Alex stood just outside the main group, his gaze sweeping over the gathered hunters from behind his helmet’s visor. His armor clung to him, a new skin shaped to withstand the weight of war. The armour was a darker shade of metal, segmented plates reinforced with subtle enchantments—covering him completely. A featureless and mane bearing helmet hid his face, leaving only narrow slits for his eyes to see through. He knew the image he presented: distant, inscrutable, and wholly unremarkable in a sea of dangerous people.

  They moved closer to the front, edging through the crowds to glean information from the two leading troops of Heroes and Nobles. A few wiser hunters followed suit, each keen on gaining some knowledge of what the campaign had in store for them.

  None of them knew the full details. No one knew what lay beyond the Frontier, and no one could predict who would return.

  At this stage, gathering information would be key.

  The reached the front of the crowd, and Alex gained a much clearer look as he bypassed the summoned heroes. Unlike the scattered hunters, their group formed a loose but visible boundary between themselves and the rest of the crowd. Surrounded by loosely armoured attendants and handlers, the summoned carried with them the unique air of individuals unaccustomed to blending in—likely powerful, perhaps dangerous, and certainly aware of both.

  They watched the small army of hunters with varying degrees of curiosity or disinterest, but none appeared particularly concerned about the crowd gathered before them.

  If anyone took notice of Alex as he stood silently among the rest, they couldn’t see past his armour and helmet to gauge his mood. No one spared his group more than a glance.

  And that suited him just fine.

  Beside him, Liora shifted her grip on her halberd, her expression tense but focused.

  “You ready?” she asked.

  Alex offered a faint smile. “Always.”

  Finally, they reached the front of the gathering where the gatherings true leadership stood—two tall and pointed-eared nobles, a full head above most others.

  The one on the left had a regal bearing, his long, dark hair tied back neatly, and his armor adorned with intricate designs. His expression was impassive, but his gaze swept over the gathered hunters with cold precision, as though he were assessing the value of each person present.

  The man beside him was shorter but broader, his build more imposing. His armor was less ornate but no less formidable, and his eyes held a predatory tint. He scanned the crowd like a wolf sizing up its prey.

  “They’re not hiding it,” Liora muttered under her breath. “They want everyone to know they’re in charge.”

  Alex’s gaze remained fixed on the two Sanguine. He could feel the weight of their influence pressing against those, a suffocating presence that seemed to make those gathered wall a little straighter, and move a little quicker.

  They’re old. The thought settled in his mind. The way they moved, the way their mana was so dense, so large that it existed outside of their bodies—it spoke of centuries, if not millennia, of accumulated power. It reminded him of Yan Hua.

  Alex knew what they were.

  They weren’t nobles. They were predators.

  Osric shifted uneasily beside him. “Those two… you know who they are?”

  “Sure.” Alex nodded slowly. “The Sanguine. I’ve heard the stories.”

  “Stories, he says,” Osric muttered with disbelief, his voice the lowest it had been since their first meeting. “See that one on the left? That’s Vaylen Dreymoore. First son of House Dreymoore and one of the most dangerous Sanguine among them besides his uncles and their father.”

  “And the other?” Alex asked, his gaze lingering on the shorter stockier man.

  “The king’s great ancestor,” Osric replied grimly. “Faelir Arlen. They say he’s the reason House Dreymoore survived when the Gods fell.”

  Alex watched as the two Sanguine stepped forward, their retainers falling into formation behind them. The assembled hunters fell silent as Vaylen Dreymoore raised a hand, his voice carrying effortlessly across the courtyard.

  “Hunters. Heroes. You stand here today because you are the best of what this city has to offer.” His tone was calm but commanding, each word imbued with the weight of authority. “The frontier calls, and House Dreymoore has answered.”

  Faelir Arlen stepped up beside him, his voice colder and more direct. “You’ve been chosen because you are strong. Skilled. Useful. But make no mistake—this campaign will test you. Many of you will not return.”

  “Your families, however, will be rewarded in your stead.”

  The crowd murmured uneasily, but Faelir continued without pause.

  “Our campaign offers freedom, but it also demands everything in return. Those who survive will be rewarded to a much greater degree. Wealth. Power. Recognition. A thousand gold per week—and more, as you know. But only if you prove yourselves worthy.”

  Alex noted how Faelir’s gaze lingered on certain individuals in the crowd—the more seasoned hunters, the famous ones, and the summoned heroes. He’s already marking them, evaluating who would be assets and who would be liabilities.

  Behind the Sanguine, the summoned heroes remained silent, their expressions undecipherable as stone. They stood like statues, their auras pulsing faintly with contained power.

  “First, we march to the frontier,” Vaylen announced. “Past the grey mountain, past the mistplanes, and blood rivers—Our destination is the ruins of Seratheis.”

  Liora’s eyes widened. “Seratheis? That’s—”

  “An ancient stronghold,” Osric finished for her. “Built by the first God’s followers. It’s been abandoned for centuries. Overrun.”

