The journey to the hidden camp was a descent into silence. For three days, they had moved through the deepest parts of the Verdant Maze, following paths only Jukka Anttila seemed to remember. The shaman, freed from his chains but still wrapped in a cynical quiet, led them with an economy of motion that belied his age. Lauri followed, the world sharp and raw in his sober senses. The constant, low-grade tremor in his muscles was a familiar ghost, but the fog in his mind was gone, leaving only a cold, clear view of the ruin they were walking into. Anastasya, a step behind him, was a moving shard of Regalis blue, her armor a stark declaration of order in a world dissolving into chaos.
They found the camp in a deep ravine, a place where the roots of ancient trees formed a natural, defensible wall. It was less a camp and more a wound. Fifty or so Silvanus were huddled there, their faces etched with the same hollow terror he had seen in Elina Rovio. The air, which should have smelled of damp earth and pine, was thick with the stench of fear-sweat and the thin, greasy smoke of poorly burning wood. The morale here was a flickering ember, a scant 20% of what it should be, threatening to go out with the next ill wind. A quiet, constant sound of weeping was woven into the fabric of the night.
Lauri approached the two guards at the entrance, their spears held loosely. They were young, their fur still holding the deep black and white of youth. They recognized him. He saw it in the widening of their eyes, but the recognition was followed by a swift, cold shutter of suspicion as their gaze fell on Anastasya behind him. The welcome a warden might have expected was replaced by hands tightening on spear-hafts. The trust he had once taken for granted had been eroded, the price of his alliance with a Regalis officer.
— I am Lauri Vatanen, warden of the Silent Grove, — he said, his voice steady despite the cold reception. — We have rescued the shaman Jukka Anttila. We must speak with your council.
The guards exchanged a look. His name still carried weight, but it was tarnished. After a long moment, one of them nodded curtly and disappeared into the gloom of the camp. The cost of his new path was the faith of his own people, a currency he was only now realizing he had spent.
They were led to the heart of the camp, to a bridge of living roots that spanned a black, silent chasm. It was a place of council. On the far side stood the clan matriarch, an old Silvanus whose fur was the color of silvered moss. Her eyes, dark and weary, had seen too many seasons of decay. She and two other clan leaders waited, their faces grim masks of endurance. The tension on the bridge was a physical thing, a high, thin hum of animosity directed entirely at the glowing blue of Anastasya’s armor.
Anastasya stepped forward onto the bridge alone, a deliberate act of vulnerability. She stopped in the middle, her rifle held loosely at her side.
— I am Anastasya Orlova, — she said, her voice clear and carrying in the damp air. — I am not here as a Regalis officer. I am here as a soldier who has seen the same enemy you have. The blight is a weapon, and its source is a machine we must seize or destroy.
Lauri watched from the edge of the bridge, Jukka a silent statue beside him. He saw the clan leaders stiffen at her words. A Regalis speaking of shared enemies was a trick they had heard before.
— You speak of weapons, — the matriarch’s voice was like the rustle of dry leaves. — We have seen the work of Regalis weapons. Gerasim’s patrols have raised three new crystal forts in the last month. They call it ‘pruning the wild growth.’ They have cut us to the root.
She gestured back toward the huddled refugees in the camp.
— You speak of armies. Look around you, Warden, — she said, her gaze shifting to Lauri, a flicker of old disappointment in her eyes. — We have only refugees. The Sunkenwood Clan is scattered. The Iron-Root Clan is gone, their grove a pit of slime. You ask us to fight? We are fighting to remember the names of our dead.
The matriarch’s words were a litany of failure, a map of Gerasim’s quiet, brutal success. The Silvanus were not a sleeping giant. They were a body bleeding from a thousand cuts, their unity a mere 15% of what it had been before the Tears of Ash began to fall. Fear was the true ruler here.
— We are not asking for an army, — Anastasya said, her voice softening, adapting. She was shedding her doctrine, speaking a language of pure pragmatism. — We are asking for a strike team. A single, decisive blow to cut the head from the serpent. The Sunken Song is real. Jukka Anttila can guide us. I can fight. And Lauri… Lauri can sing the song.
The matriarch looked at Lauri again, her gaze lingering on his clear eyes, the absence of the flask at his belt, the new stillness in his posture. She saw the change. But she also saw the cost.
— Your war is not our war, — she said finally, the words heavy with regret. — Not yet. We cannot give you warriors to die in a frontal assault on a precursor myth. The risk is too great, and our numbers are too few.
Lauri’s hope, a fragile thing he had been nursing since the dark cave, withered. They were alone.
— But, — the matriarch added, her voice firm, — we will not leave you blind. We cannot give you soldiers, but we can give you eyes.
She made a gesture. Four figures detached themselves from the shadows. They were scouts, lean and silent, their fur the color of deep forest shadow. They carried bows and little else.
— They will guide you to the Dead Hill, — the matriarch declared. — They will watch your backs. But they will not enter the precursor’s tomb. That is a madness your small band must face alone. We will commit no warriors.
The decision was made. A partial failure. A request granted at 25% of what they needed. Lauri met the matriarch’s gaze and gave a slow, grim nod of acceptance. The dream of a united Silvanus army rising to meet the threat was dead. Their isolation was now a certainty, a wall around their desperate mission.
The smoke from the dying cook-fires clung to the damp air. Far below the bridge, a single stone, dislodged by their weight, fell into the unseen depths.
