Chapter 176: Iron-Root Hospitality

The fog did not lift as the afternoon wore on. It settled deeper into the valley. It clung to the stone walls of the village like wet wool.

Vane walked down the main thoroughfare. His spear rested on his shoulder. His tactical boots made heavy and sucking sounds in the mud. Beside him Isole kept her hood up. She scanned the darkened windows of the cottages with a look of quiet unease.

The village of Mourn-Hold was not dead. But it was dying.

People moved through the mist with the slow and dragging gait of the exhausted. A blacksmith struck a piece of cold iron with a hammer. The rhythm was irregular and weak. A woman hung grey laundry on a line that sagged almost to the ground.

They stopped to watch the two Sentinels pass. Their eyes were hollow. They did not wave or cheer. They simply stared with the dull curiosity of cattle watching a storm roll in.

“They look like the soldier,” Isole whispered. “Empty.”

“They are hungry,” Vane corrected. He pointed to the fields bordering the houses. “The crops are failing. Malnutrition makes you slow.”

They reached the town square. A small crowd had gathered near the well. In the center stood a man wearing a heavy coat with a fur collar. It had seen better days. He was arguing with a farmer who was holding a pitchfork.

Vane stepped into the clearing. His armor clinked.

The argument stopped. The man in the coat turned. He saw the silver crest of the Academy on Vane’s pauldrons. He saw the star-metal spear.

“Finally,” the man breathed. He stepped forward. His hands trembled slightly. “The capital actually sent someone.”

“We are Academy Sentinels,” Vane said. “I am Vane. This is Isole. We are responding to the distress signal regarding the Grain-Maws.”

The man wiped a hand across his face. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

“I am Alden,” he said. “I am the Headman. If you are here for the Maws you are late. They took the north silo last night. We lost three men trying to hold the door.”

“We saw the silo,” Vane said. “It is cleared. The outpost is secure.”

Alden blinked. “Cleared? You killed them?”

“We are here to exterminate the infestation,” Vane stated. “But I need intel. The report mentioned a behavioral shift. When did they start attacking the structures?”

“Two weeks ago,” the farmer with the pitchfork chimed in. He pulled up his sleeve to reveal a nasty and jagged scar on his forearm. “They used to just eat the root. Now they hunt. They come out of the woods at sunset. They test the doors.”

“Show me the wounded,” Isole said suddenly.

She stepped out from behind Vane. She lowered her hood. Her silver-white hair caught the grey light. Her mismatched eyes seemed to glow in the gloom.

Alden looked at her. He hesitated.

“The clinic is this way,” Alden said. “But there isn’t much to see. The bites… they don’t heal right.”

They followed Alden to a long and low building near the church. The air inside smelled of vinegar and rotting meat.

Rows of cots lined the walls. Men and women lay groaning in the dim light. Their bandages were stained with a dark and oily fluid.

Isole walked to the nearest cot. A young man lay there. His leg was wrapped in dirty linen.

“May I?” Isole asked softly.

The man nodded. His teeth were gritted in pain.

Isole peeled back the bandage.

Vane leaned in. The wound was a deep puncture from a mandible. But the flesh around it wasn’t red or swollen. It was grey. A web of fine and fuzzy mold was growing inside the cut. It pulsed slowly with the man’s heartbeat.

“Necrotic fungus,” Vane noted. “Level 3 toxicity.”

“It eats the mana in the blood,” Isole murmured.

She didn’t reach for a potion. She placed her hands over the wound.

“Lumina,” she whispered.

A soft and golden light bloomed from her palms. It wasn’t the harsh and burning laser she used in combat. It was warm. It smelled like summer rain.

The light seeped into the leg. The grey mold hissed. It withered and flaked away like ash. The flesh beneath turned pink. The man gasped. His back arched off the cot. Then he collapsed back with a sigh of pure relief.

“The pain,” the man whispered. “It’s gone.”

The clinic went silent. Every eye turned to Isole.

She moved to the next cot. She didn’t ask. She just healed.

“Saintess,” an old woman whispered from the corner.

Vane watched her. He saw the way the villagers looked at her. They looked at her like she was water in a desert.

He walked over and grabbed her shoulder.

“Stop,” Vane said. His voice was low. “You are burning combat mana on civilians. We don’t know what is waiting for us in the woods.”

Isole looked at him. There was sweat on her forehead. But her eyes were fierce.

“This is the mission Vane,” she said. “We are here to save them.”

“We are here to kill the source,” Vane countered. “If you drain your core fixing scratches you will be useless when the Queen shows up. You are bandaging a corpse Isole. Until the Maws are dead these people are just meat waiting to be eaten again.”

“They are people,” Isole hissed. She pulled away from his grip. “And I am not going to let them rot just to save energy for a fight that hasn’t started.”

She turned back to the patient.

Vane stepped back. He crossed his arms. He let her work. It was inefficient. It was dangerous. But he saw the way the morale in the room shifted. The hopelessness was cracking.

Alden walked up to Vane.

“She is special,” Alden said.

“She is expensive,” Vane replied coldly. “Tell me about the woods. Where are the nests?”

“The Deep Woods,” Alden said. “East of here. That is where the Maws come from. But…”

“But what?”

Alden looked nervous. He glanced at the window.

“The boys who patrol the ridge,” Alden lowered his voice. “They say the Maws aren’t the only thing out there. They hear noises from the Old Crypts on the hill. Grinding sounds. Like stone moving on stone.”

“The crypts?” Vane asked.

“Old family tombs,” Alden said. “Been sealed for fifty years. But lately… the fog is thicker there. And the birds stopped flying over it.”

Vane narrowed his eyes. “Wind in the ruins?”

“Maybe,” Alden said. “Or maybe the dead don’t like the noise the bugs are making.”

Vane filed the information away. Crypts. Noises. It fit the pattern of a larger disturbance. But the mission parameters were clear. Secure the harvest. The bugs came first.

“We will check the crypts after we clear the nests,” Vane said.

By the time Isole finished the sun was setting. The grey sky turned a bruised purple.

“Curfew,” Alden said abruptly. He looked terrified. “You need to get inside. The Inn is across the square. Lock the door.”

“We are Sentinels,” Vane said. “We don’t hide.”

“You haven’t heard them yet,” Alden said.

He ran out of the clinic. The other villagers scrambled to their homes. The shutters slammed closed. The bolts slid home.

Within minutes the village was a ghost town.

Vane and Isole walked to the Inn. It was a sturdy timber building. The common room was empty. A single candle burned on the bar.

They sat at a table near the window. Vane cleaned his spear. Isole drank a cup of water. Her hands shook slightly from the mana exertion.

“You did good work,” Vane said. It wasn’t an apology. It was an assessment. “But tomorrow you save half your reserve. I can’t protect you if you are empty.”

“I know,” Isole said quietly. “But did you see their faces Vane? They were terrified. Now they have hope.”

“Hope doesn’t stop acid,” Vane said.

Isole didn’t argue. She looked out the window.

The fog outside had turned black.

Then the sound started.

It wasn’t a howl. It was a clicking. A thousand wet and chitinous clicks echoing from the fields. It sounded like the earth itself was chattering teeth.

Then came the scream.

It was high-pitched. Inhuman. It came from the direction of the woods.

Vane stood up. He blew out the candle.

“They are here,” Vane said.

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