The moon sat a finger's breadth off its zenith, yet the forest was crimson all the same—drowned in that sickly red light that flattened distance and turned every shadow into a liar.
"Lieutenant Anja," Achim said quietly, boots crunching behind me, "movement spotted a few metres beyond the established perimeter."
I lifted my gaze from the map spread across the crate. "Therian special units?"
"Unlikely." He leaned in, already tracing the markings. "Three women. One elderly man."
My hand stilled.
"The forest spans roughly five hundred and ninety-three square kilometres," Achim continued. "Nothing unusual to common folk."
He looked up then, eyes sharp. "To common folk."
I exhaled through my nose and scanned the men gathered near the fire—faces hard, tired, alert.
"Check your Lee–Metford carbines," I ordered, snapping the Webley shut and sliding it into my holster. "Bayonets secured. No noisy magic."
Nods rippled through the unit. The order wasn't new—arcane discharge this deep would scream through the forest. Too many things already listening.
We moved.
No chatter. No wasted signals. Just breath, boots, and the forest swallowing sound as it always did.
At the forest's lip, we found them.
Two tents. A dead campfire. A carriage parked carelessly to the side, as though its owner had never learned fear.
I raised my fist.
The unit fanned out, enclosing the clearing with practiced ease.
They're asleep.
I eased open the nearest tent. A woman lay inside, breathing slow and even, utterly unaware of the rifles trained through the canvas.
Five minutes of observation. Then we acted.
Quick. Clean. Silent.
The three women were brought out and laid on the ground, wrists bound, still unconscious.
"I was told there was an elderly man," I said, eyes sweeping the clearing.
Weapons stayed raised.
"Search the perimeter."
Moments later, Fränze returned, brow furrowed. "No sign of him, ma'am. No tracks either."
She hesitated. "But someone had to be driving the carriage."
The moon shifted, light sliding across polished wood and metal fittings—far too expensive for wanderers.
"Wow," one of the men muttered as supplies were pulled from the tents. "They've got meat."
Loaded, I thought.
"Who are they?" Achim asked, crouching near the captives. Their clothing was clean, layered, utterly impractical—garden wear in a quarantined forest.
"Did you find anything useful?" I asked.
Fränze stepped forward and sat on a fallen log, something clenched in her fist.
"Nothing conclusive," she said, then opened her hand.
A necklace.
Fine chain. Old craftsmanship. The pendant bore markings—too deliberate to be decorative, too restrained to be overt magic.
"I took it from the one with black and white hair," she added.
Achim hummed. "Questions and negotiations have to start somewhere."
He wiped his chin, smearing what looked suspiciously like dried milk.
Fränze stared at him across the fire, her face swallowed by shadow. She said nothing.
Around us, rifles remained trained. Fingers hovered near triggers. No one truly relaxed.
Because the forest hadn't gone quiet.
It was listening.
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