The door to Harold's office creaked open as the Thornwalkers stepped out into the hall, the muffled sounds of construction still echoing from down the road. The group moved in quiet at first, until they were past the guards and halfway out of the Lords hall before beginning to speak.
"Okay," Lyn whispered. "So… we're in it now, right?"
"We've been in it," Maggs muttered.
"I knew there was more going on," Dorrin said. "Secret oaths, shadow councils, whole 'first wave from Earth' thing? Other races and humanity losing the first time this happened? Of course there's more. Always felt like we missed a step somewhere."
"I mean, we kinda did," Thresh said. "They had what? Weeks? Teams formed, everything lined up before they even got here. We just got dragged in, tossed out of a portal, and pointed at goblins."
"Which we handled," Vera said, quiet but firm.
They all glanced at her.
"And now we know why it felt like we were always catching up," she added. "Because we were."
Lyn kicked a loose stone off the path, watching it bounce into the darkness. "You think they told us because we're useful?"
Maggs snorted. "No. They told us because we're dangerous and useful. Can't have dangerous people without giving them a stake."
"Well," Dorrin said with a grim smile, "now we've got one."
Back in the office, the door closed with a soft thud. Margaret remained by the table, arms folded, watching it for a few seconds before finally speaking.
"I'm going to pull them into my section."
Harold didn't look up from where he was rearranging the totem on his shelf. "Take them. They're perfect for it."
Margaret nodded once, decisive.
"Good initiative. Steady under pressure. And adaptable in the field. I've already got a few jobs I have for them."
Harold leaned back against the edge of the desk, arms folded.
"Interesting note about the goblin dungeon, by the way. All five of them picked awareness-related perks. Something that helps them notice important things related to weak points. Some kind of Goblin Saboteur had it."
Margaret's brow arched.
"And the second perk?"
"Stealth," Harold said, smirking faintly. "All of them. Turns out that dungeon had Goblin Scouts with a really annoying knack for vanishing mid-fight. I remember the report on them from Sarah, musta gotten it from them."
Margaret's lips twitched. "I'll make good use of that."
Then she turned, eyes sharpening.
"Centurion Parker reported in," she said. "He's made contact with the refugees. It looks like he was barely in time. He arrived just as they were in a fight."
Harold's face sobered instantly. He nodded once, then pushed off the desk.
"Keep me updated on them, I need them for the next phase." Harold said seriously.
The brush parted ahead of him, and Parker nearly stumbled down the last slope. His legs burned, his breath came in shallow gulps, and his eyes stung with sweat. Behind him, his force of forty-two legionnaires — every last one of them capable of mana use — looked the same. Hollow-eyed. Filthy. Drained.
They'd run too far.
They'd overshot the trail entirely in their desperation to make time and had been forced to double back across rough terrain once they finally picked up a broken boot track in the dust. That had been hours ago. They hadn't stopped.
Now, as Parker skidded to a stop on a rocky ledge just above the basin, he saw it — the cave.
It was pressed up against the ridgeline like a scar, mouth gaping, narrow but defensible. A crude barricade had been thrown up around the entrance — stones, broken wood, what looked like stripped branches and torn packs. Inside, Parker could just make out flickers of movement — civilians, hunched and desperate, crammed in shoulder-to-shoulder.
And outside…
A herd of centaurs.
At least two dozen, probably more — lean, fast, brutal-looking. They had spears and short bows. A few of them were trying to batter the barricade down with the flat sides of heavy clubs while others loosed arrows over the makeshift wall. Screams echoed from the cave.
A ragged handful of adventurers stood right behind the barricade — bruised, bleeding, outnumbered — doing everything they could to hold the centaurs back. One had a cracked shield. Another was limping, sword swinging in uneven arcs. What looked like a crafter, was crouched low, and manipulated fire to shoot at the centaurs. It didn't do much but it snapped the string on the bow he was trying to use.
The centaurs surged again, smashing against the barrier. Wood splintered.
Parker didn't wait.
"Line up! Now!" he bellowed, voice raw from days of shouting, from mana-scorched lungs and grit-filled air.
The legionaries responded through instinct more than will — staggering into a rough firing line at the ridgeline's edge, pulling their last fire-hardened javelins from the bundles on their backs.
"Mana up," Parker growled. "One last push. Throw hard. Kill!."
A faint hum filled the air as the soldiers pooled what little strength they had left, wrapping their weapons in barely-there traces of force. The javelins glowed faintly at the tips, mana enhancing the killing power of the javelins.
"Release!" Parker shouted.
The volley arced forward — forty spears of fury launched with all the weight and desperation they could muster. One centaur tried to shout a warning but a javelin punched threw his torso before he could speak.
The clustered formation near the cave mouth was packed in tight, focused on tearing through the barricade. The javelins punched through them like missiles through cloth — ripping into chests, shoulders, necks. They fell in screaming heaps, blood spraying, panic blooming in the herd's rear ranks as half their number dropped in seconds.
"Shields!" Parker roared.
They ripped their shields off their backs, drew swords from tired hips, and didn't wait for an order. There was no discipline left — only the need to end this.
"CHARGE!"
They thundered down the ridge screaming — a wall of battered steel and furious will.
It wasn't clean or clever. But it was brutal.
