The Path to Ingunde

They made excellent progress in the first hours of their descent, slipping through narrow mountain passes and dense forest trails with the practised silence of seasoned raiders. The late afternoon sun rode low in the sky, casting golden rays that filtered through the canopy, dappling the ground in mottled shadows. Grashok moved on foot with the vanguard, his stride steady though he occasionally missed the familiar, lumbering presence of his yzobu, which was travelling, accompanied by Tilda, with the second wave a few hours behind, burdened with supplies and heavier arms. Spirits were focused, the pace brisk—until the scouts signalled from the ridgeline.

Trouble.

Grashok was at the scouts’ side in moments, ducking low beneath a pine bough to survey the clearing below. Two figures stood idle near the winding trail, just beyond the treeline—humans, by their stance and attire. One, broad-shouldered and clad in polished plate, rested a glaive across his back like a mere ornament. The other, draped in ember-red robes, idly tapped a wand against a gloved palm, as if bored rather than vigilant. They spoke no words. They didn’t need to.

“They’re high-level,” Sylrith murmured, her voice tight with unease. “And they’re sitting directly in our line of advance.”

Grashok’s jaw tightened. If these two were the vanguard for a larger adventuring party, the entire operation could be compromised. But even if they weren’t, their presence posed a threat far beyond the moment—the second force, following behind in the deepening dusk, might stumble across them unaware. That would be a disaster. They couldn’t risk these enemies remaining at their back, not with Snippa still captive ahead.

But something was off.

“They’re not on guard,” Nyxie observed, brows furrowed. “No wards. No detection magic. Just… waiting.”

“Arrogant,” Sylrith murmured, her hand on her curved blade. “Or they’re bait.”

“Either way,” Grashok growled, drawing his sword with a slow rasp, “they die. Quick. Clean. No noise.”

The ambush was swift. Grashok led from the front, charging through the undergrowth like a boulder loosed from a mountaintop. His lieutenants fanned out in support, Nyxie already muttering an incantation, Sylrith flanking through shadow.

The first adventurer barely had time to turn before Grashok’s blade drove up beneath the rim of his breastplate, punching through the softer mail and into his ribs. Bone cracked. The warrior collapsed with a grunt, eyes wide in shock, the life already gone from them.

The second spun, wand raised—but too late. A flash of green light from Nyxie’s spell struck first, twisting his footing, and Sylrith’s blades followed a breath later, piercing his side in perfect unison. He choked, dropped his wand, and crumpled silently to the ground.

Grashok stepped back, panting. It had been too easy.

And then… it began.

The flesh of the fallen shimmered.

Muscle twisted. Limbs shrivelled. Hair dropped away in clumps. The tall, imposing forms of the adventurers warped and contracted with sickening pops and crunches. Their gear—gilded armour and expensive robes—peeled away like wet bark, revealing matted fur and ragged claws.

They weren’t human. Not any more.

In moments, where two heroes had lain, now slouched the twisted corpses of Ratkin—distorted, pale, and eyeless. A faint green mist coiled from their mouths before they collapsed further into themselves, dissolving into greasy, dark vapour.

And then—nothing but silence.

A pair of loot sacks clinked softly on the ground where the bodies had been, mundane and unremarkable.

Nobody spoke.

Nyxie took a step forward and crouched, examining the nearest sack. “This… this is like the Ratkin loot bags we find after raids.”

Grashok's voice was low. “They weren’t real adventurers. They were made to look like them. Magically. Or worse—some kind of body-snatching trick.”

Sylrith’s face was unreadable. “They were testing us.”

Grashok sheathed his blade with a hiss of metal. “Or they’re already playing games. With our heads. Trying to make us doubt our eyes. This wasn’t just coincidence.”

He looked over the group. All of them were tense. Shaken—not by the battle, but by the grotesque transformation that followed. The world suddenly felt thinner. Less real. Like something unseen was watching from just behind the trees.

Nyxie was the only one not bristling with unease. While the others glanced at the tree line or stared at the warped remains now vanished into vapour, she crouched down near the blackened ground and rubbed a finger through the ash-like residue left behind. Her brow furrowed, lips pursed—not in horror, but in thought.

