The Witch's Hollow did not welcome them.
It swallowed them.
A fog like ghost-breath clung to the twisted roots, coiling low and thick around the ankles, hiding even the familiar from view. Trees leaned in like old eavesdroppers, their bark damp with rot and secrets. The swamp reeked of stagnant water, half-decayed leaves, and something sourer—alchemical, faintly metallic.
"Mask," Roa ordered.
Cloth, pre-dusted with charcoal and dried herbs, was tied around faces. It was a trick passed down from the Ash veterans, cheap protection from both poison spores and fear.
"In position. Forward."
Three squads moved into formation.
Team One, Vanguard, five of the hardiest combatants, stepped ahead with practiced grit. Their crossbows were loaded but lowered, spears braced loosely in palms. Every few paces, one of them would prod the mud with a walking stick or blade, scanning for tension lines, trip hooks, or sunken spikes.
"Check that root bundle," one murmured.
"Already did. Hollow—nasty if something's nesting though."
Team Two, Flankers, melted into the trees to the right and left, shadows in motion. Two combatants and three handlers moved like they weren't there at all—eyes darting, steps careful. Each one held netting, short swords, or daggers coated in oil to avoid sticking. The handlers kept whisper-silent, one holding a chalk-scribed Codex scroll in a scrollbox just in case.
Team Three, Support, stayed low behind the Vanguard. Four auxiliaries with rope, cuffs, metal clamps, and long sticks. One had a shovel slung over their shoulder. Another carried pouches of salves, herbs, and chalk-charcoal dust. They were twitchy—newer recruits, less certain of what "safe" even looked like out here.
Progress was slow. Purposeful. Every five minutes, they stopped. Checked roots. Listened.
The Hollow had its own sound.
Not birds. Not insects. Just soft creaks—like wet wood shifting under invisible weight. And the occasional drip—always far off, always in the wrong direction.
"Roa," whispered one of the flankers through the comm bead. "Movement. Left tree cluster. Something heavy."
"Position?" she asked.
"Between second ridge and root pile. Big."
The words had barely left her mouth when the rustling began. First like wind through branches. Then louder. A wet, sloshing churn of steps too large for any human. Something heavy stomped its way out from behind a mound of hanging vines, the marshwater parting like a curtain.
"Gorefen," muttered Roa, her voice clipped. "Strider. Juvenile. Collared."
The creature burst through the mist like a drunk storm. Taller than a man, its arms hung like half-filled sacks of meat, and barnacle-covered skin glistened with swamp ooze. Its legs, thick as mangrove trunks, churned the ground with every step. Its bloated torso squelched with every breath. At its neck: a collar—stained and slightly cracked, blinking faint red.
"Juvenile, but angry," Roa muttered.
The Vanguard moved immediately.
"Bait it. Crossbows—legs only. Spearmen, form V."
A bolt loosed with a twang, striking the creature's thick thigh. The Strider roared, black muck spilling from its open mouth as it barreled forward, predictable in its fury. The Vanguard stepped back in staggered formation, guiding it into a narrow funnel of firmer ground surrounded by mud and low roots.
Another bolt struck. Then another.
The creature charged.
Mud flew.
Spearmen pivoted and stabbed—not to kill, but to turn. One hooked its leg mid-stomp, twisting it just enough that it staggered to the left.
Flankers moved.
Silent netting looped around the creature's ankles—two ropes launched in tandem, another tossed like a snare from a tree branch above. One handler jumped down after anchoring the trap, pulling hard. The beast stumbled. Its legs buckled.
It didn't fall. Yet.
The Support Team rushed in.
One drove a stick hard into a pit previously dug shallow and disguised by brush—just enough to make the creature tip sideways. Another threw a pouch at the beast's face—herbs and charcoal dust, blinding it.
Then it fell.
Hard.
The ground shook. Water surged. One of the auxiliaries slipped, but was yanked up by another before the swamp could eat him.
"Restrain it!" Roa shouted.
Two clamps locked around its back legs. Another around its neck, just below the collar. A fourth auxiliary jammed a stick into its mouth and looped a leather strap around its snout to stop it from screaming.
A minute passed. Two.
The creature groaned low. But didn't rise.
"Still breathing," a handler confirmed.
"Then we take it," Roa said. "This collar's half-functional. We'll swap it with one of ours back at camp. Train it, use it to patrol this area."
She stepped over to the beast, staring into one of its clouded eyes.
"You belong to something out here," she whispered. "Let's find out what."
The scouts resumed checking the area.
Deadfall traps were found—twisted wire, bones sharpened into spikes. The Strider had been bait, clearly. Someone—or something—wanted them to move fast, lose formation.
Didn't work.
"We're being watched," a flanker said. "From deeper in the Hollow. But nothing's attacking yet."
"Good," Roa said. "Let them wait. That was just our hello."
The creature was chained, the netting reinforced. The squad moved again, slower, but more confident.
Roa tapped her comm bead. "Send message to Fornos. Juvenile Gorefen Strider captured. Probably bait. Swamp is rigged but manageable. Continuing sweep."
Back in her mind, she could still hear Fornos' voice: Convert or cut them down.
She smirked behind the mask.
Maybe I'll do both.