The Warband was tested.
One day remained until the strike mission. Tonight, they trained under pressure. The wind was cold and unkind over the high moors of Threnar Isle, slipping over dark hills and stone cairns like a breath searching for memory. Fog moved low and slow, coiling in the hollows. The land was silent, but not empty.
A live operation drill. One outpost. Real guards. The stakes were only pretend, but failure would not be forgotten.
Their breath stayed low. The wind carried west. Wet grass hissed beneath their moccasin tread. No voice broke the rhythm. No birds called overhead. They were ghosts in blacksteel, moving without sound, shaped for war but restrained for now.
Two scouts crept ahead, Eorlas and Tuarin. They were lean, quiet, moor-born. Their cloaks clung like fog itself, dyed in smoke-gray threads. Where the wind bowed the grass, they vanished into it.
Behind them came the rest: Connach, Rilka, Jarun, Drel, and five others whose names were whispered less than their footfalls. Tidecut spears were held in underhand grip, short blades sheathed beneath Boeotian shields. Javelins bounced against their shoulders, wrapped tight in back harnesses with their satchels.
This was their first long-range simulation. A full day's distance from the real staging grounds, far enough to test endurance and timing. The outpost ahead was a mirrored threat. Dazhum marines rotated through these drills often, tasked with guarding the fake site, simulating sentry routines, and issuing counter-patrols meant to mimic live resistance. The challenge was not just to take the post. It was to reach it unseen, bypassing all forward patrols, and hold it until signal pyres flared.
They moved without error, cutting along the moor's natural ridgelines. Twice they stopped to test the wind. Thrice they checked for signs of movement. They were not detected. Not yet.
Connach crouched low on a rise and raised two fingers to signal halt. They froze. Then, slowly, he crawled forward to the edge and scanned the ridge.
Patrol. Three shapes moved down a saddle path, spears in hand, pace slow but alert. Their blacksteel helmets shone faintly in the mist. Real marines. Watching for the same tricks they themselves had been trained to use.
He held his breath, listened.
The sound was all wind and water.
He dropped a hand and motioned left. Tuarin circled wide with Eorlas trailing, slipping into the gorse and vanishing beneath low brush. Connach and the others melted sideways, moving along a cut in the terrain that led down into a streambed long dried.
The route was narrow. The shields made the passage tight. But they moved quick and silent, practiced.
It was not about being invisible.
It was about being unremarkable.
They emerged on the far side, wet-kneed, still unseen.
An hour passed.
Then another.
Marine regulars played the part of Dazhum sentries.
Two scouts crept ahead, cloaks blending into the terrain. Behind them, the rest of the unit advanced in a V formation. Connach signaled once. The line froze.
Connach paused and knelt low, listening. The moor stretched silent around them, the wind brushing over the grass in long, uneven strokes. He pressed his hand to the ground, fingers spread, steady against the earth.
There was a shift, barely noticeable. A faint change in pressure, like the land had held its breath.
Then doubt crept in. Maybe there was nothing. No movement. No enemy closing in. Just a presence. Not hostile. Watching.
And yet Connach's spine stiffened. A warrior's sense. The sixth instinct born not of magic, but repetition, of blades and blood and silence. Something was there. Unseen, but near. His pulse steadied. The tension didn't fade. It sat behind his eyes and coiled low in his back.
He scanned the ridgeline again, slower this time, measuring cover, distance, and the wind.
He raised his hand and gave the forward signal, sharp and controlled.
They advanced in silence, crouched low, weapons drawn, footsteps syncing with the wind's rhythm. No wasted motion. No sound. Just trained bodies moving through open ground toward the objective.
Farther off, hidden among high rocks, two shadowed figures watched the approach. Virak'tai.
"We almost got caught," one whispered. "That would have been embarrassing."
The other chuckled. "Connach, was it? Report to Warden Nyzekh. They might fit in our cohort."
They approached the target zone just after the second moon rose.
Nestled between two jagged ridges, the outpost fire glowed faint. Nothing else marked it from the moor, no fence, no wall. Just a circle of pitched tents, a stockade shed, and two marines sitting near the fire, their helmets off, faces soft with laughter.
Connach signaled again. The unit split into flanks. Scouts crept forward.
Connach gave no signal of alarm. But he lingered a moment longer, then raised his hand and gave the forward command, sharp and controlled.
One by one, the perimeter guards were taken. Silently. A hand over the mouth. A whisper... "shhhh" and a blade at the throat. Some were knocked out with spear hafts, others pulled down into the tall grass. None called for help. None saw more than a shadow before they fell.
The approach was clean. Tight. Not a word spoken among them.
Connach moved last, tracing the unit's passage in reverse, sweeping for any trace left behind. When he reached the edge of the firelight, the camp was already theirs.
Later, two marine guards sat by the outpost campfire, laughing quietly over a shared pot of stew. They'd heard nothing. Seen nothing.
Without a sound, Connach stepped into the firelight, picked up a bowl, and scooped the stew.
The guards jolted upright.
Connach looked at them calmly. "At ease, lads. We're hungry."
The rest of the unit emerged from the dark, one by one, and sat around the fire.
The marine closest to him stood, shocked. "What in—"
Connach tasted the stew, nodded once. "Decent. Little heavy on the salt."
The second guard blinked. Then laughed. "Gods, you dark-eyed bastards. Thought you were ghosts."
"We are," said Tuarin from the dark, stepping in beside him. "But hungry ones."
One by one, the rest of the unit emerged and took their seats. No formation. No orders barked. Just presence. Like the moor had given birth to them in silence.
The stew was passed around. No ceremony.
Connach said nothing more. The training was complete. The outpost taken.
And somewhere deeper in the Blacktide's command tent, a name would be written in quiet approval.
Connach.
The blood of the moor never stayed buried.
Above, the Virak'tai remained a moment longer before slipping into shadow once more. They left no mark behind.
One of them murmured into the night, "The moor gives birth to wolves after all."
And the wind carried the words into the dark.