[ STATUS UPDATE ]
Name: Draven Velor
Class: [Locked]
Will: 2 / 100
Strength: 16
Agility: 14 (+1 equipped)
Awareness: 12
Endurance: 9
The forest did not end; it surrendered.
The twisted, mana-warped trees of the Dead Zone didn't fade away gradually. They stopped abruptly at a line of jagged, black rocks that marked the border of the Northern Alliance's territory. Beyond the rocks, the air was colder, cleaner, and smelled of pine resin and organized fires.
Draven crouched atop one of the black rocks, the grey mage robe billowing around him in the biting wind. He looked down at the outpost.
It wasn't a fortress. It was a "Forward Claw"—a military term for an aggressive scouting base. Wooden palisades reinforced with ice-magic, watchtowers manned by archers with longbows, and a central courtyard bustling with activity. He counted thirty men visible. Likely another twenty inside the barracks. Dozens of wolves—real wolves, trained for war—prowled the perimeter, their breath steaming in the cold air.
Draven touched the hilt of the Northern Cavalier Saber at his hip. He touched the hood of his grey robe. He looked at his hands, which were clean.
Too clean.
He reached down to the mud at his feet. He grabbed a handful of dirt mixed with old, dry pine needles and smeared it across his face. He tore a strip of fabric from the hem of his robe and tied it around his head, soaking it with water from his skin to make it look like a fresh bandage. He didn't want to look like a conqueror. He wanted to look like a survivor. But not a weak survivor. A dangerous one.
He stood up. He didn't sneak. He didn't hide. He walked down the slope, straight toward the main gate, his steps heavy and deliberate.
The reaction was immediate. A horn blew—two short blasts. "Hold!" a voice thundered from the watchtower. "Archer range! State your business or be pinned!"
Draven didn't stop. He kept walking until he was twenty paces from the gate. Three arrows landed in the dirt at his feet. Thud. Thud. Thud. A warning line.
Draven stopped. He didn't look up at the tower. He looked straight ahead, at the heavy wooden gates. He slowly pulled back his hood, revealing his mud-smeared face and cold eyes. He didn't raise his hands in surrender. He rested his left hand on the pommel of the wolf-headed saber.
"Open the gate," Draven said. His voice wasn't loud, but he pitched it low, letting it carry.
The gates groaned and opened just enough for five men to slip out. They were big. Northerners were bred for size. They wore fur-lined chainmail and carried heavy axes. The leader, a man with a beard braided with iron rings, stepped forward. He looked at Draven's robe. Then he looked at the sword.
The leader's eyes widened slightly. "That blade," the leader growled, pointing his axe. "That belongs to Lieutenant Kaelen. Where did you get it, scavenger?"
This was the moment. If Draven stuttered, he died. If he apologized, he died.
Draven unbuckled the sword belt and held the sheathed weapon out—not as an offering, but as proof. "Lieutenant Kaelen is dead," Draven said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "The spiders took him. He lasted three minutes. He gave me this before the venom reached his heart."
The leader stepped closer, towering over Draven. He smelled of ale and unwashed fur. "And who are you?" the leader spat. "You wear the grey of a hedge-wizard, but you carry a cavalier's steel. Why aren't you dead too?"
Draven looked the man in the eye. He channeled every ounce of his Will: 2. It wasn't enough to cast a spell. It wasn't enough to glow. But it was enough to make his eyes seem a little too intense, his presence a little too heavy for a normal human.
"Because Kaelen died to buy me time," Draven lied. "My mission was priority. His life was expendable. Do you have a problem with Command's orders, Sergeant?"
The leader hesitated. The arrogance. The coldness. The dismissal of a noble's death as "expendable." Only two types of people spoke like that: Highborn officers and Mages.
The leader lowered his axe slightly. "Your mission?" he asked, suspicious but cautious.
"Classified," Draven snapped. "I need water, fresh rations, and a map of the current supply lines. I have intelligence that needs to reach the Rear Guard immediately."