Grashok watched her in silence. The others waited too, picking up on his cue. There was a tightness in the air, like a rope drawn taut. The echo of something unnatural still hummed in the back of everyone’s minds. And yet, Nyxie remained focused. Measuring. Calculating. Finally, she stood, brushing her hands on her short tartan kilt. Her white stockings were streaked with ash near the knees, and her black knee-high boots gleamed faintly in the fading light.

“This was magic,” she said plainly, looking around at them all. “But not the sort of spell you toss from a scroll or a wand. This was ritual magic—heavy, invasive, and with a range cap.”

Grashok stepped toward her. “How close?”

“No more than ten miles,” she replied. “Could be less, but not more. The illusion would begin to break if the caster moved further away. Which means—” she tapped a finger against her temple, “—we can find them.”

A wiry goblin scout stepped forward from the rear of the group, soot smudged across his cheek and the fingers of his gloves dark from charcoal and dirt. His eyes gleamed with a quick sort of intelligence.

“It’d need to be somewhere we haven’t passed through,” he offered, already unrolling a small parchment map from a leather satchel. “Nothing on the slopes behind us—clean and scouted. That puts it south. The river narrows the possibilities.”

Grashok and Nyxie bent over the map, others crowding in to peer. By torchlight, the scout’s finger traced a crescent shape through the forests and low hills to the south of Ingunde.

“There,” he said, tapping near a stone outcrop marked on the edge of the inked hills. “There’s a ruined watchtower. Not much left but stone and shadow. We avoid it usually, because it’s easy to get hemmed in.”

“Which would make it a perfect place to hide a ritual,” Nyxie added. “Secluded, defensible. And you said they’re rushing their territory gains? Well—this isn’t some haphazard enchantment. This would’ve taken preparation. Probably been running for weeks.”

Grashok’s brow furrowed as he glanced south. “Why not just move on once the spell was cast?”

Nyxie shook her head. “This isn’t a one-time glamour. It’s a tether. Constant. Like holding a thousand puppet strings. The bodies we saw weren’t just illusions. They were full transfigurations. This ritual has to be kept active or they all revert.”

Sylrith’s eyes widened. “Which means…?”

Nyxie turned to them all. “Think about that range—ten miles at most.” She tapped the map with the back of her knuckle. “Now look here. Ingunde is six miles from this spot. Six. That means whoever’s maintaining this ritual is close enough to blanket the entire town in these transformations without strain.”

A ripple of unease passed through the group.

“And now,” she continued, her voice tightening, “think of what Elenara told us. The strange adventurers around Ingunde. The ones behaving oddly. The ones who didn’t fit. They must be Ratkin—or slaves reshaped to look like adventurers. They’re infiltrating the town. Slowly. Patiently. And if we end the ritual…”

“They turn,” Grashok said, catching on. “And chaos follows.”

“Exactly,” Nyxie replied with a grim nod. “They’ll be exposed. Their cover blown. It might even tear apart the factions Jorun’s relying on. We can use the confusion to strike.”

Grashok didn’t like altering his strategy mid-operation, but even he could see the potential. With panic in the streets and Ratkin revealed, fewer guards would remain at the slavers’ stronghold. Fewer eyes watching the shadows.

He stared at the map a long moment. The decision burned in his chest. But finally, he nodded.

“Take a strike force,” he said to Nyxie, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Move fast. Be ruthless. Wipe them out.”

Nyxie’s face broke into a slow, wicked smile. “Gladly.”

The wiry scout gave a sharp goblin grin, already signalling others to gather.

Grashok turned to Sylrith. “You stay with me. The rescue remains our priority.”

Then he looked back to Nyxie, his voice low but firm. “We’ll stop at the old grain store on the northern edge. It’s high enough to see from the town. When its done, light a signal. A fire, something bright. We’ll take that as the cue to launch the raid.”

Nyxie gave a curt nod, eyes gleaming. “You’ll see it. And when you do, you’ll know they’re already screaming.”

Before they separated, Nyxie stepped close, pulled Grashok down by the neck of his armour, and kissed him fiercely, uncaring of the watching goblins or the bloodstained clearing. When they parted, her hand lingered at his chest.

