LAST BLOODLINE STANDING

The First Threat

The peace lasted six weeks.

Mara should have known it wouldn't last. Peace never did—not in this world, not in any world. There was always something waiting in the shadows. Something hungry. Something afraid.

She was tending the sapling when the first scream cut through the morning.

Mara dropped her tools and ran. The settlement was chaos—people fleeing, shouting, pointing toward the eastern edge of town. She pushed through the crowd, her heart pounding.

She found Ingrid standing over a body.

"Who?" Mara asked.

"Helga. From Karvik." Ingrid's face was pale. "She was on watch. Someone cut her throat."

Mara knelt beside the body. Helga's eyes were open, staring at nothing. Her throat had been slit—clean, precise. Professional.

"This wasn't an animal," Mara said.

"No."

"Where's Niko?"

"He's tracking. He saw footprints leading north."

Mara stood. Her hands were steady. Her voice was calm. But inside, she was burning.

"Gather everyone. We need to figure out what we're dealing with."

The settlement assembled in the meeting hall.

It wasn't much—a wooden structure built over the ruins of the old town hall. But it was warm, and it was theirs. People crowded inside, their faces pale with fear.

"We've been attacked," Mara said. "One of our own is dead. We don't know who did it or why. But we're going to find out."

"Could be raiders," someone called. "From the south."

"Could be the god's servants," another said. "Maybe they didn't all die when the god did."

"The god is gone. Its servants are gone with it."

"Then who killed Helga?"

Mara raised her hands. "That's what we're going to find out. Until we know, no one travels alone. Everyone carries a weapon. And we double the watch."

The crowd murmured, nodding. Fear was still there, but so was determination. They'd survived the god. They could survive this.

Niko appeared at the door. His face was grim.

"I found something."

The tracks led north, into the frozen waste.

Mara followed Niko through the snow, her knife in hand. The trail was fresh—hours old, maybe less. Whoever had killed Helga was still close.

"Whoever did this knew what they were doing," Niko said. "The cut was clean. Professional. This isn't some desperate survivor."

"Then who?"

"Someone who wanted to send a message."

They crested a ridge and stopped.

Below them, in a sheltered valley, was a camp. A dozen tents. A fire. People moving with purpose—not survivors, but soldiers.

"Mercenaries," Niko said. "Or something like it."

"Who are they?"

"I don't know. But I've seen their type before. They work for whoever pays the most." He paused. "Someone wants us dead."

Mara studied the camp. A dozen tents. Maybe thirty people. Armed. Trained. Dangerous.

"We need to know who sent them."

"And then?"

"Then we deal with them."

They returned to the settlement and gathered the council.

"We're facing a professional force," Mara said. "Thirty or more. They killed Helga as a message—they wanted us to know they're here."

"Who would send mercenaries after us?" Ingrid asked. "We're not a threat to anyone."

"Maybe that's the point. Maybe someone doesn't want us to become a threat."

"The god's servants?"

"The god is gone. But its memory isn't. There are people out there who worshipped it, who benefited from it. They might want revenge."

"We can't fight thirty mercenaries," someone said. "We're not soldiers."

"Neither were the people who survived Varrholm. But we learned." Mara looked at the crowd. "We fought the god. We won. These mercenaries are just men. They can be beaten."

"How?"

Mara thought. The tree's presence stirred inside her—not speaking, but feeling. Supporting. Encouraging.

"We use the land. The ice. The cold. This is our home. They're invaders. We know the terrain better than they do."

"We need a plan."

"We have one." Mara turned to Niko. "You know their camp. Can you get close without being seen?"

"I can."

"Good. Tonight, we send a message of our own."

The attack came at midnight.

Mara led the group—twenty volunteers, armed with knives, bows, and scavenged weapons. They moved through the darkness, silent as ghosts.

Niko had scouted the camp. The mercenaries were confident—too confident. They'd posted only two guards. They didn't expect retaliation.

They were wrong.

Mara gave the signal. Arrows flew. Guards fell. The camp erupted into chaos.

But Mara didn't attack the tents. She attacked the supplies. The food. The fuel. The weapons. Within minutes, the mercenaries' camp was burning, their supplies destroyed, their horses scattered.

"Retreat!" someone shouted. "Fall back!"

The mercenaries fled into the night, leaderless and broken.

Mara watched them go. The tree's presence was warm in her chest.

"Well done."

"They'll be back."

"Maybe. But they'll think twice next time."

Mara turned away. The settlement was safe—for now.

But she knew this was only the beginning.

Mara chose to attack the mercenaries' supplies rather than kill them directly, giving them a chance to retreat. Was this mercy wise, or will it come back to haunt her? And who sent the mercenaries—and why? Is the new settlement already making enemies, or is something darker at work?