Blood of the Forgotten Gods

The Hollow of Shadows

The mist hung low over the battlefield, thick and impenetrable, as though the forest itself had swallowed the remnants of the fight. Dan moved cautiously among the fallen, his heart pounding in his chest. The silence that followed the earlier clash felt unnatural, broken only by the faint hiss of rain hitting the blood-soaked earth. The smell of iron and dampness clung to the air, but something deeper, more foreboding, lingered beneath it.

The squad fanned out at Sergeant Vale's command, moving with quiet purpose through the scattered bodies. It was a grim sight, and Dan felt the weight of it settle on his shoulders. Bandits lay sprawled in the mud, their weapons half-buried in the muck. But it wasn't the bandits that held Dan's attention—it was the militants. Their comrades.

Some of the militants were unrecognizable beneath their bloodstained armor, faces twisted in the final moments of battle. Others lay still, their eyes open, staring up at the gray sky with the kind of emptiness that only death could bring. Dan's breath caught in his throat. This could have been us.

The squad moved silently among the bodies, weapons still drawn. The fog made it hard to see more than a few feet ahead, and every shadow seemed to pulse with hidden threats. But something was wrong—there were too few militants for the kind of ambush they had expected.

"Spread out," Vale ordered, his voice low but commanding. "We need to find the captain."

Dan nodded, though unease crept through him with every step. Where was Corvin? Where were the rest of his men? It didn't make sense. The bandits had clearly been outnumbered, yet Corvin's squad had been decimated. There should have been more militants here—alive or dead.

He bent down to examine a fallen bandit, the man's face streaked with mud and blood. His weapon, a chipped axe, lay half-buried in the muck, but it was the markings on his arm that caught Dan's attention. A small tattoo—three crossed swords etched in black ink. Dan frowned, recognizing the symbol immediately. It wasn't a bandit marking; it was something far worse.

He stood, his eyes scanning the bodies for more signs. Gareth moved up beside him, his face pale as he took in the scene.

"What do you make of this?" Gareth asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Dan shook his head, dread gnawing at him. "These aren't just bandits. Some of them are mercenaries."

Gareth's expression tightened. "Mercenaries? You're sure?"

Dan nodded grimly. "I've seen the mark before. They're from the Ironfang Company—a mercenary group that's been causing trouble around the western outskirts for years."

Gareth swore under his breath. "No wonder Corvin's squad didn't stand a chance."

Dan's stomach twisted. The Ironfang Company was infamous—not just for their ruthlessness but for their tactical prowess. They were hired killers, soldiers for coin, and they were feared across Elyndor. Their presence here changed everything. This wasn't just a random bandit raid; it was something more organized, more deliberate.

But before Dan could voice his thoughts, a weak sound caught his attention—a low, pained groan coming from somewhere nearby.

"Over here!" Tomas called out, his voice sharp with urgency. Dan and Gareth rushed toward him, finding Tomas crouched beside a figure slumped against a tree at the edge of the battlefield.

It was one of Corvin's men, barely clinging to life. Blood seeped from a deep wound in his side, his face pale and drawn. His breathing was shallow, ragged, and Dan could see the fear in his eyes—the same fear that gripped all of them.