Ash moved before the bodies cooled.
He didn't know where he was, but every instinct told him to get higher ground, gather intel, and stay out of sight until he had a grip on the terrain.
He cleaned the blood from his blade with a patch of grass, then slipped into the trees, keeping low. Light filtered through the canopy in slow pulses. Not flickering. More like pulses. Like the forest was breathing, the shadows didn't match the sun's angle.
The forest wasn't natural. It was close. Close enough that most wouldn't question it. But Ash wasn't most.
He found a ridge and scaled it. Muscle memory took over. No wasted motion. No second thoughts.
At the top, he scanned the horizon.
Far to the west, a thin trail of smoke curled into the sky.
Civilization. Or at least signs of it.
Ash took out a sharpened stick and scratched a rough map into the dirt. Ridgeline, forest edge, smoke direction. Simple recon grid. He didn't know how long he'd be stuck here, but planning helped. It made the unknown smaller.
He descended on the far side and kept moving. Tracked with care. Listened to the birds. Noted the insects. Watched for anything that didn't match.
It didn't take long to find something off.
A trail. Worn into the grass. Boot prints. Thin-soled, not modern. Drag marks too, like a body or cart. Blood droplets dried to rust-brown smears.
Ash knelt, examined the ground.
Signs of a struggle. Recent. A few hours, maybe less. Whatever happened here didn't end clean.
He followed the trail.
After thirty minutes, he found the remains of a caravan. Wagons turned over. One half-burned. Horse carcasses picked apart. No signs of gunfire. No spent casings. Just gouge marks and torn cloth.
He searched the wagons. No survivors. Just old supplies. Grain, linens, a crate of ceramic jugs. Weapons: spears and short swords. Crude. Worn.
One pack had a symbol stitched in gold thread. A flame over a crescent moon.
Didn't match any nation he knew.
Ash kept one of the short spears and a leather strap. Nothing special, but better than bare hands.
Before leaving, he scanned the treeline again.
The smoke was still rising. Closer now.
He took the long way around. Circled wide. Watched from above.
That's when he saw them.
A cluster of huts. Mud walls, straw roofs, narrow paths. No walls. No defenses.
The village sat in the open, vulnerable. But it wasn't abandoned. People moved through it. Tired, slow, heads down. Farmers, not fighters.
Ash's eyes narrowed.
He wasn't the only one watching it.
On the edge of the trees, half-shadowed by brush, he saw movement. Four figures. Not villagers. Leather armor. Weapons drawn. Their posture wasn't cautious. It was coordinated.
Ash lowered into cover, scanned their formation.
Too loose for a patrol. Too quiet for bandits.
No insignia. No radio gear.
They weren't locals. And they weren't alone.
Ash marked their position, traced a route around the perimeter, and retreated into the woods.
He had seen enough.
This place wasn't right. It felt built, not grown. Familiar in the wrong way.
And the people down there had no idea what was coming.