“You better still be alive when I get back,” she said softly.

“I will,” he murmured. “You too. Don’t take chances.”

Sylrith stepped up next, embracing Nyxie with a hug and a warm smile. “First independent command,” she said, mock solemn. “Try not to mess it up.”

Nyxie snorted and turned, striding toward the trees, heading south into the thickening dusk toward the tower and whatever foulness waited within.

Grashok watched the undergrowth swallow Nyxie’s retreating form until even the glint of her pale stockings vanished among the trees. The last of the soldiers assigned to her peeled away in disciplined silence, and then only the wind remained, rustling through pine and bramble like an old breath.

He turned, jaw tightening. Time was running out.

They were fewer now, but what remained of his hand-picked force were veterans—hardened raiders, scouts, and warriors whose skills had been forged in blood and fire. They understood the gravity of what lay ahead. They didn’t need speeches.

The forest ahead stretched like a sleeping beast, dark limbs of oak and alder curling overhead, obscuring what little remained of the sun’s dying light. They moved with purpose, threading through game trails and half‑forgotten smugglers’ tracks, never once breaking the rhythm of their march. Grashok led from the front, his bulk offset by unnerving grace. He carried his sword slung over one shoulder, its black edge catching the orange flicker of twilight.

The further they pressed, the more the land changed. Here, the forest grew quieter. Shadows clung closer to the roots. The birds had stopped singing.

Scouts ranged out in fan formation, slipping between trees with bows notched and eyes sharp. When they returned, they reported signs—boot prints too fresh, cut foliage too clean. Enemy patrols had moved through here recently, but none remained. Perhaps withdrawn to shore up the town’s defences. Or perhaps something else.

Another hour passed before the woods began to thin. Grashok raised a closed fist, and the line halted. Before them, the treeline opened into low grass and patches of reedy thistle. In the distance, squatting like an old, one-eyed sentinel, loomed the silhouette of the abandoned grain silo. Its roof sagged in places, wooden slats missing like broken teeth, but it stood.

They reached it in silence, slipping between crumbling stone walls and the remnants of its long-forgotten storage sheds. No light came from the town yet, but Grashok could see the faint outline of Ingunde's patchwork sprawl—its battered palisade cutting jagged lines against the bruised sky, watch fires just beginning to flicker into life.

Grashok led them up the rickety side ladder himself. The wood groaned under his weight, but held. One by one, his remaining troops followed, spreading out along the grain silo’s sloped roof with careful steps, staying low behind its raised ledges. Below them, the last light of the setting sun stretched across the rooftops, leaving the town half in gold, half in gathering shadow. From here, they could see nearly everything.

Ingunde lay quiet beneath them, its streets lit in uneven patches. Flickers of motion moved in its streets—torches, figures on patrol, the sound of distant shouting that didn’t quite carry. Lantern‑light spilled from shuttered windows in thin bars, stretching across cobbled lanes and catching on the edges of wagons and market stalls left out for the night. Smoke drifted from a handful of chimneys, rising straight in the still air. Beyond the clustered rooftops, the town’s outer edge dissolved into darkness.

His eyes slid back to the crumbling palisade. There—along the northern quadrant, not far from a cluster of disused livestock pens—lay the breach. A wound in the wall, half‑concealed by a leaning timber cart and overgrowth, narrow enough for a single goblin to slip through low. It had been reported by scouts days ago, and from this distance he could confirm it hadn’t been repaired. No guards lingered nearby, and no torches lit the place. It was, for now, an overlooked flaw in the town’s defences.

Grashok fixed on it like a wolf, predatory and intent.

“It’ll do,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone. “Tight, but better than the gates.”

The ground between the grain silo and the breach was flat, open in places, but broken enough with low hedges, ditches, and abandoned tools to offer cover. If they timed it right—Once Nyxie’s diversion had done its work—they could be inside before anyone knew where to look.

He let his gaze drift beyond the town, past the walls, past the patchwork farmland, all the way to the forested hills far to the south.

There, hidden among those dark ridges, Nyxie would be making her move.

He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. The night was coming, and with it—the strike.