"We can't take this outpost by ourselves," Freya muttered, crouched low among the ferns.
"There are too many of them. And there's this feeling in the air…" She trailed off, narrowing her eyes at the unnatural shimmer wafting above the outpost—like heat haze, only colder. "It's wrong. Magic. Old, foul, and probably pissed off."
Grant said nothing. His jaw clenched tight enough to crack bone. Literally—he'd absorbed an orc into his chassis not long ago, and the stuff was still settling. One of his shoulder plates twitched as a half-formed jawbone retracted.
"And that… pit," she added, voice low. "My gut says don't go near it."
Grant turned his skull slightly, the amber lights in his eye sockets flaring with grim recognition.
"Whatever it is," Freya continued, "it growled, and the other orcs flinched. That's never a good sign."
She wiped a bead of sweat off her brow. Or maybe it was blood. Hard to tell these days.
A ripple of movement drew Freya's eye to the center of the outpost.
The flap of the command tent stirred—and a figure emerged.
Cloaked, hood drawn low. Not unusual, but something was off.
The build was wrong. Too small for an orc. Too light on their feet.
And it moved with a grace, not the plodding thump-thump of the green-skinned brutes.
Then came the second figure.
Massive. Brutish. Armored in jagged scrap iron and fresh bone.
He stalked out behind the cloaked one like a war god slumming it among peasants.
Even from a distance, his presence snarled, "I'm the warchief."
The other orcs near the tent bowed their heads and stepped back without a word.
The two figures stood face-to-face, and though Freya couldn't hear the exchange, the body language said enough.
The cloaked one gestured toward the pit—calm, deliberate.
The big orc snorted, fists clenched, then barked something sharp in reply.
Probably something along the lines of "I don't take orders from twigs in robes."
But he didn't strike.
And the cloaked figure didn't flinch.
Moments later, the smaller one turned and slipped back into the treeline, fluid and silent, like a shadow that owned the night.
Freya exhaled, low and slow. "Well, that's not creepy at all."
She didn't wait.
The moment the figure vanished into the trees, she was on her feet, crouch-walking through the underbrush like a shadow with a bad attitude. "Come on," she whispered, flicking two fingers for Grant to follow. "I want a word with Mr. Creepy Robes."
Grant followed silently, smooth as smoke.
The forest swallowed them quickly, the distant thrum of orcish life fading behind them.
Freya tracked the figure easily: bent grass, a disturbed fern, a footprint too carefully placed.
Whoever this was, they moved like someone used to being hunted—and not often caught.
But Freya's vampiric senses had other ideas.
They paced him for nearly ten minutes, slipping from shadow to shadow. Trees to trees.
Eventually, the cloaked figure slowed and turned his head slightly—too late.
Grant erupted from the underbrush like a freight train made of bones and bad decisions, tackling the man to the ground before he could even yelp.
Freya was already there, planting a knee on his chest and yanking back the hood.
And to her surprise, It was human.
Late twenties, or maybe early thirties. Tousled black hair, a faint scar that ran from his ear to the corner of his mouth, and eyes like cracked obsidian—dark, haunted, and currently very terrified with Grant's soul fires staring at him..
"Well hello there," Freya said sweetly, baring just enough fang to make it clear that biting was on the table. "You don't look like you belong in an orc war camp."
The man's eyes widened. His whole body trembled. "Wh-who… what are you?"
Grant growled, pressing a skeletal hand against the man's throat.
"Okay, okay! Point taken." He raised both hands. "Let's talk like civilized people."
"Oh, we're past talking," Freya said, her voice low and cold. She leaned in, her shadow swallowing his face. "You're going to tell me exactly who—and what—you are. And what you're doing here."
"If I don't like your answer…" She smiled like a guillotine in a tutu. "Well, I'm very creative."
The man swallowed hard, eyes flicking between Freya's fangs and the hellfire in Grant's sockets.
His breath hitched—once, twice—then came in short, panicked gasps.
"I-I don't even know what this is!" he blurted. "I was just—just passing through! Trying to survive, same as everyone else!"
Freya arched an eyebrow. "Passing through an orc-infested war camp, wrapped in enchanted cloak, trading words with their warchief? Sure. Totally normal."
"I swear!" he said, voice rising in pitch. "I didn't even want to talk to him! They made me! Said I had... skills."
Grant pressed down harder. The man choked and flailed briefly before Freya raised a hand.
"Not yet," she said coolly. "I like him breathing. For now."
Grant eased up. Slightly.
Freya leaned closer, her voice a velvet knife. "What skills?"