He took a step forward, invading the Sergeant's personal space. "Or do you want to explain to the High Command why their messenger died of thirst at your gate?"
The bluff hung in the air like a guillotine blade. The Sergeant looked at the robe again. He saw the quality of the weave. He saw the strange, calm demeanor of this man who had walked out of the Dead Zone alone. Soldiers feared the Dead Zone. But they feared Mages more.
The Sergeant grunted and stepped aside. "Open the gates!" he bellowed to the men behind him. He looked back at Draven. "We have stew. And ale. But don't expect a feather bed, wizard. This is a war camp."
Draven didn't say thank you. He just nodded, buckled the sword back onto his hip, and walked past them.
Inside, the camp was a sensory overload. Blacksmiths hammered red-hot steel. Wolves growled in iron cages. Men sharpened spears and wrestled in the mud. Draven walked through the chaos, feeling the eyes on him. They looked at the robe with a mix of awe and disgust. In the North, magic was respected, but it was also seen as "unclean."
He found a spot near a large communal fire where a cauldron of stew was bubbling. He sat down on a log, keeping his back to a stack of crates. A soldier, a young woman with a scar across her nose, silently handed him a wooden bowl and a spoon.
Draven ate. The stew was rich—venison and root vegetables. It was the best thing he had tasted in weeks. [ Consumable Ingested: High-Protein Stew ] [ Stamina Recovering... ]
As he ate, he listened. Awareness: 12 filtered the noise of the camp, picking out conversations.
"...eastern patrol didn't report in..." "...heard the Black Iron unit was deployed..." "...Highborn lady arriving tomorrow for inspection..."
Draven's spoon paused halfway to his mouth. Highborn lady. That was bad. A Highborn would have high Awareness. They might see through his disguise. They might sense that his "magic" was just a hollow shell. He had to be gone before tomorrow.
"You have the look of a man who has seen the hell," a voice said.
Draven looked up. An old man was sitting across the fire. He wasn't wearing armor. He wore a leather apron stained with ink and herbs. A Quartermaster? Or a Camp Doctor?
"The Dead Zone is hell," Draven said.
The old man nodded. He pointed a bony finger at the sword on Draven's hip. "Kaelen was a good lad. Rash. But good." The old man's eyes were sharp. Too sharp. "You say he gave you the sword?"
"He did," Draven said, tensing his muscles.
"Strange," the old man murmured. "Kaelen was left-handed. That scabbard is rigged for a right-handed draw. You re-strapped it?"
Draven's heart skipped a beat. He hadn't noticed. He had just put it on. He looked down. The scabbard was indeed sitting on his left hip, for a right-hand draw. If Kaelen was left-handed, he would have worn it on the right.
"I adjusted it to fit me," Draven said calmly. "A dead man's habits don't help the living fight."
The old man stared at him for a long, stretching silence. Then, a slow, dry smile spread across his face. "Pragmatic," the old man said. "I like that. Kaelen was a romantic. That's why he's dead and you're eating his stew."
The old man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of parchment. He tossed it to Draven. "You asked the Sergeant for supply lines. I'm the Quartermaster here. This is the rotation for the next three days."
Draven caught the parchment. He was stunned. "Why give this to me?"
"Because you have the eyes of a wolf, boy," the Quartermaster whispered. "And because I smell the mana on you. But it smells... wrong. It smells like blood." The old man leaned forward. "I don't care who you are. Spy? Deserter? Ghost? Doesn't matter. The Highborn coming tomorrow... she's bringing 'The Inquisitors'. If you are here when she arrives, you will be flayed alive."
Draven gripped the parchment. "Why warn me?"
"Because I hate the Inquisitors," the old man spat into the fire. "Go. Fill your belly, take what you need, and leave before dawn. Head West, toward the Iron Pass. The patrols are thin there."
Draven nodded slowly. He finished his stew in three large gulps. He stood up. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me," the Quartermaster said, turning his attention back to the fire. "Just kill a few Inquisitors for me when you get the chance."