  Vaylen’s gaze swept over the crowd. “We march in one hour. Prepare yourselves.”

  The Sanguine turned, their retainers following without question. The summoned heroes began to move as well, their steps eerily synchronized, as though they were following an unseen command.

  As the crowd began to disperse, Alex turned to Liora.

  “Seratheis?”

  “It’s a cursed place,” she said quietly. “The king’s grandfather and the head of house Dreymoore have been the only ones to ever survive a campaign there. No one else who’s gone there has ever come back.”

  Alex’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Sounds like the perfect place for us, then.

  Liora shot him a look, half-exasperated, half-amused. “You’re not serious.”

  “Completely.”

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  Liora chuckled with soft disbelief but Alex caught the stiffness in her wrist, how it had twitched as though reaching for a weapon the moment he’d heard the name of their objective.

  She eyed the two pale elf-like men with something akin to disgust. "Vaylen and Faelir. House Dreymoore’s best son and his bodyguard," Liora confirmed. "They must be here to make sure no one steals their prize."

  A few steps ahead, Osric was speaking with a cluster of older hunters, exchanging quiet words. He seemed to know most of them by name, greeting them with nods and brief handshakes. Occasionally, he glanced back toward Alex and Liora, his expression unreadable.

  When Osric returned to their side, he crossed his arms and gave a low grunt. “That lot doesn’t trust the new Assessors.”

  “Why?” Liora asked.

  Osric tilted his head toward the gathered hunters. “They’ve seen this kind of thing before. New and powerful, unheard of assessors acting as champions, sent on the most difficult jobs… always ends the same way. The Crown uses them, the Houses manipulate them, and the rest of us do our damndest to survive the fallout.”

  Alex’s gaze shifted back to the summoned group. He noticed a few familiar faces from the throne room—the young man who had been inspecting the ritual circle, the woman with the molten gold hair, the mechanical figure with constantly shifting plates. Each of them radiated a different kind of power, but there was one thing they all had in common: none of them looked confused or lost anymore. They stood with purpose, their expressions hard and focused.

  A group of pages and retainers moved through the crowd, distributing parchments stamped with the Crown’s seal. Alex accepted one without a word, scanning its contents.

  It was a simple contract—an agreement to serve as part of the campaign in exchange for coin, supplies, and potential rewards based on performance. The terms were vague, but the language made one thing clear: once they crossed into the frontier, there would be no turning back.

  Liora read over his shoulder. “They’re really covering their asses with this, aren’t they?”

  “Standard practice,” Alex guessed, acting as though he belonged in the world. He folded his copy of the parchment and tucked it into his cloak.

  Osric smiled, though there was little mirth in it. “They don’t want anyone crying foul when things go wrong.”

  “When?” Liora asked pointedly.

  Osric’s grin widened. “Oh, it’ll go wrong.” He tucked his signed document in his pocket too, much to the confusion of Alex and Liora.

  “I thought you weren’t coming—hold up— I thought you weren’t even a hunter?” Alex asked quizzically.

  Osric shrugged, his shoulders lifting easily, almost lazy. “Did I say that?” He paused just long enough for the question to linger before continuing. “I might not look it, but the Frontier isn’t much of a mystery to me. Someone’s got to keep you two fledglings breathing.”

  “It’s the money, isn’t it.” Liora said flatly, ignoring his words entirely.

  Osric gave a sly grin in return.

  The group leading the campaign finally stirred. Armoured horses moved to position, carts and metal carriages lined side by side, and pages entering the enchanted vehicles in preparation, depart. Beside them the summoned heroes and their handlers did the same.

  The two crimson-eyed noblemen sat atop horses as oversized men, their frames so large they stood like demigods in their own right, more commanding, more imposing, and more significant than anyone else present.

  The younger one, Vaylen, moved to the rear, his bright red eyes drawing the attention of all and his voice carrying a weight that silenced the bustle of movement. "You were chosen because you are the strongest. The best. Your cities are better for your presence, just as ours will be made better by it. This is not a matter of coercion. It is destiny. We depart now to claim what we have all lost.”

  Almost as one, the entire group moved to leave the gate and head into the wilderness. The hunters marched with the casual diligence of free men— without formations, but for hours, their steps enhanced by very system that guided their wayfarers. They marched ahead of the heroes and armoured nobles, their roles as hired scouts already in play. Some hunters rode on pre-prepared horses while others carried their gear whilst forming loose clusters of muted conversation. There was an energy in the air—not quite excitement, but a charged anticipation. All present were accustomed to danger to varying degrees, and every single one believed they had a chance of returning.

  Alex marched near the frontlines.

  And Osric moved to his side, muttering something under his breath about cursed landscapes and the wrong path. Alex didn’t answer, his focus on the trail ahead and the distance still to cover. Liora kept her eyes forward, her halberd never straying far from her grip.

  Alex adjusted his pace slightly, matching Liora’s stride. His voice cut through the rhythm of their steps. “What’s the Grey Mountain?”