The man's lips trembled. "I—I'm an alchemist, a scholar alright? "
"I read signs. Bones. Scrolls. Shadows. Whatever keeps me alive. I don't fight. I don't lead. I'm just the guy they keep around to poke the dark and see if it pokes back!"
Freya's gaze narrowed. "And that pit?"
He shuddered. "I told them not to touch it. Begged them. But they wouldn't listen. Said they needed it for the cause. Called me weak for fearing it."
He looked up at her then, pleading. "Please, I'm not one of them. I swear it. I'm just a stray who got caught in the storm."
Freya studied him in silence, letting the weight of it settle like lead.
"Names," she said finally. "Yours. Theirs."
"C-Callum," he stammered. "My name's Callum. "
"The big one is Borak. Warchief of the Broken Maw tribe. The others—Gor, Vesh, Trakka—I don't know the rest. I stay away when they're... doing things."
Freya's voice dropped an octave. "And what things are they doing in that pit, Callum?"
He paled. "They're feeding it."
Callum's voice cracked. "Prisoners. Corpses. Blood. Magic. Anything that screams."
Freya blinked. "Why? Don't tell me the warchief always wanted a pit monster as a pet."
"I don't know!" he wailed, squirming under her knee. "I'm just a nobody, a messenger. They don't tell me anything."
For a moment, the only sounds were his ragged breathing and the soft creak of Grant's joints.
Then Freya smiled again. Not kindly.
"Well, Callum... good news. You just earned yourself a one-way ticket away from that pit."
He blinked. "Wh-what?"
She stood, brushing off her skirt. "You're coming with us. As our very cooperative new guide."
Grant hauled him up by the collar like a sack of regrets.
Callum didn't argue, he just limped along like a man hoping the executioner forgot his name.
They moved quickly through the forest, Callum stumbling along between Freya and Grant, who loomed just a step behind like a skeletal parole officer.
Freya led the way, lazily slicing through vines with her scythe.
Her crimson eyes flicked back now and then—not out of concern, but to make sure Callum wasn't stupid enough to run.
After the third stumble, she sighed. "Try not to trip on every root, would you? I'd hate to explain to your shattered legs why we're slowing down."
"I'm not built for this," Callum muttered, brushing twigs from his cloak. "I usually let the brutes clear the way."
"Uh-huh." Freya glanced at him sideways. "Let's say we believe you're not some evil cultist in disguise. You're still working with orcs. So explain something useful."
Callum swallowed. "Like what?"
"Where you're from. Who you answer to." She stepped over a log, turning with a glare. "Tell me you work solo, and I'd throw you into the pit myself."
"But I am," Callum said, sidestepping a thorny branch with the grace of a dying drunk. "I don't have a boss. Not really."
Freya gave him a look that could curdle blood. "Everyone has a boss. Even the dead. Especially the dead."
"I'm just a pair of hired hands," he insisted. "I take contracts. Enchant gear. Read omens. Nobles, bandits, hedge knights—whoever pays. No politics. No allegiance."
Grant made a low, hollow grunt. Freya wasn't sure if it was disbelief or just his spine settling again.
She slowed her pace slightly, letting her voice drift back like smoke. "And who handed you this contract, Mr. Totally-Not-A-Cultist?"
Callum hesitated. "It wasn't… formal. Word came through the usual channels. A coded message at the Rusted Sigil tavern—'Curse-writer wanted. Hazard pay offered. Meet near the Sulfur Marsh.'"
Freya's footsteps slowed, her curiosity sharpening to a point.
"Where's this Rusted Sigil tavern?"
Callum blinked, surprised. "Uh… Krasvale. Small town. Not on most maps unless you're a smuggler. Or a necromancer..."
His voice dipped on that last word, eyes watching her face for a reaction.
She gave him none.
He swallowed and added, "Sulfur Marsh is somewhere between here and Krasvale."`
"It smells like death and boils your skin off if you soak too long. Locals call it The Sighing Mire. Bad place. Real bad."
"Bad how?" Freya asked, voice light, but her eyes sharp as knives.
"Things live in it. Things that used to be people. Or frogs. Or both."
Freya's grin returned, edged like a blade. "Good, that's where you gonna end up if you lie to me."
Callum looked ready to pass out again, but Grant nudged him forward with a skeletal shove.
Freya turned, crimson eyes gleaming. "Looks like we've got a new destination."
Callum's face fell. "Oh no."
Freya grinned. "Oh yes."
She tossed him a small waterskin, mostly full. "Drink up, wizard boy. You're inviting us to your home sweet home."