The air in the Iron Forest felt thick and volatile—heavy with the taste of ozone and damp stone. This was no ordinary woodland; it was a true Flow Node, a convergence point where Ley Lines collided and overflowed. The ground itself seemed faintly alive, humming with the immense spiritual currents coursing beneath the world's surface like unseen, tidal waves of power. The saturation was so intense that the air shimmered faintly, and an occasional pulse of electric-blue light flickered deep within the mossy cracks of the forest floor—a silent warning of the instability lurking here.
This was a place where danger naturally bred: pure Flow and volatile Anti-Flow clashing sometimes birthing unpredictable Flow Storms—spiritual tempests capable of shredding both flesh and soul. Yet within this hazardous tangle of iron trees, a clandestine encampment had taken root.
Hidden in a natural depression beneath a dense canopy, lay a camp. The camp was bare and utilitarian. A low fire burned nearly smokeless wood, and makeshift shelter of rough , metallic lumber and dark canvas ringed the clearing. Around a group of men, aboutfifty in number, worked in stoic silence. Their uniforms were plain grey tunics with leather armor and cloaks that were durable enough to withstand the forest's grasping forces. Each bore a single, unmistakable mark: a stylized rose pierced by a sword, tattooed onto the back if their hands, forearms or necks.
At the heart of the clearing stood Torvin, the leader of the operation. A lean man with a buzz cut and a grey crop top, scowling as he rubbed the scars on his abdomen with a metal disc with one hand while the other was tucked inside his pants. Beside him sat Jax, the broad shouldered second who was sharpening his spear as he whistled a tune.
Just as Torvin opened his mouth to complain, a tall, wiry figure emerged—Malak, one of his subordinates, appeared from the bushes. His steps were silent, practiced. He crossed the clearing quickly and bowed low before Torvin, tapping his chest three times over his heart.
Torvin didn't return the salute. Impatience already glinted in his eyes.
"What took you so damn long? You had one job," he rasped.
"Patience." Jax said as he brought the spear closer to his face and, unsatisfied turned it over and began sharpening it again.
''Report.'' He said.
"And be quick." Torvin added impatiently.
Malak straightened, face pale.
"The entire herd… has been captured."
The camp halted. Blades stopped being sharpened; rations went untouched. The complete loss of an Awakened herd—more than fifty beasts—was shocking.
"Huh? What do you mean captured?'' Torvin asked.
"They've been caught." Malak clarified.
"Caught?" Torvin repeated quietly,his scowl deepening.
"You mean they've been held up?"
"No, Commander," Malak insisted, throat tightening.
"Every one was secured in the North Valley ravine—bound, neutralized, unable to move. I observed from a distance. They'd been frozen completely by a Soulfire-class ability."
Torvin's fingers tightened around the circular blade on his abdmen, bending the metal. The plan had been painstaking: weaponize the herd, driven mad by a Flow-corrupting catalyst, to sweep the region around Blackhaven. Their true target—an expert in evasion—would be forced into the open or deeper into the forest, where they would be waitin to nab him. All of it, wasted.
"And who if the one responsible for foilng our plans?" Torvin asked, his fury simmering beneath the surface.
"Only a Saint would be capableof taking out an Awakened beast.''
" We did a thorough probe before comig here. We know that there are three Saints operating in Blackhaven," Jax said evenly.
"Alaric the still—unlikely as he's away currently. Leader of the Knights at Blackhaven, Eddie Gable who wouldn't leave the protection of the city for the forest. No one knew about our plans and it sounds like the one behind it was in a position to run into the herd as they were on the move. Which leaves…"
A palpable wave of hatred rolled off Torvin. He hissed the name like venom.
"...Roric Thorne."
The men exchanged uneasy glances.
A sudden, sharp laugh cut through the tension. High. Mocking. Unpleasant.
"What's all this pathetic fuss?" a voice drawled from the darkest corner of the camp.
"A herd of beasts died. And?"
The speaker was a small, shrouded figure perched atop a massive square object hidden beneath a dark tarp etched with glowing Flow Arrays. The designs pulsed softly—an active containment field.
The figure hopped down lightly, moving with impossible quiet. Clad in a long grey cloak that swallowed the light, his face remained buried in shadow. Only pale, slender hands slipped free each with beaded bracelets—fingers long and immaculate with black fingernails.
"So what if they were awakened, you lot are behaving like frightened gutter whores. I don't pay you so you can panic every time a local guardian does his job. The fact that this failed simply shows how incompetent you are and how abysimal your planning skills are. No wonder the Queen relieved you of your duties."
With a sudden, unnatural tug, he ripped the tarp free.
Beneath it stood an iron-banded cage, reinforced with glowing Flow Arrays. Inside was a coiled monster of striking, terrible grace.
A reptilian beast, nearly ten feet long, thick as a tree trunk. Sapphire-blue scales shimmered like gemstones, and a chaotic mist bled constantly from its body, chilling the air. Its broad, flat head lifted slowly, revealing amber slit eyes—ancient, calculating.
"The herd was merely a tool—noise and chaos," the cloaked figure said, trailing a gloved finger along the bars. "But this? This is our true instrument."
He looked up, light briefly catching his face—smooth, unreadable, eyes unnaturally pale.
" We advance the plan. Kill the herd in the revine. That should create enough mystery for use to move on with the next step of our operations to draw out S.K, wherever he's hiding. That is what we shall do. Roric Thorne , despite being a person of interest is not the reason why we infiltrated Aerthos. This is your final warning, fail again and I'll personally send you to the abyss."
Dread rippled through the clearing. The men bowed deeply, tapping their chests in renewed, fearful allegiance.
Torvin was the last to bow. He held the pale gaze for a long, burning moment, jaw clenched, before lowering himself in rigid, reluctant obedience.
Within its cage, the sapphire-scaled beast shifted and released a low, resonant hiss— a promise of the malevolence soon to come.