Chapter 12: The Unseen Force

The next morning, after we received our final assignments and marching orders, King Alpha Phelan rode ahead, his departure swift, barely a shadow on the horizon. The recruits, undeterred, quickly returned to their tasks, preparing for the march north.

Maile, Lykos, and I, along with the entire Special Forces platoons, were assigned to join the veteran warriors under Captain Koyla and First Sergeant Stephi. Their seasoned discipline and unwavering experience were a welcome presence as we readied ourselves for the journey ahead.

The recruits were outfitted with combat weapons, new archery gear, shields emblazoned with the Blood Moon Battalion's coat of arms, and fresh uniforms. Cloaks of thick wool were draped over their shoulders, each one marked with the same insignia, signaling their allegiance to the battalion. The weight of the new requirements and heavier load underscored the dangers that lay ahead on the march north. The cloaks, though practical for warmth, also carried the weight of their commitment—a constant reminder of the vow they had sworn.

The healers, too, were given their distinct cloaks, each bearing the healer's symbol—a circle of intertwined vines encircling a single, blooming flower, marking them as guardians of life amid the carnage. These cloaks, lighter than the warriors' garments but no less significant, were designed to allow swift movement through the chaos of battle, signaling their role and ensuring they were not mistaken for combatants. They, too, bore the Blood Moon Battalion's coat of arms on their chest, ensuring their unity with the rest of the soldiers.

The werewolf Special Forces armor was a perfect blend of practicality and tradition, tailored for warriors who needed to balance ferocity with precision. For the standard infantry, the armor was forged from a mix of reinforced leather and tempered steel. The plates were shaped to allow freedom of movement while etched with ancient runes of protection and strength. Each warrior proudly displayed their insignia across their chest.

The archery squad’s gear was crafted for stealth and long-range combat. Instead of heavy plating, they wore light, durable leather tunics, reinforced with stitching to guard against arrows and claws. The dark tunics helped them blend seamlessly into the shadows of the forest or under the cover of night. Their gloves were made of toughened leather, offering a secure grip on their bows while remaining flexible enough for both ranged and close-quarters combat.

Each archer carried a longbow made from the wood of sacred trees, its strings crafted from the sinew of beasts slain in battle. Their quivers were stocked with a mix of regular arrows and silver-tipped ones—an extra measure against supernatural threats.

Like the infantry, the archers wore sturdy boots designed for speed and silence, allowing them to cross any terrain without a sound. The armor was light enough to permit them to shift between human and wolf form, giving them the advantage of enhanced senses and strength for swift, lethal strikes when close combat was unavoidable.

The scouts, however, were outfitted differently. Their uniforms and armor were tailored specifically for stealth, designed to blend seamlessly with their surroundings. Crafted from dark, weathered leather and enchanted with shadow magic, the scouts’ cloaks and tunics seemed to melt into the environment. The fabrics shimmered with an ethereal quality, allowing them to blend into the shadows of the forest, the rocks, or the night sky.

Their armor, a combination of lightweight leather and finely crafted chain mail, was subtle, offering protection without sacrificing agility or speed.

The scouts' boots were designed to leave no trace, and their hoods, drawn low over their faces, helped obscure their identities even from those who might catch a glimpse. Their weapons—short swords, daggers, and light throwing knives—were silent but deadly, perfect for quick strikes or silent reconnaissance.

Each scout also carried a set of specialized tools: small bags of herbs for tracking, and a selection of magical sigils designed to mask their scent or disrupt enemy detection. Their eyes, sharp as ever, could spot the slightest movement, and their enhanced werewolf senses allowed them to move through enemy lines undetected, delivering information or striking silently from the shadows when the moment was right.

Together, the Special Forces and archery squads formed a deadly, well-rounded unit—each warrior a master of their craft, bound by their loyalty to the Alpha and their shared bond as wolves. The scouts, closely tied to the Special Forces, had proven their worth time and again. Under the command of Rahel and Lykos, they were a force of their own—silent, swift, and deadly, capable of infiltrating enemy lines or gathering intelligence without a trace. Their stealth abilities complemented the brutal strength and precision of the rest of the unit, ensuring the Special Forces could strike with both speed and surprise.

Among the scouts, Riley stood out. Though she had only recently transferred into Rahel's platoon, they had quickly formed a strong bond. Riley’s instincts were sharp, and her ability to move undetected through the wilderness was unparalleled. A silent understanding passed between them, forged through rigorous training and mutual trust. Rahel had come to rely on Riley’s keen senses, knowing that the scout’s watchful eyes would be the first line of defense against any ambush.

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The Alpha’s arrival had marked a shift in their routine. A few days had passed in a blur of inspections and preparations, and now, it was the final night in the barracks. For Rahel and Maile, it seemed almost impossible to grasp how much had changed since their first arrival. The familiar routine was gone, replaced by the weight of the march ahead.

