Morning broke cold and gray.

  The camp rustled with quiet urgency. Blankets folded. Wagons hitched. Armor buckled with fewer groans and less chatter. The absence of the expected westbound convoy hung over everyone like a low cloud.

  Swift adjusted the straps of his pack as Carlos approached, nodding toward the front of the caravan where Voss was talking to the drivers.

  “Still no sign of the other team,” Carlos said, voice low. “They should’ve been here yesterday.”

  Swift glanced eastward, past the trees that looked increasingly unfamiliar. “Is this normal?”

  “No. Convoys run on schedule. Supply chains don’t skip days.”

  A few paces ahead, Voss raised his voice just enough to be heard by the escort team. “We’re moving out. Formation stays tight. Eyes up.”

  Carlos leaned closer. “Next checkpoint’s still two days away. That’s the nearest fortified outpost. Until then... we’re solo.”

  Swift didn’t need to ask what that meant. He felt it in the pit of his stomach. No reinforcements. No fallback. Whatever happened between here and the checkpoint—they’d face it alone.

  They rolled out in silence.

  By midday, the forest changed.

  The trees grew taller but more gnarled. The air hung heavier. Where there should have been the sound of insects, birds, or even the occasional rustle of animals—there was nothing. Just wind. And wagon wheels.

  Swift squinted at the underbrush. Even the moss looked wrong—too thick, too alive.

  “Used to be farms around here,” Carlos said beside him as the convoy came to a halt.

  Swift looked sideways. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. Little patches of barley and root veg. Families. Laughter. Gone now.” He pointed toward a ridge. “We’ll climb that. Keep a lookout.”

  The two moved off quietly, ascending through thickets and roots until they reached the crest. From the high ground, they checked on the convoy below. Nothing of note. Out in the distance, a few overgrown fields rippled in the wind.

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  “It’s too quiet,” Swift said.

  Carlos adjusted his stance. “It’s not just quiet. It’s empty. Nature doesn’t just stop unless something’s hunting.”

  They stayed up there for ten minutes. Nothing moved. But the stillness itself felt unnatural.

  When they returned, Voss didn’t ask where they’d been. Just gave them both a glance and a nod. Everyone was feeling it now.

  Later, during a brief break to rest the oxen, Swift sat near one of the younger mercs—the same guy who joked about Swift’s musket.

  He spoke in hushed tones, eyes flicking around as if afraid to conjure ghosts. “You hear about the Hollowbend crew?”

  Swift shook his head.

  “Went west. Never came back. Two weeks later, the wagons showed up at a border post. All of them. Not a soul inside. Oxen were still attached. But they weren’t... normal. Eyes like marbles. Moved like machines. Like the corrosion had hollowed them out and just kept them moving.”

  Swift raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

  Carlos wandered over then, holding two canteens. He handed one to Swift, then caught the tail end of the conversation.

  “That story’s old,” Carlos said. “Heard a version of it back when I was still in the city. Probably not true.”

  The young merc looked disappointed. “So it’s just a tale?”

  Carlos drank, then capped his canteen. “Parts of it. Convoys have gone missing. Sometimes you find their gear weeks later. Sometimes not. But I’ve never seen oxen come back without drivers.”

  The conversation died off.

  As Swift and Carlos walked back to the formation, Swift asked under his breath, “So, you really don’t believe any of it?”

  Carlos didn’t answer at first. “The real stories have corroded humans driving the carts.”

  “Yeah, that’s more real.”

  The trees thickened around the path as the day grew late. The convoy tightened again, even without Voss’s order. The road ahead was cut between two steep ridges, and for a stretch there was no visibility to either side. The convoy stopped before entering.

  Voss walked up, quietly muttering, “Paranoia drill. Get your heads on.”

  The escorts tensed immediately. Fingers went to triggers. Feet adjusted stances.

  Carlos looked at Swift. “Paranoia drills are just real drills in disguise.”

  Swift didn’t argue. He shifted Excalibur to the ready. The convoy moved on. Every creak of wagon wheels, every snapping twig, every breeze brushing the canopy above—it all felt too loud in a place this quiet.

  He tried not to look at the ridgelines. That would show fear. But his instincts screamed at him to keep glancing up.

  A strained groan from one of the oxen broke the silence.

  The world exhaled—

  Crack.

  A deep rumble overhead.

  The first boulder came down like judgment itself.

  It tore through the treeline, snapping branches like kindling, before it slammed into the lead wagon with a deafening crunch of wood. Oxen screamed. Metal shrieked. Dust and bark exploded into the air.

  “Ambush!” Carlos shouted.

  Swift moved behind the nearest wheel hub. The echo of the crash still rang in Swift’s ears when the second rock began to fall.

  From the ridges, shapes moved. Quick, calculated.

  The silence shattered.