They broke camp at first light, but the woods felt different — heavier, almost watchful. Even the veterans in Daric's squad spoke little, eyes darting to the trees as if expecting claws to peel out of the trunks at any moment. The ground itself seemed to breathe, faint pulses running through the soil that made Kael's feet tingle in his boots.
By midday, they reached a gully choked with thick roots and hanging moss. The air here stank of damp stone and old blood. As Kael stepped closer, he caught glimpses of dark holes snaking down under the ridges. More burrows. His stomach twisted. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, but Daric's orders were clear: drive the Dreadborn from these tunnels or collapse them outright.
The squads fanned out, setting new charges, blades drawn. Kael moved beside Lyren, both of them silent, watching the shadows under the roots. Once or twice Kael thought he saw something shift in the gloom — a slick flash of pale plates — but nothing came at them. It was worse than an outright attack. The waiting stretched nerves thin.
When the charges finally went off, the earth convulsed. A thunderous boom cracked through the gully, sending flocks of black-winged birds screaming into the sky. Chunks of earth and shattered roots rained down. Kael staggered, braced himself against a tree. The ground didn't stop moving. Instead, it began to… shudder, deeper than the blast. Like something huge was stirring below.
Then came the sound — a distant roar that didn't belong in any throat, echoing up from the dark. Kael's bones vibrated with it. Around him, soldiers went white. Ayla swore under her breath. Lyren's hand found Kael's shoulder, gripping hard enough to bruise.
Out of the torn ground, more Dreadborn erupted. Not the lean pack-hunters they'd fought before, but hulking things with thick, plated heads that barely fit through the tunnel mouths. One slammed into Daric's forward line, scattering men like straw. Another clawed its way free and shrieked, mouth splitting wider than Kael thought possible, lined with rows of jagged teeth.
"Form on me!" Daric bellowed. His sword gleamed as he hacked at a lunging beast, carving deep into its shoulder. "Shields up! Drive for the head!"
Kael and Lyren didn't wait. They pushed forward together, spears braced low. Kael's pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the snarls. When a massive Dreadborn lunged for them, he ducked sideways, jabbing his spear up under its jaw. Lyren struck almost at the same instant, driving his blade into the exposed throat. Black blood sprayed them both. The creature thrashed once, then went still, folding like a broken cart.
More poured out. Garrick hurled a javelin that punched clean through a smaller beast's eye socket, dropping it in a twitching heap. Ayla moved through the chaos with eerie calm, blades flashing to open bellies and sever tendons. Even Nell, who had always seemed slightly apart, fought with brutal precision, sinking his short sword deep and twisting with each kill.
It felt endless. For every Dreadborn they dropped, two more clambered up from the depths. The ground kept shaking, worse with every surge, until it was all Kael could do to keep his feet. Then a new noise joined the roar — a groaning crack as the ridge itself began to split. Huge slabs of earth tilted, toppling trees like matchsticks.
"Fall back!" Daric's voice cut through the din. "Back to the crest! Go!"
Kael grabbed Lyren's arm, hauling him backward. Rocks the size of oxen tumbled past, crashing into the hollow where they'd just stood. Screams rose and were cut off. Ayla appeared out of the dust, dragging Nell by his collar. Garrick stumbled alongside them, face streaked with blood that might have been his own.
They scrambled up the far slope just as the entire gully collapsed in on itself. Dirt and shattered roots cascaded down, sealing the burrows in a choking cloud. The rumble faded, leaving a silence that felt even more terrifying. Kael realized he was still clutching Lyren's arm, knuckles white. Slowly, he forced his grip to loosen.
For a long while, no one spoke. They stood in haggard lines, coughing, blinking dust from their eyes. Daric finally lowered his blade, glancing around at the survivors. "Count off," he ordered hoarsely. One by one, the soldiers began shouting numbers. The gaps hurt worse than any wound.
When it was done, Daric gave a sharp nod. "We hold here tonight. Patrols out — two-man teams. Any sign the ground's moving again, we're gone before it swallows us too."
Kael sat heavily against a stump. Lyren dropped beside him, breath ragged. Neither spoke. They just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, watching the hollow where the gully had been — now just a raw scar, steaming in the cold. Somewhere in the depths, Kael thought he heard a faint scratching, as if claws still worked far below, hungry and patient.
They marched east for two days, putting distance between themselves and the gully's wreckage. The survivors barely spoke, each man and woman hollowed by loss and fatigue. At night they huddled around low fires, whispering of the ground still shifting beneath them, wondering if the Dreadborn were truly buried.
Kael lay close to the embers, cloak pulled tight. Lyren slept nearby, brow furrowed even in rest. Garrick had the watch, pacing at the edge of the circle with his spear balanced across his shoulders. Ayla dozed sitting up, dagger still clutched in her hand. Nell, usually restless, was silent, his face turned away.
Kael's thoughts wouldn't still. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw bodies dropping into the chasm—comrades dragged under collapsing earth, screaming as the darkness swallowed them. He heard Daric's shouts, the scrape of claws on rock, the crash of stone sealing it all away. Worse was the whisper of movement that seemed to echo inside his head, faint scratching like nails on old wood.
By dawn, his nerves were raw. When Captain Daric roused them to move, Kael welcomed the distraction. They set off along the ridge, boots scuffing through brittle grass. Birds circled overhead, silent watchers. The horizon was a dull smear of grey clouds.
They reached a small rise by midday, overlooking another tangle of ruined structures—old stone halls half-sunk into the earth, roofs caved in, doorways gaping like open wounds. Daric signaled a halt.
"We rest here. Pairs on watch. We're too close to deep nests for comfort, but I won't run these people to death."
Kael settled on a broken wall beside Lyren. Neither spoke for a long time. Finally, Lyren ran a hand through his hair and let out a humorless laugh.
"Still remember when all we worried about was how far we could throw a knife. Or if you'd finally manage to beat me in sprints."
Kael gave a ghost of a smile. "Those days were too easy. Can't even picture them sometimes."
"Means you're changing." Lyren's eyes were serious now. "We both are. And I don't know if it's for better."
Kael didn't answer. They sat in uneasy silence, watching Garrick and Ayla circle the perimeter. Nell was perched atop a chunk of wall, scanning the distant hills with that cold, distant look he wore more often now. Something in the way Nell's eyes moved—calculating, almost impatient—left Kael uneasy, though he couldn't have said why.
As night fell, wind swept through the ruins, stirring old dust and brittle leaves. Fires were lit low. They ate in silence, cold rations that tasted like damp ash. Kael's thoughts drifted to the families they'd left behind. He pictured his mother's small kitchen, the crack in the stove pipe that always leaked smoke. He wondered if the village still stood, or if Dreadborn claws had torn it down already.
A scream snapped him back. Not far—maybe a hundred paces beyond the outer watch line. Everyone sprang up, weapons drawn. Daric didn't shout orders; he only raised his hand and pointed. Squads fanned out instantly.
Kael's heart slammed against his ribs as he and Lyren moved through the rubble. Ahead, Ayla and Garrick were already closing on a crumbling archway. Another shriek split the dark. Then silence.
They found the remains of one of the forward scouts. The young man's chest was ripped open, ribs split wide. Black ichor stained the ground nearby—Dreadborn blood, still steaming in the cold. Whatever had killed him had been hurt, but not finished.
Daric stood over the corpse, face carved from stone. "Get your eyes sharp," he growled. "We didn't bury them all in that pit. They're still hunting. Which means so are we."