The first man over the boundary didn't see her.
That was his mistake.
He vaulted the low section of the palisade with a grunt, landing hard on the inside—and immediately screamed as a spike tore through his boot and into his foot. He collapsed forward, weapon clattering from his hand.
Before anyone else could react, Lena was already moving.
She dropped from the watchtower ladder in a blur, boots hitting the ground without a sound. Her bow was gone—discarded mid-motion—as she closed the distance in three strides.
The knife flashed once.
The screaming stopped.
Blood hit the dirt in a thin, controlled arc.
For half a heartbeat, everything froze.
Then someone shouted, "She killed him!"
No.She had removed him.
Lena didn't look at the body. She was already turning, eyes tracking movement beyond the trees, reading momentum and intent the way others read faces.
Two men rushed the boundary together.
She met them at the line.
The first swung wildly. Lena ducked under the blow, stepped inside his reach, and drove her elbow into his throat. He went down choking, hands clawing uselessly at his neck.
The second hesitated.
That hesitation cost him.
She pivoted, kicked his knee sideways with brutal precision, and wrenched the weapon from his hands as he fell. She didn't stab him.
She shoved him back across the boundary.
"Leave," she said coldly.
A rock sailed from the darkness.
Lena twisted, the stone grazing her shoulder instead of her head. She hissed—but didn't slow.
She sprinted forward, feet finding every solid patch of ground instinctively. Another trap snapped behind her as someone blundered into it, metal teeth biting deep.
She climbed the log choke point in one smooth motion, used it as leverage, and jumped.
The men beyond the boundary scattered.
Too slow.
She landed among them like a blade dropped from height—low, balanced, lethal. Her knife moved with economy, never more than necessary. A slash to a tendon. A strike to a wrist. Pain without excess.
She wasn't chasing kills.
She was breaking the will to advance.
From the watchtower, Rook watched without interference.
Every movement Lena made aligned perfectly with the defenses he'd built. Traps slowed. Choke points funneled. The boundary dictated where violence could and couldn't exist.
She was the final layer.
A man tried to rush her from behind.
Rook's alarm bell rang once.
Lena spun and threw her knife.
It buried itself to the hilt in the man's shoulder, pinning him to a tree. He howled and slid down the trunk, sobbing.
Silence fell.
Not because everyone was gone.
Because no one wanted to move.
Lena stood just inside the boundary, chest rising and falling steadily, blood splattered across her sleeve and cheek. Her eyes were calm. Focused.
She retrieved her knife, wiped it clean on the grass, and looked back toward the valley.
At Rook.
"They won't try again tonight," she said.
Rook nodded once.
Behind her, the invaders backed away slowly, dragging their wounded, eyes never leaving the walls.
They had crossed a line.
And learned what lived behind it.