Night came to Ashard like a thief.
The darkness was different this particular night – more disapproving of light. The outpost's torches became islands of sickly light in an ocean of absolute black.
Liam stood on the wall, watching that darkness swallow the valley whole.
Somewhere out there, the Radiant Empire's camp glowed with the false confidence of blessed sigils. Somewhere closer, his pieces were moving into position.
[Current Time: 02:47]
[Collective Belief Average: -24%]
The Cognitor fed him data.
The garrison's disbelief had dropped another percentage point, he knew it wasn't faith, but the erosion of certainty.
They didn't believe in him, but they believed something was happening.
For now, that was enough.
Behind him, Koth approached with the weight of armor and expectation. "The Shadow Claws are in position. Sector Gamma, as planned."
Liam didn't turn. "And the bait?"
"Squad Seven. Veterans. They know their role." Koth's voice carried something that might have been respect or might have been a warning. "They also know the cost if your 'performance' fails."
"It won't."
"Your confidence would be inspiring if it weren't so potentially suicidal."
Now Liam did turn, meeting those molten eyes. "Commander, how many dawn assaults have you survived?"
"Forty-three."
"Then trust me when I say this: dawn is when they expect to fight. Night is when we teach them to fear." He looked back at the darkness. "Give the signal."
Koth hesitated – one second of command struggling against desperate hope – then raised his arm. A demon on the wall behind them lifted a horn to his lips.
The sound was low but carrying across the outpost like a death knell.
The first act had begun.
---
Paladin-Scout Marcus Thorne had walked this patrol route seventeen times.
Seventeen times, the same path between the forward camp and the ridge checkpoint. Seventeen times, nothing but wind and stone and the comforting glow of his blessed sigil cutting through the mountain dark.
His partner, Garrett, walked ten paces ahead, his own sigil a steady beacon.
Two more scouts flanked them at regulation distance. They were careful, but not concerned. The demons were defensive, predictable, broken.
"Quiet tonight," Garrett called back, his voice carrying the easy confidence of a man who'd survived worse.
Marcus nodded, his hand resting on his sword hilt out of habit, not fear. The demons only fought at—
The scream came from his left.
Not a battle cry, a death sound, wet and sudden and cut short. Marcus spun, his sigil flaring bright, illuminating—
Nothing.
Just rocks. Just shadow. Just Talbert's position, now empty except for the faint smell of copper in the air.
"Talbert?" Garrett's voice had lost its ease. "TALBERT!"
A sound, cloth on stone, too quick, too close. Marcus drew his sword, the blade igniting with holy light.
"Formation! Eyes—"
Something hit the ground between them with a meaty thump.
Talbert's helmet. Still warm. Empty.
"DEMONS!" Marcus roared, his training overriding his terror. "Signal the—"
They came from everywhere and nowhere.
Dark shapes, barely shadows with substance, erupting from crevices that shouldn't have existed. No horns catching moonlight, no war cries, just silent violence with purpose.
A demon materialized behind Garrett – literally seemed to condense from darkness – and Garrett's sword was already moving, blessed steel arcing toward scaled flesh.
The demon twisted, impossibly fast, and Garrett's blade cut only air.
The demon's counter wasn't a killing blow, it was a shoulder strike, brutal and efficient, sending Garrett stumbling backward.
Marcus lunged to help, his holy fire cutting a bright arc through the night.
The demons scattered like smoke.
For three heartbeats, the patrol stood in a defensive circle, their sigils blazing, their breathing ragged. Four of them remained.
Talbert was gone. No body. No blood trail. Just... gone.
"They're afraid," Garrett panted, trying to believe it. "We hurt them. They're—"
A thrown rock—simple, primitive—struck Marcus's sigil charm. The blessed light flickered, dimmed. In that moment of reduced visibility, he saw them.
Dozens of eyes. Reflecting their holy light back at them from the surrounding rocks. Watching. Waiting.
Not afraid.
Hunting.
"Fall back!" Marcus's voice cracked. "Fall back to—"
The demons attacked again, a coordinated strike from three angles. This time, when Marcus's sword found flesh, the demon let it—took the cut across its arm and used the momentum to get inside his guard, driving an elbow into his ribs with precisely targeted force.
Not trying to kill. Trying to hurt. Trying to panic.
It was working.
"THE RIDGE!" Garrett screamed, already running. "Fall back to high ground! Signal flare!"
One of the scouts—Thomas, barely nineteen—pulled a blessed flare from his belt and crushed it. Brilliant white light erupted, a pillar reaching toward the mountain sky.
The demons vanished.
Completely, instantly, as if they'd never been there at all.
The four paladins stood in the flare's dying light, their formation broken, their breathing panicked. Talbert's empty helmet stared up at them from the stone.
"They're retreating," Thomas whispered, desperate to believe it. "We're winning. We're—"
"We're pursuing," Garrett snarled, his fear transforming into righteous fury. Behind them, answering calls echoed from the forward camp—reinforcements, drawn by the flare.
"The cowards won't make the outpost. Cut them off at the ridge path!"
Marcus wanted to say no. Every instinct, every lesson from surviving seventeen patrols, screamed at him to dig in and wait for support.
But Talbert's helmet...
He ran.
They all ran, following the fleeting shadows up the narrow path toward the eastern ridge. Behind them, he could hear the thunder of armored boots—twenty, maybe thirty reinforcements, drawn by the flare and the scent of demon blood.
The Radiant Empire didn't retreat. The Radiant Empire pursued.
The path narrowed. Steepened. The blessed sigils cast wild, jerking shadows on the rock walls. Marcus's lungs burned, his ribs ached where the demon had struck him, but he ran.
Ahead, a flicker of movement. A demon, limping, leaving a blood trail.
Wounded. Vulnerable.
"THERE!" Garrett pointed, holy fire already gathering in his palm.
They surged forward, the narrow path funneling them single-file, their formation forgotten in the heat of pursuit. Behind them, more paladins poured into the passage, their battle cries echoing off stone.
Marcus was the first to crest the rise and step onto the broader ridge path.
His boot came down.
Something clicked.