The mornings had started to come easier.
For weeks now, there had been no alarms, no hurried steps, no scent of smoke from an enemy's torch. Only the soft rise of dawn light, the call of birds, and the familiar murmur of people living.
Our people.
The village was truly starting to look like one. Fences stood firm, roofs sealed tight, and the once-empty fields were now shades of green and gold. Even the creek had a small wooden bridge — crooked, sure, but sturdy enough to make Borgu proud and Sylvara faint from structural concern.
I'd begun to wake before the sun, not out of habit, but out of peace. When you've lived your life to the rhythm of alarms and horns, silence becomes something sacred.
But lately… that silence carried weight.
Like the forest itself was holding its breath.
The day began as it usually did — Borgu was arguing with the goats.
"Move, you stubborn horned beast!" he bellowed.
The goat blinked at him. Then headbutted his shin.
I sipped my tea, unbothered. "You're losing."
"Orc no lose to goat!"
The goat headbutted him again.
Sylvara walked past, deadpan. "From the looks of it, you're being conquered."
Borgu growled something in orcish, which probably translated to a creative insult involving livestock ancestry.
Lorian, ever the scholar, sat nearby taking notes. "I'm beginning to think these goats are evolving."
"Into what?" I asked.
"Diplomats," he said solemnly. "They've mastered negotiation through headbutt."
Sylvara snorted. Borgu swore. I laughed quietly.
It was the kind of morning that made the world feel normal again.
Later that afternoon, I went to check the traps near the forest edge. We hadn't had much need for them lately — most of the bigger beasts had moved deeper north. Still, I preferred to make sure nothing wandered too close.
The forest was cool and dim under the canopy, the air damp from last night's rain. Leaves dripped quietly. My boots left prints in the soft soil.
It was peaceful — until I saw them.
Not tracks from an animal.Bootprints.
Deep, clear, and recent.
Someone had been here.
And not just passing through — the spacing was wrong, the angle off. Whoever it was had stopped often, watching.
Watching us.
By the time I returned to the village, the sun had dipped low, painting the huts in gold and red. Sylvara was tending the garden, humming softly, her hands moving like she was weaving a spell. Borgu and Lorian were hauling timber, arguing about measurements.
For a second, I hesitated.Do I tell them?Do I break the quiet?
"Kael?" Sylvara's voice broke my thought. "You're pale. Something wrong?"
I forced a small smile. "Nothing serious. Just need to check the perimeter tonight."
She frowned. "Again?"
"Call it routine."
Her gaze lingered on me, sharp as always, but she said nothing more.
That night, after dinner, I sat by the fire with Gareth.
He hadn't said a word since I showed him the tracks. Just stared into the flames, eyes unreadable.
"Could be hunters," I said finally.
"Or scouts," he replied.
I nodded slowly. "You think it's the cult?"
He didn't answer right away. Then: "I think we've been lucky too long."
The fire crackled between us, the sound of burning wood loud in the silence that followed.
The next few days passed quietly, but the ease that had settled over everyone began to fray in small, invisible ways.
Sylvara lingered closer to camp. Lorian started double-checking the fences. Borgu, usually loud and reckless, patrolled with his club slung over his shoulder and a scowl that didn't quite fit his face.
No one said anything outright, but we all felt it — that faint tremor before a storm.
And yet… life went on.
It had to.
Three days after finding the tracks, the forest gifted us a strange kind of sign.
Borgu returned from the northern ridge carrying something under his arm — a tattered piece of cloth, muddy and torn.
He threw it down in front of me. "Found near river. Smells wrong."
It wasn't cultist black, nor a soldier's uniform. Just rough traveler's linen, stained with dried blood.
Sylvara crouched beside it, frowning. "It's recent."
"Very," Gareth said. "Still damp from the rain."
Lorian swallowed hard. "You think someone's out there?"
"I think," I said, "we'll find out soon enough."
That night, rain returned — steady, unending.
The others went to rest early, but I stayed by the fire, blade across my knees, listening.
The forest was too quiet.
Even the frogs and crickets had gone still.
Every soldier knows that sound — or the lack of it. The sound before something steps out of the dark.
But nothing came.
Just rain.Just silence.
When dawn finally broke, it felt like the world had held its breath all night… and exhaled only when the sun rose.
By morning, everyone was back to their chores, laughter trickling back into the air like it had never left. But I caught Sylvara watching the treeline more than once.
And when Borgu passed her the morning stew, he did so with his club still in hand.
The quiet was still there — but now, it wasn't peace.It was waiting.
And as I stood by the gate, looking into the forest that had once felt like home, I couldn't help but wonder:
Were we being watched again… or had we simply grown too comfortable to tell the difference?