Pressed flat behind the moss-covered log, the low, invasive hum of the strange crystalline device vibrating through the earth into his bones, Lunrik felt a chill colder than the night air seep into him. These weren't Ashfang. They weren't any faction he recognized from Alaric's extensive, if now fragmented, knowledge of Lykandra and its immediate neighbors. Their sleek, dark uniforms were unfamiliar, their equipment unlike anything commonly seen on the continent, and their clipped, emotionless speech hinted at a disciplined, possibly foreign, origin. Organic signatures detected… Field calibration… What were they doing out here?
Kaelith lay beside him, utterly still, her breathing shallow and controlled. He could feel the tension radiating from her, the focused alertness of a predator assessing a new, unknown threat. Her eyes, catching a faint glimmer of the pulsing blue light from the clearing, were narrowed, scanning the figures below, counting them, analyzing their movements.
There were five individuals visible near the device. Four seemed to be technicians or guards, moving with practiced efficiency. The fifth, the one with the handheld scanner, appeared to be the leader, directing the calibration process. The blue light pulsed, casting eerie shadows, making the surrounding forest feel alien and hostile. Lunrik risked raising his head slightly, trying to get a better look at their insignia, their faces, anything that might offer a clue to their identity. But the uniforms were dark, featureless in the dim light, and their faces were obscured by close-fitting hoods or helmets.
The leader spoke again, his voice carrying clearly in the unnaturally quiet woods. "Calibration nearing optimal resonance. Prepare primary sweep sequence, targeting designated anomaly signatures."
Anomaly signatures? Lunrik frowned. What anomalies were they searching for out here? Dragons? Magical hotspots? Or… something else? His hand instinctively touched the spot beneath his tunic where the Heir's Stigma pulsed faintly, a cold dread snaking down his spine. Could they be the anomaly? Beings marked by the curse?
The central crystal pulsed brighter, the hum intensifying to a near-painful level. Lunrik felt a strange pressure build behind his eyes, a disorienting static interfering with his heightened werewolf senses. Kaelith grimaced beside him, pressing a hand briefly to her temple. Whatever this device did, it wasn't pleasant, even at this distance.
Suddenly, the leader with the scanner stiffened, raising the device again, pointing it not towards the woods, but south, further down the path Lunrik and Kaelith intended to take. The device emitted a series of rapid, high-pitched beeps.
"Confirmed," the leader announced, his tone devoid of emotion but holding a new focus. "Class Three Werewolf signature detected. High stress markers. Moving erratically, south by southeast. Approximately three klicks distance. Match probability for Target Designation 'Frostmane': Eighty-seven percent."
Eryndor. They were tracking Eryndor with this technology. And they knew precisely where he was, his condition, even assigning him a target designation. This wasn't some random survey; it was a targeted hunt, using methods far beyond Ashfang capabilities.
Who were these people? Why were they hunting an heir to Lykandra's throne? Were they allied with Kaedor? Hired mercenaries? Or a third party entirely, with their own inscrutable agenda? Alaric's ghost offered no answers, only frantic threat assessments. This complicated the situation immensely. They weren't just racing Ashfang hunters to find Eryndor anymore; they were contending with this technologically advanced, unknown faction as well.
"Deploy capture unit," the leader ordered calmly. Two of the technicians detached from the main device, producing sleek, rifle-like implements Lunrik hadn't noticed before. They weren't crossbows; they hummed faintly with contained energy. "Non-lethal protocol for primary target. Secondary organic signatures, if hostile… discretionary."
The two technicians nodded curtly and melted into the woods, heading south by southeast with unnerving speed and silence, clearly skilled trackers despite their technological reliance.
Lunrik's mind raced. They were going after Eryndor now. The eighty-seven percent probability meant they were confident. The "capture unit" with non-lethal settings suggested they wanted him alive, just like Kaedor reportedly did, but perhaps for different reasons. The casual "discretionary" order regarding other potential hostiles meant he and Kaelith were in extreme danger if discovered.
