The wind carried the scent of death.
Kael slowed his horse as he approached the first ruined village. The place had been abandoned for weeks, maybe months, but the memory of violence still clung to it like a specter. Houses lay in heaps of blackened timber, collapsed from fire or deliberate destruction. Fields that once fed families were nothing more than trampled dirt and weeds.
And then there were the bodies.
They hung from the skeletal remains of trees, swaying ever so slightly in the cold mountain air. The ropes creaked, their knots holding firm despite time's passage. Some had rotted down to bone, little more than tattered clothes draped over twisted frames. Others were fresher, their flesh still clinging to their skulls, faces frozen in expressions of terror or agony.
A warning.
Kael remained mounted, scanning the area. He counted at least a dozen corpses strung up along the path leading through the village. This was no random slaughter. It was a message.
Bandits, Nilfgaardian deserters—perhaps both. Someone had done this to ensure fear lingered long after they had moved on.
A crow cawed from one of the rooftops, pecking at the eye socket of a hanging corpse. The sound was the only thing that stirred in the dead village. There were no dogs, no scavengers, no survivors.
Not worth staying.
Kael nudged his horse forward, keeping his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. Every step felt watched, though he saw nothing moving beyond the ruins.
He searched for anything of value—a sign of who had done this, tracks, discarded weapons—but most of the evidence had long since been washed away by time and weather. All that remained were bones and silence.
The second settlement was no better.
A burned-out watchtower stood at the entrance, its stones blackened with soot. The houses had been methodically looted—doors torn from hinges, furniture smashed, supplies taken. The corpses here were left where they had fallen. Some had been executed, lined up and shot with crossbows, their bodies slumped against a ruined wall. Others bore brutal wounds—deep gashes, shattered limbs—suggesting they had fought, but only briefly.
Kael dismounted, stepping over a broken cart as he moved deeper into the ruins. The silence pressed down heavier here. He crouched beside a body, a middle-aged man with a torn tunic and a gash across his stomach. His fingers were curled into claws, as if he had died gripping something.
Kael pried them open.
Dirt. And underneath it… bloodied cloth.
He turned it over in his hands. A sigil had been sewn into the fabric. A wild boar.
The bandits.
The Wild Boars weren't just raiding—they were exterminating. Leaving no survivors, ensuring no one could stand against them. Kael exhaled slowly. His mission had just become clearer.
Kael wasn't done here, he moved carefully through the village, searching for anything the bandits might have left behind. The Wild Boars were reckless in their destruction, but not careless—if they had a pattern, if they had a route, he needed to find it.
Scattered footprints marred the dirt roads, but most were old, blurred by wind and time. Still, there was something—fresh tracks, deeper than the others. He knelt, studying them closely. The weight distribution was uneven. Someone carrying supplies, maybe loot. The imprints were sloppy, dragging.
'Drunk'
Kael followed the trail, moving with purpose. It led beyond the village, weaving into the forest that stretched toward the Mahakam foothills. The ground here was damp, softer, and the tracks became clearer. 'A group had passed through recently—six, maybe seven men'
The scent of smoke drifted through the trees.
Kael crept through the undergrowth, staying low as he approached the clearing ahead. A makeshift camp had been set up near a small brook. Tents were thrown together with stolen sheets and canvas. A fire burned at the center, spitting embers into the night air.
And the men—filthy, armored in mismatched pieces of leather and rusted mail—laughed and drank as if they had no care in the world.
Six of them.
Kael watched from the shadows. These weren't hardened warriors. They were stragglers. Drunk, celebrating their latest raid. One of them, a wiry man with a scar running down his cheek, raised a stolen silver goblet and howled something incoherent before downing its contents. Another tore into a piece of dried meat, barely paying attention as his sword rested against a nearby stump.
Kael exhaled slowly.
One by one, they would die.
The first man never saw him coming.
Kael moved like a shadow, his dagger sliding across the man's throat in a single, practiced motion. A wet gasp, a spurt of blood, and he was gone before the body hit the ground.
The second had only a moment to react—just enough time for confusion to twist his drunken features before Kael drove his steel through his chest, twisting the blade before pulling it free.
By the time the third realized something was wrong, Kael had already slipped behind him, clamping a hand over his mouth before slitting his throat.
The fourth tried to stand, but his knees were weak with drink. He barely managed to reach for his weapon before Kael's sword plunged into his spine, severing his ability to move before he finished the job.
Now only two remained.
The last two men staggered to their feet, eyes darting around in terror as they finally understood what was happening. One reached for his weapon, but Kael was faster. He closed the distance in an instant, striking him in the temple with the pommel of his sword. The bandit crumpled with a dull thud.
The last one turned to flee only for Kael's boot to slam into the back of his knee, sending him crashing to the ground. Before he could scramble away, Kael pressed his blade against his throat.
"Move, and you die."
The man froze, panting, eyes wild with fear.
Kael looked down at them, his expression unreadable. He had questions.
And they were going to answer them.