The fog didn't roll in.
It waited.
Renard dismounted without a word at the edge of Wraithpine Pass, his boots sinking into frost-hardened moss. The mist swirled lazily around his ankles—thick, low, unmoving. The kind of fog that made you feel watched.
Elric followed behind, leading his horse with a taut grip. The beast's ears twitched as it snorted into the cold.
"No birds," Elric muttered.
Renard didn't answer. He crouched beside the trail and ran his fingers over the dirt. The ground was damp, slightly sticky, and smelled faintly of resin.
He sniffed. "Pitch oil. Pine-based. Cold-seeded."
"Was there a fire?"
"No scorch. No ash." Renard stood, brushing his fingers clean. "It wasn't lit. Just laid. Used to trap the moisture and anchor the fog."
Elric looked up, squinting. "So… this fog isn't natural?"
"It's controlled," Renard replied. "This isn't weather. It's terrain manipulation."
They moved forward on foot, letting the horses trail behind. The forest closed around them—trees narrowing, branches clawing in from both sides like ribs around a heart. The fog didn't lift as they climbed. It grew thicker. Closer.
Renard halted at a clearing, scanning the jagged ridgelines that laced the highlands like veins.
"There," he pointed, tracing the landscape. "That slope runs down into the Emmerfold trail—quiet, out-of-use, forgotten. But it leads to four villages. None have standing guard."
Elric followed his line of sight. "And on the other side?"
"Rookvale. Leifbarrow. One week's march to the Crown Road."
Elric frowned. "This place was written off decades ago."
Renard's voice was calm. "That's why it's valuable. No one guards a place they've forgotten."
He stepped forward again. "But I didn't forget."
The first sign of life—or what remained of it—was a small X carved into the bark of an ancient pine, nearly hidden beneath a curtain of moss.
Phantom Squad's sign.
Renard paused to examine the ground beneath. Leaves scattered—yes. But wrong.
He brushed aside a layer of brittle pine needles to reveal faint drag marks. A stumbling pattern. A single runner.
"She came through here," he said quietly. "Hurt. Heading east."
A whistle cut through the fog—three short tones.
Renard replied with two.
Moments later, a figure limped into view. Cloak torn. Face pale. Blood down one arm.
Maera.
She stumbled into Elric's arms before collapsing to her knees.
"They didn't chase," she gasped. "Didn't speak. Didn't move like us. Just… appeared."
Renard crouched. "Tarn?"
"Held them off." Her voice cracked. "Told me to run. I didn't see her fall. But she didn't follow."
Renard's face remained still. "How many?"
Maera's eyes fluttered. "It felt like ten. But we only saw two. At most. Always just… two."
"They rotated," Renard muttered. "They built a perimeter and kept it moving."
She nodded weakly. "Too coordinated. Too clean. It wasn't a raid. It was a drill."
An hour later, they reached the old campsite.
And everything was wrong.
Tents intact. Fire pit filled, cold but clean. Bedrolls still rolled. Packs arranged in tight rows. There was no blood. No mess. No evidence of a fight.
Just... emptiness.
Renard stopped at the edge of the clearing, his eyes scanning slowly.
"They scrubbed it," he murmured.
Elric stepped past him. "It looks untouched."
"That's the point," Renard replied.
He knelt beside the fire pit, sifting the ash with gloved fingers. Then stopped.
One of the rocks beneath the pit was warm.
Not from fire.
From recent contact.
Renard stood. "They dismantled the scene and rebuilt it. The ashes were poured. The footprints are gone. They even weighted the pit to seem used."
Elric's expression hardened. "So this was for show."
"Yes," Renard said. "And we're the audience."
High above, tucked into the rocks under a cloaked pine, a silver-haired figure lowered her spyglass.
Lysette of House Emervale said nothing. But her fingers tightened on the grip.
She had followed Renard on a hunch. A report of a strange duelist. A baron's son who refused to act like one. And now she was watching a man dissect a battlefield that shouldn't have existed.
She watched as he crouched, examined tent pegs, soil density, tree scarring.
"No overlapping prints. Footfalls set at intervals.""Light weight—rotated positions. Same pacing.""They never stayed long enough to be counted."
Lysette's heart ticked faster.
"That's not ten men," Renard said. "That's forty. But they never showed more than two at once."
Elric's eyes widened. "That's… impossible."
Renard shook his head. "No. That's doctrine. This was a scout unit drilled in precision. Every movement layered. Every presence minimal."
He looked to the fog curling at the treetops.
"They didn't come to conquer. They came to calibrate."
Later, at the ridge's edge, the fog still hadn't moved.
It just sat. Watching.
Renard sat with his back to a boulder, system interface open in his lap.
[S-Class Commander Interface: ACTIVE]Unit Capacity: 25Current Assigned: 3Authority: Restricted (Royal Sanction Required)Morale Sync: Phantom Unit – Weak / FragmentedCommand Specialization: Terrain Warfare, Strategic Reconnaissance
He stared at the screen without touching anything.
Three ghosts.
One breathing. One lost. One barely conscious.
And forty enemies had walked around them like wolves around a torch.
Not because Phantom was strong.
But because they had been allowed to live.
He looked toward the dying fire.
Then at the pass.
Then at the girl wrapped in a bloodstained cloak, breathing too shallow.
"This isn't enough," he whispered.
Elric stirred from the other side. "Hm?"
Renard didn't turn. "Three can scout. But they can't hold the line."
A beat.
Then, louder:
"I need a platoon.""One that doesn't survive by accident.""One that doesn't rely on being ignored."
High on the cliff, Lysette closed her notebook and turned away from the ledge.
She didn't need to watch anymore.
She already knew what she would report.
"He saw everything.""Before the nobles did. Before the generals did.""And if he's right…""…we've already lost the first round of the war."