Parker's shoulder hit a centaur's flank so hard it knocked the beast sideways, and he brought his sword down in a arc that split flesh and bone. To his left, another legionnaire slammed his shield into a staggered rider, pinned it against the rock, and ran his blade straight through its throat.
The survivors scattered — the organized pressure at the cave mouth collapsed.
That was when the refugees inside saw them.
A ragged cheer went up — wild and half-choked — and a handful of civilians and adventurers surged forward through the wreckage of the barricade. Some carried spears, others rocks. One woman, face streaked with soot, was holding a pickaxe.
Together, they broke the centaur line — the herd finally routed, galloping away into the dusk.
Parker stood amidst the bodies, chest heaving, blood running down his forearm from a long slice near the elbow. He looked back over his shoulder — the ridge littered with the spent unit, some collapsed to one knee, others leaning on their shields, too tired to cheer.
But they'd made it, barely in time.
From the cave entrance, a woman stepped out slowly — soot-streaked, spear in hand. Her armor was a mismatched patchwork of salvaged gear and scavenged cloth, and her expression was wary but hopeful.
"Are you—" she paused, swallowing hard, voice hoarse. "Are you from Harold's Landing? Are you the force that was supposed to save us? We haven't seen anything on the forum since someone said you were coming. "
Parker exhaled, letting the weight of the last few days sag off his shoulders. He wiped blood from his temple with the back of his wrist, then managed a crooked grin.
"We," he said, raising a hand theatrically and letting his sword drag behind him, "are the valiant Knights of the Landing."
There was a beat of silence before he added, a little less dramatically, "Advance force, at least. The rest of the legion's two days out. We just ran three and a half days to make sure you weren't a memory."
His eyes flicked toward the cave. "Don't suppose there's any food in there? We haven't eaten since yesterday."
The woman blinked, and then the exhaustion in her face broke — a quick laugh, then a tight nod. "We'll find something."
Behind her, other survivors stepped forward, blinking into the light. Dirty faces, thin and tired. A handful of adventurers. A couple older people, which was impressive. Since everyone got alittle younger when they came to Gravesend. A scattering of children. Some cheering now — but mostly just quiet relief.
Parker raised a hand to his Optios. "Get them sorted. Prioritize the wounded. Rotate our people in for food and sleep where they can. I think we have a few more potions. Use them on the worst wounded, see if they have anyone that needs it more."
Most of the unit didn't need to be told twice. Shields clattered to the dirt, swords were sheathed, and one by one the legionaries sank down to the ground with groans and muttered curses. A few barely made it to the rocks before sleep claimed them.
Jenkins dropped down next to Elroy, pulling off one boot and rubbing his foot with a grimace. "I swear," he muttered, "that was the worst three and a half days of my entire life. My legs don't even feel like they're mine anymore."
Elroy didn't even look at him. He just flopped onto his back and stared at the sky with a grin. "Yeah, yeah. But think of the reward. Whole cave full of civilians. Bet you anything there's at least a few hot, grateful babes in there. We're heroes, Jenkins."
Jenkins blinked at the cave entrance, brow furrowing. "…You think so?"
"Brother," his friend said, barely suppressing a grin. "We just saved their lives. I'm telling you — tonight, we sleep. Tomorrow, we bask."
Jenkins sighed and leaned back in the dirt. "I'm too tired to bask."
Parker found a spot just outside the cave entrance and dropped to one knee, rolling his shoulders and stretching his legs.
The woman from before — the one with the spear — brought him a half-loaf of something dense and dark. "It's not much," she said. "But thank you."
He nodded and took the bread without ceremony. "We're glad you're alive," he said simply.
Behind him, the others were already organizing. A few legionaries stood, stretching, adjusting straps. They'd form the first watch. The first rotation was only an hour per but the next complete rotation was longer. They were all exhausted. Quiet voices passed down the line as shields were placed near sleeping forms and a couple fires started.
As night deepened, the glow of the fire cast flickering shadows against the cave walls. Outside, the makeshift camp settled into silence, the soft clink of armor and murmured orders giving way to stillness.
Parker tried to keep things organized but he was too tired too, eventually he fell in exhaustion near a fire after a forum post and fell asleep.
To the west, nestled beneath a dark canopy of twisted branches and moss-covered stone, Sarah crouched near a dwindling campfire. The flickering light danced across her face, highlighting the tired set of her jaw and the gleam of focus in her eyes.
The system interface casting a faint glow as she tapped through layers and filters. She found the message — encoded, and only visible through a cipher she'd been given three weeks ago by Margaret.
Sarah adjusted how her sword rested, then drew the small cipher-slate from her pouch. She glanced around the camp — the rest of her team slept nearby, gear packed light and within arm's reach. She worked the code in silence, eyes narrowing as the meaning slowly unfolded in front of her:
Operation Specterfall
Target: Thresher King. Objective: Provocation
Phase One: Confirm visual
Phase Two: Draw Thresher King into southern river delta.
Objective: Do not allow support from west side of river to join the east side.
Do not engage.
Exercise Extreme caution
Support contingent en route
Your actions will shape the basin.
Sarah let the final line hang in the air for a long moment. Then she slowly exhaled and closed the forum.
"Time to wake the others," she muttered. "We've got something to piss off."