  Liora turned her head toward him, her grip steady on her halberd. “The Grey Mountain is a boundary. It’s said to be where the old kingdoms stopped exploring. Its cliffs are steep, the paths treacherous, and the storms constant. The land beyond it doesn’t follow the rules we know.” She glanced ahead. “No one who ventures beyond comes back unchanged.”

  Alex nodded, his expression hidden beneath the helmet.

  Along the journey, Alex caught glimpses of flora that seemed unnatural. A plant with spindly, translucent fronds folded inward as they passed. He didn’t touch it.

  Liora slowed beside him, glancing toward a cluster of pale, oversized fungi. Their caps glistened faintly, coated in moisture. She didn’t speak, and Alex didn’t ask.

  Further ahead, an animal broke through the underbrush. Its movements were fluid, its frame blending predator and prey. Eyes like polished stone met Alex’s briefly before it vanished into the foliage, leaving nothing but trampled grass in its wake.

  The small army marched until finally, the grey silhouette of a Mountain range began to dominate the horizon, its many peaks fractured and uneven. The moment they crossed a ridge, the Grey Mountain revealed itself fully. Its cliffs stretched endlessly, marked by obscuring clouds and mist.

  ***

  The Bloodslime waited, motionless but aware.

  Its existence was a culmination of death and magic—a construct born of necrotic mana and a vengeful forgotten god. It had no mind… Yet. Only a singular hunger that filled every inch of its core. Corpses of fallen creatures were drawn into its form and bound to its core, forming a grotesque amalgamation of blood, bone, and sinew. With every victim, it grew stronger, more dangerous. Its tendrils, formed of sinew and flesh, moved with unnatural speed, covered with gelatinous liquid and tipped with jagged shards of bone. It was not alive, yet it moved with care and intent, its amorphous form shifting beneath the cover of thick underbrush and its tendrils of sinew stealthily stretching in search for its next victim. It knew no satisfaction. Each kill only strengthened its hunger for what it could become, its core growing denser as its mass expanded with each assimilation.

  The Bloodslime waited in silence beneath the ridge, its grotesque form hidden within a cluster of rocks and twisted roots. It was old—older than the paths that cut through the Grey Mountain’s foothills. The necrotic mana binding its mass had fed on countless creatures over the centuries, drawn by the chaos at the mountain’s edge. It had no memories, no understanding of time, only the knowledge that with every victim, it became more powerful. More of what it was supposed to be.

  Here, at the boundary of the known world, it thrived. The mountain’s storms shielded it, the treacherous terrain funneling prey into its reach. Today, the Bloodslime felt the vibrations of new prey moving closer. The Bloodslime did not think in words, or even images, but if it could, it would have called this place a feast. Its tendrils curled tighter, anticipation rippling through its grotesque form as it waited for the perfect moment to strike.

  ***

  The harpy’s wings sliced through the heavy air, their span wide enough to cast fleeting shadows over the craggy cliffs below. Her crimson feathers bore charred tips, their scorched edges evidence of countless battles fought on this treacherous mountain range. She was larger than most of her flock, her strength evident in the sharpness of her talons and the thick muscle beneath her feathered chest.

  This was her domain. The Grey Mountain belonged to her kind, a brutal sanctuary where survival demanded cunning and strength. Those who faltered here—whether hunter or harpy—were unmade by the chaos of the land.

  She had no concept of numbers, but she knew the concept of ‘many’, for her pack was many; far more than the creatures they would soon hunt.

  Her golden eyes glinted as they locked onto the figures below. Food—yet still living. They were like all the others who crossed the Grey Mountain: fragile, weak, and unaware of the balance they disturbed by venturing in their chosen creature’s territory. Once the creature she had chosen for her pack had begun to kill them, they would feast until not a single bone remained.

  The harpy felt the storm of mana beneath her feathers, the updrafts carrying her higher as she circled above the battle. Her flock mirrored her movements, their formation disciplined and tight. She had ruled them for years, not through words, for her kind had no use for them, but through endurance. Each scar on her body marked a victory. Each feather, torn and regrown endlessly, reaffirmed her dominance.

  Her chosen scavenger creature writhed below, its unconstrained slime body shifting across the landscape. Its presence was familiar. Her flock had been following its path and feasting on its victims from the moment she had drawn her first breath. It was dangerous, yes, to follow such a creature and steal its kills yes… But the creature was predictable. They had learned to help it feed them, rather than become the ones being fed upon themselves.

  If she had any concept of what a pet was, she would have considered the slime creature as one, though it was capable of wiping out her entire flock.

  Her talons flexed mid-flight, the metallic sheen along their edges hidden as her gaze settled on one hunter standing apart from the rest. He held a bow, its string drawn tight, the arrow glowing faintly with power. A threat, but only if she allowed him to strike first.

  She folded her wings inward.

  The wind howled around her as she descended like a blade falling from the sky.

  The feast would soon begin.

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