He had to decide, instantly. Intervene? Follow the capture team? Retreat and warn Ronan (a futile gesture, likely)? Staying hidden felt safest, but it meant abandoning Eryndor to this unknown, technologically superior force. Trying to interfere directly risked revealing themselves to enemies who could apparently track werewolves with pinpoint accuracy and possessed unknown energy weapons.
He looked at Kaelith. Her eyes met his, reflecting the same urgent dilemma. Her jaw was set, her hand tight on her bow. Leaving someone – even a frightened Frostmane heir – to be hunted by such cold, efficient predators chafed against her Dravenwolf instincts as much as leaving Finn had earlier. But she also recognized the overwhelming tactical disadvantage.
Before either could articulate a plan, the leader spoke again, directing the remaining two technicians at the central device. "Primary sweep initiated. Monitor energy fluctuations. Log all residual Banehallow-spectrum emissions."
Banehallow-spectrum emissions. The words struck Lunrik like ice water. They weren't just tracking werewolves; they were specifically scanning for something related to his bloodline, to the curse itself. How? Did their technology detect the specific magical taint left by Moriveth's curse? Or the unique energy signature of Fenrivar's corrupted blessing? This suggested a level of understanding, a focused purpose, far beyond mere political opportunism or mercenary work. These people knew about the curse. They were actively seeking it, or those bearing it. Were they allies of Moriveth's lineage from Solaris? Enemies of Fenrivar? Researchers studying the anomaly? The implications were staggering and terrifying.
The blue crystal pulsed with maximum intensity now. The air grew thick, heavy, making it difficult to breathe. Lunrik felt the Stigma on his hand throb, a dull, sympathetic ache resonating with the device's energy field. He gritted his teeth against the discomfort, against the rising panic. They needed to move, get away from this device's influence, but where?
Suddenly, the leader's scanner beeped again, this time wildly, erratically. He frowned, looking down at the readings. "Anomaly… multiple overlapping signatures detected… proximity alert… Sector Delta?" He looked up sharply, sweeping the scanner directly towards the log where Lunrik and Kaelith hid.
They knew. The device, whatever it was, had finally pinpointed them, perhaps sensing the Stigma's resonance under the sweep's intense field.
"Hostile signatures confirmed!" the leader snapped, raising his own sidearm – a smaller version of the energy rifles. "Engage!"
There was no time for stealth, no time for planning. Kaelith reacted with pure instinct, rising from behind the log, loosing an arrow even as she moved. Her target wasn't the leader, but the humming crystal device itself.
The arrow, tipped with sharp obsidian, struck the complex crystalline structure dead center. It didn't shatter it – the crystal was likely incredibly durable – but the impact produced a jarring crack and a shower of blue sparks. The intense hum wavered, stuttered. The oppressive energy field flickered violently.
"Damage to the array!" one of the technicians yelled in alarm.
The leader fired his energy weapon. Not an arrow, not a bolt, but a lance of crackling blue energy ripped through the air where Kaelith had been a second before she dove sideways. It struck the log, sending splinters flying, charring the wood black instantly with a sickening hiss.
Lunrik used the momentary chaos. He surged up, pickaxe head hefted, not charging the leader but sprinting laterally along the ridge, drawing fire, giving Kaelith room to maneuver. Another energy blast sizzled past him, disturbingly close.
"Fall back!" Kaelith yelled, already moving, disappearing into the deeper shadows further down the ridge line, away from the clearing. "Towards the southern track! Lose them!"
Lunrik needed no second urging. He broke into a desperate sprint, plunging back into the relative darkness of the forest, ignoring the scrape of branches against his face, the burn in his lungs. Behind them, he heard the leader shouting orders, the remaining technicians likely giving chase, the damaged device perhaps hindering their long-range tracking momentarily.
They ran blindly through the night woods, driven by pure adrenaline, the ominous blue pulse of the strange device fading behind them but leaving chilling questions in its wake. Who were these people? What was their connection to the Banehallow curse? And were they now hunting Lunrik and Kaelith as actively as they hunted Eryndor? The tracks of tyranny in these woods belonged not just to Kaedor's brutes, but to a colder, more calculated predator with unknowable aims. Their flight south had become infinitely more complicated, infinitely more deadly.