The forest did not feel like a place.
It felt like a boundary.
Something that marked the edge of what men understood—
and what waited beyond.
The further they rode, the quieter it became.
Not peaceful.
Empty.
Thirty riders moved beneath the canopy, their armor dulled by shadow, their presence swallowed by the trees.
No banners.
No calls.
Even the horses seemed to step softer.
This was no parade.
This was entry.
Kate rode at the front, posture steady, gaze fixed ahead.
He had been in real battles before.
That was why he was uneasy.
Not because of what he saw—
But because of what he didn't.
"Spread out," he said quietly.
The formation loosened.
No one questioned it.
The mercenaries might joke in taverns, might drink like fools—but out here, they listened.
Because out here, mistakes didn't end in embarrassment.
They ended in silence.
Ruger rode near the middle of the formation, heavier than the others, his armor darker, more ornate.
A mage.
With a battle axe.
Still ridiculous.
Still wrong.
And yet—
No one laughed anymore.
The deeper they went, the more the forest changed.
Light fractured into thin strands.
The air thickened.
Sound… faded.
Ruger blinked.
Once.
Twice.
The world flattened.
Trees became shapes.
Men became outlines.
Everything—
like paint pressed against glass.
He stopped breathing.
For a moment, he thought—
This wasn't real.
Then it shattered.
Sound rushed back.
Color returned.
"Ruger."
A hand grabbed his shoulder.
Kate.
"You drifted."
"I'm fine," Ruger said.
He wasn't.
They found the tracks soon after.
Hoofprints.
Fresh.
Cut deep into damp soil.
"Patrol," Kate muttered.
"Six to eight."
He crouched, brushing the edge of one print.
"Regular route."
Ruger watched him, then looked into the trees.
Something was wrong.
Not obvious.
Not loud.
But there.
"We take them," Kate said.
No one objected.
Because this was why they came.
Night fell heavy.
No fire.
No noise.
Only preparation.
Blades sharpened.
Bowstrings checked.
Armor tightened.
No one slept well.
Even those who closed their eyes—
Didn't rest.
Morning came without warning.
No birds.
No wind.
Then—
A sharp call.
Signal.
The mercenaries moved instantly.
Positions taken.
Hidden.
Waiting.
Hoofbeats followed.
Slow.
Relaxed.
Careless.
Six riders emerged along the forest path, laughter low, posture loose.
They weren't expecting anything.
That was why they died first.
"Now."
Arrows exploded from the trees.
The first volley struck like a hammer.
A shaft tore clean through a rider's throat—
Blood burst outward as he dropped without even a cry.
Another arrow punched into an eye socket—
The man spasmed once, then slid from his saddle.
Two more were hit—
Not clean kills.
They screamed.
The rest reacted instantly.
Not panicked.
Trained.
They charged.
Steel followed.
One rider broke through the line like a blade through cloth.
Heavy armor.
Greatsword.
Fast.
Too fast.
He cut a mercenary down before the man even raised his weapon.
The second strike came low—
Deflected—
Barely.
CLANG.
The impact snapped bone.
The defender screamed as his arm collapsed, shield bending inward.
The knight didn't stop.
Didn't hesitate.
He pressed forward.
Controlled.
Dominating the space around him.
Lens ran.
Not from fear.
From understanding.
Behind him—
The knight followed.
Elsewhere, the fight broke apart.
Kate dropped from above.
Halberd falling with precise, brutal force—
Splitting one rider open from shoulder to chest.
Another turned—too slow—
A second halberd cut through his side, nearly severing him in half.
Blood soaked into the earth.
The forest didn't react.
Within moments—
Only one rider remained.
The greatsword knight.
He stood surrounded.
Breathing hard.
Still steady.
Still dangerous.
"Where is the mage?" he growled.
That question—
Was already too late.
In the trees—
Lightning answered.
A bolt crashed downward.
A mercenary dropped instantly, armor smoking.
The mage stepped forward.
Visibility returning around him like mist peeling away.
Confident.
Because he thought—
He had control.
Ruger was already behind him.
The axe fell.
It should have ended there.
It didn't.
The blade struck—
And slid.
Magic armor.
The mage twisted, pain flashing across his face, but not enough to stop him.
Ruger stepped in.
Kicked.
Hard.
The mage was thrown back, crashing against the ground.
A roar split the air.
Ruger turned.
A black tiger lunged from the shadows.
Fast.
Too close.
"Damn—"
Steel intercepted it.
Floya.
The skeleton moved forward, heavy armor dragging, movements imperfect—but relentless.
The tiger struck.
Claws tore across bone.
Teeth snapped down.
Crack.
Floya staggered—
But didn't fall.
Ruger turned back.
The mage was crawling.
Bleeding.
Still alive.
"Stay down," Ruger said.
The mage laughed.
Weak.
Broken.
Then—
He threw something.
Gemstones scattered across the ground.
Ruger paused.
Just a fraction.
Enough.
The mage scrambled away.
Then stumbled.
Bad luck.
Or something else.
Ruger closed the distance.
Raised the axe—
Fire bloomed.
A sphere of flame—
Already too close.
No time.
Ruger dropped.
Covered his face.
BOOM.
Flames swallowed everything.
Heat burned through armor.
Through skin.
Through breath.
The black crystal in his axe flared—
A thin barrier forming just in time.
Barely enough.
The explosion faded.
The mage lay charred.
Dead.
The tiger vanished.
Floya collapsed—
Then dissolved into nothing.
Silence returned.
Ruger stood.
For a moment.
Then fell.
The smell of burned flesh lingered in the air.
Darkness closed in.
One thought remained.
Never—
leave a wounded enemy alive.
Far away—
Something moved.
Not случайно.
Not slowly.
Hunting.
And this time—
It was not alone.
END OF CHAPTER 10