Lyra and the Captain moved with a practiced silence that belied the weight of their mission. They led their small force through the tangled undergrowth, each soldier a shadow in the moonless night. Lyra's mind was a whirlwind of calculations, mapping out the terrain ahead. They were following an old game trail, a winding path that hugged the northern ridge of the mountain. It was the longest route to the enemy camp, but also the most hidden. Their job wasn't to fight a battle, but to create the illusion of one—a phantom army to draw the enemy's attention away from the real threat: Shawn's infiltration team.
The Captain moved beside her, her face a grim mask of concentration. She pointed to a small ravine that cut across their path. "We'll set the first trap here, General. A few tripwires and noisemakers. It'll sound like a scouting party blundering into their territory."
Lyra nodded, her gaze fixed on the distance where a faint, orange glow marked the location of the enemy camp. "Good. We'll hit them from the north, then double back and hit them from the east. Keep them guessing. We need to be everywhere and nowhere at once."
A few hundred yards behind them, Shawn's infiltration team moved like ghosts. They were following a more direct, but far more treacherous, route. Their path was a narrow goat trail that snaked along the face of a sheer cliff, invisible from the forest floor below. There was no banter, no casual conversation, only the silent focus of a team on a razor's edge. Ava, led the way, her movements fluid and sure-footed. The mission was clear: get the villagers out. No noise, no fighting, and no mistakes.
The two teams, one a phantom army and the other a silent dagger, moved in concert, their fates intertwined. The forest, once a peaceful sanctuary, had become a chessboard, and Lyra and Shawn were about to make their first moves
A few hours later, Lyra's main diversionary force had reached its position. They were hidden in the thick brush of a high ridge, their vantage point offering a clear, if distant, view of the bandit camp below. The camp was a sprawling, chaotic mess of crude wooden huts, fire pits, and makeshift defenses. The rhythmic clang of pickaxes on stone echoed from a large cave entrance on the far side of the camp—the very place the villagers were being held.
Lyra looked at the Captain, her face illuminated by the faint glow of the campfires. "This is it. We'll start with the fire arrows. Target the outposts on the north side, away from the cave. We need them to think we're a larger force attacking from a single direction."
The Captain nodded, her hand already raised to give the signal. "The scouts we sent ahead also reported a small supply cache near the river, General. It's a perfect target for a second wave of fire."
Lyra's gaze hardened. "No. We hit the outposts first. Let them think we're a disorganized rabble. Then, just as they're getting comfortable, we hit the river. We are not a rabble. We are a ghost."
The Captain's hand dropped, and a moment later, a half-dozen arrows with fire-soaked heads soared through the air, their fiery trails arcing against the night sky. They struck true, igniting the dry wood of the outposts. The shouts of alarm from the bandits were immediate and loud, a cacophony of fear and confusion.
Meanwhile, Shawn's infiltration team was already at the edge of the camp, their position a narrow, shadowed ledge overlooking the cave entrance. Ava, the scout, pointed to a patrol of two orcs and three bandits making their rounds. "They're circling every ten minutes, Lieutenant. They're slow, but they're thorough."
Shawn crouched low, his eyes scanning the area. The noise from Lyra's diversionary attack was a gift. It drew the attention of nearly half the camp's guards, leaving the cave entrance far less protected. The clang of the pickaxes inside the cave was deafening. He could see the weary forms of the villagers moving back and forth, their chains glinting in the firelight.
"We move between the patrols," he whispered, his voice low and sharp. "Ava, you're on point. Get us to the cave entrance. We'll secure it, get the villagers out, and get out of here. Quietly
A hushed cheer, quickly stifled, passed through Shawn's team as the last of the guards fell. They had moved with a brutal, silent efficiency, their training paying off as they eliminated the bandit and orc patrol without a sound. Ava, the scout, was already at the cave entrance, her keen eyes scanning the shadows inside. The rhythmic clang of pickaxes had stopped, replaced by the hushed, terrified whispers of the villagers.
Shawn gave the signal, and the team slipped inside. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and unwashed bodies. Torches cast flickering, dancing shadows on the walls, revealing a horrifying scene. The villagers, their faces etched with exhaustion and despair, were chained to the cave walls. And standing guard over them, their massive, hulking forms filling the cavern, were not just a few orcs, but nearly a dozen of them—each one a mountain of muscle and cruelty. The scout's initial report of a half-dozen was a terrifying underestimation.
The team froze, their earlier victory turning to ashes in their mouths. The mission had just changed. They couldn't simply get the villagers out; they had to confront a force far greater than they had anticipated. The slightest noise, a single misstep, would lead to a bloody massacre.
Lyra's diversionary attack was a success. The first volley of fire arrows had ignited two of the bandit outposts, and the resulting chaos was exactly what she had planned for. Shouts of alarm and the pounding of feet echoed up from the camp below. Lyra and her team began their next phase, moving with deceptive speed to a new position on the eastern side of the camp.
As they prepared for their next wave of fire arrows, a new, guttural roar sliced through the night air. It was a sound that shook the very ground, different from the panicked shouts of the bandits. Lyra, peeking through the brush, saw them: eight hulking, muscular figures wielding massive clubs and crude axes. The orcs, not just a "half-dozen" as the scout had reported, were a significant part of the bandit force, moving to counter the perceived threat of Lyra's small company.
Lyra's eyes narrowed, a cold dread creeping into her heart. The orcs were not just guards; they were shock troops, a force that could easily overrun her small diversionary team. But her immediate concern was not for herself. She had planned for this mission based on incomplete information. If the scouts had miscalculated the orc numbers here, then the number of orcs guarding the villagers in the cave was likely also wrong. The thought of Shawn's team, with their mission to be silent, suddenly facing an overwhelming number of orcs sent a jolt of ice through her veins.
"Captain," Lyra's voice was a low, urgent whisper. "The report was wrong. We have ten orcs here, not four. If their numbers are wrong here, they're wrong at the cave, too. We have to assume Shawn's team is walking into a trap."
Captain Rita "what should we do General"
Lyra took a couple of seconds, the gears in her mind turning furiously. "Maintain the fire," she said, her voice a low, urgent whisper. "But don't engage. We have to keep their attention here. All of it." She scanned the dark treeline, a cold certainty settling in her gut. "Keep a lookout for signals. I know Shawn—he'll send one if something's gone wrong."
The Captain's face was grim as he simply nodded. The phantom army now had a very real, very terrifying opponent to face, and the stakes had just been raised far higher than they had ever imagined.
Lyra watched from the ridge as her diversion played out below. The bandits were a disorganized rabble, but the orcs were something else entirely. As a bandit leader in the camp's center bellowed an order, the eight orcs—their massive forms a stark contrast to the human bandits—responded with a synchronized ferocity, charging toward the source of the fire arrows. They weren't just allies; they were soldiers.
That's when she saw it.
One of the orcs, as it turned to face the diversion, caught the flickering firelight on its neck. There, a thick metal chain was fastened, from which hung a smooth, unnaturally luminous blue stone. The stone pulsed with a faint, steady light, and as the bandit leader barked another command, the stone's light seemed to intensify, and the orc roared in response.
A cold certainty settled in Lyra's gut. The orcs they had fought before, the ones guarding the perimeters, had not worn these chains. But these, the ones who were a part of the bandit's command structure, did. This wasn't a partnership; it was control. The bandits weren't commanding orcs; they were commanding slaves.
This was a new, and far more dangerous, kind of enemy. Lyra's gaze hardened, her eyes now searching for the source of this control. It was no longer about a simple distraction and infiltration. They had to find a way to sever the connection between the bandits and their controlled orcs.