CHAPTER 37: CHAPTER 37 — SHADOWS IN THE CRACKS

The outpost slept lightly.

Grim Hollow was never truly silent—there was always the distant hum of generators, the clank of patrol boots on steel grates, the faint whistle of cold northern winds sliding over barricades—but tonight the atmosphere felt... off.

Like a breath held too long.

Like something watching.

And in the dim belly of the supply hall, behind stacked crates of dried ration bars and chemical-preserved grain sacks, a man crouched in silence, his hands steady as he worked.

Larkin Oyesa, a medic, a reserve quartermaster, with quiet and unassuming features was the last man anyone would suspect of treason.

That was why he’d been chosen.

He unrolled the small strip of treated parchment he carried at all times, a thin rectangle that shimmered faintly under the dim lantern light. The moment he whispered, "Ink of dusk," the symbols carved into his palm glowed black, and a shadowy script snaked across the paper.

Not written. But grown from its edges.

His eyes stayed cold as he read the slowly forming words.

—The Great One waits in patience. The outpost must choke. Break their body through the stomach. Feed them hunger. Feed them panic. Death is the final embrace, and only then will their souls soften.—

Larkin inhaled softly.

The Umbral Covenant always used poetic riddles.

But the command was clear.

He slid the coded parchment into the seam between two grain barrels. It would dissolve into dust in thirty seconds. He didn’t need to read more—the message was confirmation. Their moment had come.

He moved with mechanical precision, rising from his crouch and crossing the narrow walkway. One by one he checked four sealed metal containers along the storage wall.

Inside each lay a thin glass ampoule.

A single crack of those vials into the water purification tank would send a fungal bloom through the entire food system—nothing immediate, just a slow rot hidden under clean surfaces. The Republic’s food supplies, already rationed tightly during pre-campaign preparations, would spoil from the inside out.

Not poison.

Just corruption.

A kind the scanners wouldn’t detect until it was far too late.

The Covenant didn’t want a quick death.

They wanted hunger.

Fear.

Desperation.

They wanted Grim Hollow Outpost to experience the same "softening" they believed prepared souls for "The Great One’s return."

Larkin paused as footsteps echoed above. The floor vibrated faintly.

A night guard?

Was it a shift turnover?

No—too light.

Too quick.

Probably some new fledgling running errands. He had nothing to fear. No one questioned him when he walked with charts and medical crates in hand. Nights were when outposts trusted their routine most.

He listened and heard the steps fade.

He exhaled, reached for the first ampoule—

A whisper hissed in the back of his mind.

—Death liberates. Death reshapes. Death returns them to the One.—

He repeated the words quietly, as though it were a prayer.

He cracked the first ampoule.

A faint plume of dark mist drifted toward the water line.

Only four more to go.

Once done, the outpost would fall into chaos within days. And the northern campaign—critical to suppressing Shroud expansion—would grind to a halt. Grim Hollow fed four forward bases, three scout platoons, and two strategic laboratories.

Starvation would unravel everything.

And the Covenant would watch from the shadows as the Republic collapsed like a dying beast eating its own tail.

Larkin’s smile was thin and hollow as he reached for the next ampoule.

The Great One would be pleased.

Bright Morgan didn’t know any of this.

What he did know was that the night felt wrong.

As the only one in the whole outpost with a rare core ability like danger sense, his value as a scout in this ludicrous world they were in was tremendous, but he had learnt not to trust the danger sense ability too much because it was a bit abstract in its use. What constitutes danger to him could be different for anyone else as he had learnt.

But he knew everything felt wrong today.

He couldn’t explain it—not to Duncan, not to Hailen at the yard , not even to himself.

But after Initiation, his senses were... awake.

Fine-tuned.

It was a common thing for abilities to improve when advancements were made becoming tailor made for the user, but this wasn’t just a regular feeling.

Every sound stretched farther. Every scent carried information. The faint hum of the outpost generator vibrated like a heartbeat. The shift in the wind carried hints of metal, oil, cold—normal.

But underneath...

Something rancid.

Like fear before it had a target.

He walked the corridor silently, hands tucked behind his back. The lamps flickered softly overhead as if reacting to a passing presence.

When he reached the main yard, he looked up.

The moon hung pale and thin, like a blade cutting through fog.

Bright frowned.

Something was wrong with the night.

He didn’t yet know how right he was.

Morning revealed the first thread of unraveling.

The kitchen staff screamed.

The food purification unit hissed and belched foul vapors, its filters corroded black. The storage crates emitted a sickening smell. By noon the investigation team had confirmed the worst—the entire food supply had been compromised.

Grain, bars, canned goods, medical nutrient packs.

All gone.

Around midday, officers shouted in the main hall.

"—Two weeks of planned reserves destroyed!"

"—We cannot feed the front line!"

"—The northern campaign must be paused!"

"—Paused? We’ll lose positions! The tier cracks won’t wait politely!"

Bright stood near the back of the gathering fledglings, listening, confused.

He whispered to Duncan, "Why would a Shroud monster target food?"

Duncan shut his eyes. "It wasn’t monsters. This is sabotage."

"By who?"

No one answered.

By evening, rumors bloomed like rot.

The outpost was compromised.

A spy.

A traitor.

A hidden enemy.

The term repeated itself in hushed voices:

"It’s probably the damn Covenant."

Bright had never heard that name before.

Wasn’t the Republic always talking about unity? That every civilian back home supported the war? That monsters were the only enemy?

Why hadn’t they mentioned a cult?

Why hadn’t they told the people danger came from humans too?

Bright’s chest tightened.

The propaganda fed to the public...

It was fake.

Incomplete.

Blatantly manipulated.

He sat that night staring at the dark horizon.

If the Republic lied about this...

What else did they lie about?

The world felt different now.

Not because of his new senses.

But because something in his reality had cracked.