throwing a shimmering shield over the forward ranks. Two of the Obsidian Order’s mages dropped to one knee, hands pressed to the dirt, sending shockwave ripples through the grass that threw attackers off-balance.

  Ren let the arrow drop and drew his dagger in one hand, his other pulling fine control over his Threads. Glowing filaments lashed out, catching the arm of a charging man and wrenching him off-line, straight into the swing of a guard’s poleaxe.

  From his right came the rush of footsteps—fast, low. A woman with twin hatchets, teeth bared, eyes wild. Ren met her with a sidestep, Threads flicking out to catch one hatchet mid-swing. The mechanical arm took the brunt of her other strike with a ringing clang. Her eyes widened—surprise, fear—long enough for Ren’s dagger to flash, drawing a shallow but decisive cut along her side. She stumbled back, hissing, before being driven away by a spear thrust from another guard.

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  To his left, Leo was a storm. Fire curled around his staff in serpentine coils, breaking into molten darts that streaked into the attackers. Every shot found its mark—not killing outright, but staggering them into the path of waiting steel. One man’s sword caught fire mid-swing, forcing him to drop it, screaming.

  Another wave came in from the flank—three with spears, working in tight formation. Ren ducked under the first thrust, kicking the shaft sideways to throw the man off-balance. His Threads whipped around another’s ankle, yanking hard to drop him flat. The third lunged straight for Leo—only to have Sinclair’s wards flare brighter, a solid wall of gold halting the spearpoint inches from Leo’s chest.

  A shout went up from behind them—two attackers had looped wide to hit the caravan’s rear. Ren couldn’t get there in time, but one of the Order mages slammed a hand into the dirt, conjuring a ridge of stone from the ground itself, cutting the attackers off. Guards swarmed them before they could recover.

  One of the ochre-painted cultists broke through near Ren, swinging a jagged cleaver. Ren parried high, their blades locking. The man snarled and shoved forward with surprising strength, forcing Ren to give ground. Ren shifted his weight, letting the cleaver’s momentum carry it past, and countered with a thrust toward the man’s throat. The cultist twisted aside—fast—but not fast enough to avoid the Thread that looped around his neck and yanked him off his feet.

  For a few brutal seconds, it was nothing but steel on steel, bodies slamming into each other, the air full of dust and the hot tang of blood. The grass around them was trampled flat.

  It was clear now—these weren’t raiders here to loot. They were probing, testing defenses. They didn’t commit fully, breaking off just when they should have pressed. Ren caught sight of one cultist on the far edge holding back entirely, just watching. As soon as Ren locked eyes with him, the man turned and melted into the grass.

  “Don’t let them spread!” Sinclair barked. “Hold the line!”

  The team did—step by bloody step—until finally the momentum broke. The last three attackers disengaged almost in unison, retreating with quick, controlled movements. A single blast of flame from Leo scorched the grass at their heels, but none fell.

  Ren’s chest heaved, adrenaline buzzing through his veins. His Threads were still half-spooled, ready to lash out. He wanted to pursue, to drag them back one by one.

  “Hold formation!” Sinclair’s voice cut through the urge like a blade.

  The plain fell still again, save for the groans of the wounded and the crackle of smoldering grass where Leo’s fire had caught.

  The dead and dying lay scattered in the grass. The wounded spat curses in a tongue Ren didn’t recognize. Bound within minutes, their hands were tied tight behind their backs.

  Ren crouched beside one of the fallen—a wiry man whose eyes were already glazing over. The ochre paint on his face wasn’t random. Up close, it was a crude spiral broken by three jagged lines, painted over older, faded markings.

  “Seen anything like this before?” he asked, as Leo came up beside him.

  Leo knelt, frowning at the symbol. “Not in the open plains. Closest match is an offshoot cult from the border wastes. But they shouldn’t be anywhere near this far inland.”

  Ren glanced toward where the attackers had come from. “Guess they didn’t get the memo.”

  By the time the dead were searched and the wounded restrained, they’d found more of the strange symbols—carved into wooden amulets, etched onto belt buckles, even burned into the leather grips of weapons. All the same spiral-and-lines design.

  Sinclair turned one of the amulets over in his hand, expression grim. “This isn’t banditry. This is a test.”

  “Testing what?” Ren asked.

  “Our defenses. Our response time. Maybe even our numbers.” Sinclair dropped the amulet into a pouch. “They didn’t hit hard enough to win. Which means they didn’t come here to win.”

  “Scouts,” Leo said quietly. “And if they’re scouts, they have a camp.”

  “Then we leave before they get here,” Sinclair said, already turning toward the caravan.

  Ren frowned. “Shouldn’t we track them down? Get rid of them before they can report back?”

  Sinclair gave him a sidelong glance, sharp enough to cut. “And walk straight into whatever teeth they’re leading us toward? No. We choose the ground we bleed on.”

  The wind hissed through the grass again, carrying the faint smell of smoke. None of them spoke after that.

  They started moving.