Chapter 20: The Hunt That Does Not End
The Northern Plains did not resist them.
That was the first thing Aren understood as the elite fifty moved out before dawn.
Snow did not crunch loudly beneath their boots. Hooves did not echo the way they should have. Wind slid across armor and cloaks, carrying sound away instead of betraying movement. The land accepted them with the same quiet indifference it had shown to the dead.
That was what made it dangerous.
Aren rode at the front, reins loose, posture calm. He did not rush. He did not slow unnecessarily. Every movement was measured, every breath controlled. The Plains punished tension. They rewarded patience.
Behind him, the fifty followed.
Not in a single column. Not in parade formation. They moved in staggered lines, distance maintained deliberately. Five squads of ten, each capable of acting independently, each knowing where the others should be even without seeing them.
No banners.
No horns.
No unnecessary weight.
This was not an army detachment.
This was a blade.
The system stirred faintly at the edge of Aren's awareness, as if acknowledging that reality had finally caught up with its designation.
[Primary Quest: Cull the Riders]
[Status: In Progress]
Aren ignored it.
For now, the land mattered more than objectives.
He lifted his fist.
The column slowed.
Not halted—never halted—but compressed just enough to reduce noise and tighten spacing. Rovan drifted closer without being called. Corin adjusted his spear grip, eyes scanning the low ridges ahead. Lethan rode carefully, favoring his injured leg but refusing assistance.
Aren's gaze fixed on the snow ahead.
It was wrong.
Not disturbed in the obvious way. Not churned or broken. Instead, the surface had been compressed in shallow, irregular patterns, almost erased by wind but not quite.
Tracks.
Fresh.
Riders.
"They're moving fast," Rovan murmured.
"Yes," Aren replied. "And straight."
Corin frowned. "Why straight?"
"Because they don't expect resistance," Aren said.
That was the danger of harassment tactics. Success bred carelessness.
Aren lifted two fingers and pointed left.
Squad Two broke away immediately, angling outward and disappearing into a shallow dip in the terrain. No hesitation. No confirmation. Squad Four mirrored the movement to the right, creating a widening arc.
The rest continued forward.
Minutes passed.
The Plains remained silent.
Then—
Hooves.
Fast. Light. Multiple.
Aren did not need the sound to confirm it.
The system surged.
Not violently.
Decisively.
[Quest Condition Met: Enemy Engagement Initiated]
Aren's breath caught.
The world shifted.
Not visually.
Fundamentally.
The air felt thicker, layered. Presence bled into awareness like ink into water. Shapes existed where nothing had been before—not physical, but intentional.
The riders ahead burned faintly.
Not brightly. Not cleanly.
Their aura was crude—thin threads clinging to muscle and bone without discipline, leaking outward in jagged pulses whenever fear or aggression spiked. It was not power refined through training.
It was survival instinct given form.
Aren sucked in a slow breath.
So this was aura perception.
Not strength.
Not dominance.
Understanding.
"Commander?" Rovan whispered, sensing the change without knowing its cause.
"Eight riders," Aren said quietly. "Light cavalry. Aura-active, but untrained."
Corin glanced at him sharply. "You're sure?"
"Yes."
No explanation.
No time.
The riders crested the shallow rise moments later.
They were laughing.
That was the second mistake.
They expected scattered scouts. Supply wagons. Easy targets. They did not expect disciplined infantry moving without banners or noise.
Squad Two struck first.
Arrows and javelins cut through the air, not aimed to kill immediately but to disrupt. Horses screamed, rearing as projectiles struck flanks and necks. The riders shouted in surprise, formations breaking instinctively as they veered away from the sudden threat.
Squad Four surged from the opposite side, shields raised, movement aggressive but controlled. The riders found themselves boxed in—not trapped, but pressured from angles they had not considered.
Aren raised his hand.
"Pressure only!" he shouted. "No pursuit!"
The elite squads obeyed.
This was not a battle.
It was a denial.
Every time the riders tried to regroup, one squad pressed just enough to force movement. Not toward safety. Sideways. Away from familiar routes. Toward uncertainty.
A rider broke left, spurring his horse hard.
Aren tracked him—not with eyes, but with aura perception. Fear flared bright and jagged around the man, pulling him toward the largest cluster of presence he could feel.
Enemy lines.
"Let him go," Aren said.
Another rider tried to cut through the center, blade raised.
Rovan met him shield-first, impact brutal but controlled. The rider was knocked from his horse, landing hard in the snow, breath driven from his lungs.
"Bind him," Aren ordered. "Then move."
No killing blow.
Not yet.
Hours passed.
The riders did not stop running.
They could not.
Every time they slowed, pressure returned. Not from the same direction. Not predictably. Always just enough to force movement again.
Exhaustion set in.
Aren saw it clearly now.
Aura dimmed with fatigue. Threads thinned. Intent weakened.
"This is working," Corin said quietly.
"Yes," Aren replied. "That's why it's dangerous."
"They'll adapt," Rovan added.
"Yes."
The first horn sounded near dusk.
Deep. Controlled.
Enemy response.
Aren felt it before he heard it.
Presence gathering.
"They noticed," Lethan said.
"Yes," Aren replied. "Good."
That was the point.
By forcing the riders back wounded, exhausted, and disorganized, Aren had done more than neutralize harassment units. He had redirected enemy attention. Resources would be pulled inward. Command focus would shift. Pressure on the marching army would ease.
At a cost.
The elite fifty regrouped in a shallow basin as night fell, breath steaming, armor rimed with frost. No one cheered. No one boasted. They were tired in the deep, bone-heavy way that came from sustained exertion without release.
The system updated quietly.
[Enemy Cavalry Detachment: Operationally Neutralized]
[Quest Progress: 31%]
Aren stood apart, eyes closed.
Aura perception remained active.
The Plains were no longer empty.
Enemy presence glimmered faintly in the distance—less confident now, less aggressive. Patterns shifted as command reacted to the disruption.
Behind him, the soldiers whispered.
"He knew where they'd run."
"He saw them before the scouts."
"This isn't luck."
Trust had crossed a line.
It was no longer quiet.
It was solid.
Aren opened his eyes.
The hunt was not over.
It had only begun.
And the Northern Plains—
would remember who started it.