Ashes of the Elite

I keep my senses stretched to the edge, nerves humming, the thought and revelation gnawing at my mind with a dull, persistent ache: Monsters still exist! Its the only explanation. Real, and not just a stories of a past meant to frighten children. What if they're here, watching from the gloom, waiting for us to let down our guard?

I try to picture one something out of books, all claws and fangs stalking us through the trees. The thought makes my hand tighten reflexively on my sword hilt. I run through every strategy I know. If a monster appears, do I fight it head-on? Try to outthink it? Are monsters like humans in the end, vulnerable to blade and fire and fear, or do they follow rules of their own? All my training, all my knowledge of marks and combat, feels woefully inadequate when the enemy might not play by the logic of men. Even their appearance will be foreign because how could I possibly conceive of an abomination that even the gods rejected?

Worse, I don't even know if our marks would matter. I assume they will because the Awakened of the past fought and killed them, but who knows? The one we run into could a unholy fiend immune to illusions, or could shrug off fire, drink lightning like cold water. Gauging what they can and cant do is a fools task.

Elijah walks close, his stride relaxed but his eyes never still. The rest of House Apophis weaves through the woods in the same wary formation. Ayil leads, shield mark ready, with Bragg and Niko on either side.

Elijah slips closer, his voice pitched so only I can hear. "You look like you expect a dragon to drop out of the trees, man."

I smirk, but there's no real humor in it. "Not a dragon.. I keep thinking about things I probably shouldn't."

He grins. "Remember If something jumps out, I'll go invisible and you can be the brave hero while I hide."

"Thanks," I mutter. "Glad to know I'm bait."

We walk on, the muggy warmth pressing in, sweat trickling down my back despite the snow still lingering in the branches overhead. The ground is uneven, roots snaking underfoot, and the air tastes green and sullen. The silence is uncomfortable. Every so often, the path narrows, and we bunch up, shoulders brushing, weapons drawn. Other times, it widens, and we relax a hair, but nobody lets their guard down completely.