Lord of the Foresaken

The trees of Feyroot groaned as goblin feet passed beneath them—silent, fast, deliberate.

Moonlight split through the canopy, shining down on twenty armed shapes crawling from the bones of the Hollow. Their eyes glowed faintly—green and hateful. Their blades were jagged, rusted, blooded.

At the front walked Reed and Shia.

Reed wore no armor, only strips of leather and a black cloak. His skin shimmered faintly in the dark, the Bloodcode veins beneath still pulsing from his last transformation. In his hand, a new weapon: a hooked saber stolen from the corpse of the assassin he had devoured.

Shia walked beside him like a shadow with teeth.

Tonight, they would paint the woods with noble blood.

Three patrols guarded the Feyroot border: one at dusk, one at midnight, one at dawn. Shia had memorized the rotation.

"They follow a path that loops by the creek every hour," she said, crouched beside Reed on a ridge above the glade.

"Numbers?"

"Four to six each patrol. Lightly armored. Bow-heavy."

Reed grinned.