CHAPTER 212: BLOOD ON THE RED HILLS

A hoarse cry rang out. Zirel. His containment strategy had reached its limits. The massive beast, wounded and enraged, had managed to land a swipe that tore through his shoulder armor, leaving a gaping, bloody gash. He staggered back, sword still raised, but his movements had lost their fluidity. The beast advanced, drooling, smelling the blood.

Elisa, freed from the ravine, saw the scene unfold. The distance was too great for her to physically intervene. Her survival instinct and the urge to protect Zirel screamed within her. Her free hand stretched out almost of its own accord, fingers curling as if to seize something in the air. An invisible wave of power shimmered around her, ready to burst forth, to crush the beast, to grind it to dust. Her stigmas glowed intensely, a golden halo visible even beneath the dust.

"Elisa!" Maggie’s voice—hoarse but sharp—struck her like a whip. Maggie had gotten back to her feet, dagger in hand, running toward Zirel, ignoring her own pain.

Elisa shut her eyes for a fraction of a second. The energy poised to explode recoiled violently, sucked back inside her. The light in her stigmas went out. She bit her lip until it bled. No. Not yet. She grabbed her spear, still lodged in the beast’s flesh, wrenched it free with effort, and charged toward the fray.

Maggie reached the beast before Elisa. Ignoring its size, she dove under a claw swipe and drove her dagger into the back of its hind leg, where the hide was thinner. The beast jolted, distracted from Zirel. That was the opening he had been waiting for. Despite his wound, he gathered his strength and launched a perfect thrust. The blade slid between two ribs, seeking the heart. The beast stiffened, a gargle escaping its maw, then collapsed heavily.

Silence fell as suddenly as the fight had begun. Heavy, suffocating, broken only by the dying groans of a wounded beast quickly finished off by a soldier, and the ragged breathing of the fighters.

The Awakened still stood. Maggie, covered in red dust and black blood, massaged her numb arm, her dagger still clenched in the other hand. Her halberd remained buried in her beast’s corpse. Zirel, pale, one hand pressed against his shoulder wound, the other still gripping his bloodstained sword. Elisa, arriving last, halted with her spear lowered toward the ground, gaze moving from Zirel to Maggie. Her wrist throbbed, but the sharpest pain was inside—frustration at holding back her power, mingled with fear of having nearly revealed it. Her heart pounded, not from exertion, but from the inner struggle.

Around them, the regular soldiers looked on with a mix of terror and awe. Their shields were scratched, a few spears broken, but their line had held. The five hundred had witnessed the deadly dance of the Awakened. They had seen Maggie pin a beast to the ground, Zirel flirt with death, Elisa hold a choke point alone. They had not seen the repressed energy, the refused power.

Zirel spat a bit of blood—the blow had probably hit harder than he let on. "Tonar’s gonna curse me for the armor," he growled, a forced grin tugging at his lips. At last he lowered his sword, his arm trembling slightly. "Other than that, you good?"

Maggie nodded toward her halberd. "Operational. Left arm numb. Nothing broken." She walked to her weapon, planted a foot on the still-warm corpse, and yanked. The halberd came free with a sickening wet sound.

Elisa shook her head, avoiding his gaze. "Sprained wrist. Nothing serious." Her voice was neutral, too controlled. She inspected her spear’s shaft, wiping blood off with her sleeve.

"Good." Zirel cast a sweeping glance around. The hills were silent, but the smell of fresh blood and death hung heavy. "They’ll come back. Smell this. Or worse." He pointed to his wound. "One of you, patch me up. Now we move. We’ve wasted too much time." His eyes flicked from the dead beast he’d slain to Elisa. There was a question there—perhaps an intuition about the speed of her intervention, or her sudden pallor. But he said nothing. This was no place for questions. Not now.

The soldiers moved quickly. A field medic rushed to Zirel with a kit. Maggie hefted her halberd, testing its weight and balance. Elisa looked down at her trembling hand, gripping the spear’s shaft until her knuckles whitened, cursing silently at her restraint—and the vulnerability it imposed.

The war’s rumble in the north felt closer than ever. Blood had been spilled. The red earth would demand more. They resumed their march, leaving the carcasses behind after harvesting their gems, a bloody warning to whatever predator dared challenge them next: they would share the same fate.

The group moved on, but their initial momentum had shifted into a tense advance, each step a wager against the unseen. The red-dirt hills loomed higher, more oppressive, and every hollow or boulder was suspect. The acrid scent of the corpses behind them slowly faded, replaced by the older smells of hot dust and dry vegetation.

The regular soldiers kept a wary distance from the Awakened, as if proximity alone might burn them. Some whispered, wondering how many of them would still be alive at the next stop. Their shields formed an uneven wall, but many eyes stayed fixed on the backs of Maggie, Zirel, or Elisa, as if trying to draw from their presence some scrap of the courage they knew they lacked.

Maggie, leading on the left flank, felt the eyes on her, but paid them no mind. She swung her halberd over her shoulder, its blade still black-stained. Her breathing had steadied, but her left arm remained numb. She tested her grip in secret, clenching and unclenching her fingers. The pain would come later—she knew it. For now, she needed every muscle.

Zirel pushed forward at the front, his hand bandaged at the shoulder. The medic had tied it tight enough to slow the bleeding, but not enough to hinder his sword arm. His face bore that focused look that meant he was listening only to what the earth and air were willing to tell him. Every scrape of stone, every shift in the wind passed through his eyes.

Elisa, on the right flank, had slowed her pace to ensure the shield line behind her didn’t fray. Her spear, spotless after cleaning, slid easily in her grip, though her wrist protested each motion. She hid it, forcing her body to obey. The pain wasn’t what worried her—it was the other burn, buried beneath her skin: the sensation of her restrained power still humming, like a storm trapped behind clouds.

A short whistle cut through the ranks. Zirel raised his fist. Everyone froze. The soldiers stood still, eyes fixed on the ground ahead.

Fifty meters away, a ring of jagged rocks formed a strange mineral clearing. No wind. No sound. Even the dust seemed suspended in the air.

"Trap," said Zirel. His voice carried no farther than needed, but it sliced through the whispers.

Maggie stepped forward a couple of paces, scanning the gaps between the stones. "Or a choke point... and we’re not the first through here."

She nodded toward bone shards bleached by the sun, scattered near an opening between two monoliths. Too clean. Too fresh.

The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. The stone circle seemed to watch them—patient, almost hungry.

Zirel met Maggie’s eyes, then Elisa’s. "We go in. Tight formation. If it closes, we cut our way out."

He lifted his sword, and the group stepped into the shadow of the stones.