The knife lookout tried to capitalize on the chaos—one quick step, blade angled low, the sort of ugly, practical lunge meant for ribs.

[b]Garreth[/b] didn’t meet it with force. He met it with precision.

Steel kissed steel with a short, biting ring, and the old captain slid inside the bandit’s reach as if he’d been born there. The sword’s edge snapped down in a flat, punishing cut across the man’s knife hand—not enough to sever, but enough to make fingers spasm open. The knife fell into the moss with a dull thunk. Before the bandit could recover, Garreth’s shoulder drove forward, compact and brutal, and the guard staggered back a step with a wet grunt, pain flashing across his face as red began to bead through his sleeve.

He was hurt. Disarmed. Still on his feet—still in the fight—but suddenly very aware he wasn’t bullying villagers anymore.

Near the firepit, the whistle lookout made the only sensible choice left to him: panic.

He tried to backpedal away from [b]Jilly[/b]’s shifting, hungry-looking jelly form, heels skidding on the softened ground. His foot caught—half in the churned mud, half in the viscous drag she’d left beneath him—and he went down hard, arms flailing for balance that wasn’t there. The back of his head clipped something unkind—a rock or a root jutting up through moss—with a sharp crack that made the sound in the clearing go momentarily thin.

He slumped.

Not dead. Not neatly restrained. Just sprawled with his eyes rolling, breath coming in uneven pulls, jaw slack as if his body hadn’t yet decided whether to wake or drift deeper. If anyone wanted answers from him, they would have to [b]force him awake quickly[/b], and even then whatever came out could be muddled by pain and shock.

At the edge of the clearing, [b]Fredrick[/b]’s pursuit paid off despite the runner’s nasty elbow. He surged after them, driving a fist into them, using the momentum as his weapon. Vines and low branches snapped tight around limbs as the runner hit the tree; roots and brambles caught boots. The runner twisted and snarled, fighting the bind, but the greenery held fast enough to steal their mobility and turn speed into struggle.

Tangled.

Still dangerous. Still breathing.

For one precious breath, it looked like the clearing might belong to the party.

Then the forest answered.

Somewhere deeper along the logging cut, a branch snapped with purpose—not like a startled deer, but like a man shifting position to run. Another sound followed: a faint, sharp birdcall that didn’t match any bird in the marsh. It came once… then again, answered from farther away.

Garreth’s head lifted instantly, eyes narrowing toward the direction the runner had tried to flee.

[color=0054a6]“Signals,”[/color] he said, voice low and urgent. [color=0054a6]“They’ve got ears out there.”[/color]

And as if to underline his point, the smoldering firepit’s lid rattled faintly—vibration carried through the ground—followed by a distant murmur of movement: boots on packed earth, not close yet, but closing. The kind of sound that meant the window for leisurely interrogation was already bleeding away.