As dawn broke over the camp, the air was thick with anticipation. The warriors moved in silence, each one focused on their role. The sharp clatter of armor, the soft murmur of preparations, and the sound of hooves filled the air as the battalion readied itself.

There was no need for words; the weight of their gear and the energy of the moment spoke volumes. With the final straps tightened and weapons checked, the unit fell into formation, ready for the long march north.

Rahel and Lykos, flanked by their scouts—including Riley—led the march. Riley, ever vigilant, moved at the head of the formation, her sharp eyes scanning the treeline for any sign of movement. Her wolf-like instincts were always on alert, and her silent movements ensured no threat would go unnoticed. The rest of the scouts, blending into the shadows, kept watch from all angles.

Rahel felt Riley’s presence just behind her—her quiet, reassuring gaze a comfort as they advanced. Though their connection was still new, Rahel trusted Riley more with every passing day. The scout had proven herself time and again, becoming a reliable partner Rahel would trust with her life.

The march slowed as the wagons navigated the same narrow stretch of road they had traveled upon their arrival. But as they did, Rahel felt that strange vibration again—an invisible force sweeping over them. This time, it was anything but uneventful.

Without warning, three warriors from different companies screamed in agony, collapsing to the ground, motionless. Their cries shattered the tense silence, and healers rushed to their sides, working furiously to save them, but it was clear they were beyond help.

Rahel’s heart pounded in her chest, and she turned to Riley. The scout was already scanning the area, her eyes narrowed, hands ready to draw a weapon at the first sign of danger.

“We need to be prepared,” Riley said urgently. “This isn’t a natural affliction. We need to find out what caused it.”

The scouts quickly fanned out, their eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of what had triggered the sudden attack. Rahel felt the eyes of the entire unit on her, but she remained frozen, the weight of the moment pressing on her chest. The unease she’d felt earlier deepened. Something was wrong, beyond the natural order of their march.

They pressed on, the march continuing north, but the unease gnawed at Rahel’s thoughts. What had caused this affliction? And what would come next?

For nearly ten days, the Blood Moon Battalion had pushed forward through unfamiliar and unforgiving terrain, with no true rest. Meals were taken on the move—hard tack, dried venison, and coarse bread pulled from satchels and chewed without pause. Water was sipped sparingly from weathered leather skins, each swallow measured, stretched to last until dusk.

The pace was unrelenting. Even the wolves began to falter, their breath hot and ragged. The soldiers fared little better—faces drawn, limbs leaden, eyes dulled by exhaustion. They moved like spent wick-lights: dimmed, but not yet extinguished.

When the order to halt finally came, it passed through the ranks like a silent blessing.

They had reached Velros.

The town stood at a vital crossroads between the southern packs, a stone-built settlement long loyal to King Phelan. Smoke curled from the forges, and timber carts rattled along narrow lanes. The scent of iron and tallow hung heavy in the summer air.

Word of the battalion’s arrival had preceded them. Townsfolk gathered along the square—blacksmiths, herders, traders—watching the soldiers with wary respect. This was no conquering host, but a dust-covered column of worn warriors, marching ghosts drawn from the road.

King Phelan’s influence was strong here, and the local lord, a stout and well-respected man named Lord Fenton, had ensured that the Blood Moon Battalion would be well taken care of during their brief respite.

As the battalion entered the town, the warriors moved in tight formation, eyes scanning the surroundings even as their muscles longed for the release of rest. The mules, weary from the days of marching, were led to a nearby stable where Lord Fenton had arranged for them to be fed and watered, the stables’ owners grumbling good-naturedly but offering service with the swift efficiency borne of years of tending to royal caravans.

Rahel watched as the warriors dismounted, the sharp clink of armor and weapons echoing in the quiet town square. The air was thick with the smell of fresh bread and roasting meat wafting from the nearby tavern, the sound of hammers at the blacksmith’s forge ringing in the background. After days on the road, it felt like a fleeting taste of civilization—a brief moment of normalcy before the march would continue.

"Make sure the mules are fed, and then gather any supplies we need," Sergeant Stephi ordered, her sharp eyes already scanning the town for anything of value. "I’ll speak with Lord Fenton about the costs of lodging. We need to stretch our coin as far as we can."

Rahel nodded, grateful for the brief reprieve. She motioned for Maile and Riley to join her as they set off toward the nearby market. The town square was bustling with activity as vendors hawked fresh produce, cured meats, and various goods. The scent of warm bread and roasting lamb made Rahel’s stomach growl, and she caught Maile’s eyes, both of them silently acknowledging the welcome distraction.

"Let’s make it quick," Maile murmured as they passed a stall piled high with bolts of cloth and bundles of herbs. "We do not know how long the battalion will stay, and we will want to grab what we need while we have the chance."