The Sovereign Codex.

Hostile Authority

The convoy kept moving through the darkness. No one knew what waited ahead, and with every mile, the fear grew.

No one talked about what the injured scout had murmured before fading into the dark; his words felt like a frightening warning. The officers, serious and determined, simply instructed the column to move on. Torches were lit at uneven intervals, their flickering flames creating ghostly shadows that moved along the steep slopes, making them look even more threatening than they actually were. Shadows held on to every rock, changing the once-familiar path into a disconcerting maze of doubt.

The veteran soldiers appeared different; their manner had shifted from tired endurance to a tense watchfulness. They no longer walked with the relaxed step of a long trek, their bodies laden with weariness. Instead, their shields were firmly held in place on their arms, spears and swords gripped tightly in hand, prepared for any hidden danger that might lurk in the dark. Eyes constantly scanned the ridgelines, looking for signs of movement; whatever the scout had warned about was believed by the older men without question.

Taren moved close to Edrin’s left side, his voice soft but filled with tension.

“I keep hearing things. Higher up. Along the valley wall,” he said, his eyes locked onto the darkness that seemed almost sentient.

Edrin looked at him, concern on his face. “Your Mark?” he inquired, knowing intuitively what Taren referred to.

Taren gave a single nod, his face tense. “Movement. Not constant. But it’s there,” he replied, his teeth gritting slightly from anxiety.

Edrin listened carefully, trying to hear past the creaks of wagon wheels and the soft sounds of boots on the ground. Initially, there was just the deceptive quiet of the night—whispers of wind brushing through the undergrowth and the occasional call of a night bird overhead. Then he thought he heard it: the distinct scrape of something loose higher up in the dark. He told himself it was probably just goats or maybe the flutter of birds. The hills had both, after all.

Then small stones began to tumble down, dislodged from their spots by some invisible force. They clinked against the slopes in small bursts—innocuous at first, scattered and unimportant. A few rolled onto the path, getting kicked aside by the weary feet of soldiers continuing on. No one stopped to think about them; the path had become too narrow for simple choices, and an air of foreboding hung overhead like a storm cloud.

Two officers moved ahead, their voices rising above the weight of growing tension, arguing in short, harsh sentences. Edrin heard enough of their discussion to understand the seriousness of their predicament. Turning the entire column around would require hours—time they did not possess. The supply wagons, heavy and burdened, could not just shift on the narrow path, and the usual comfort of safety had faded. Moving forward was the only clear choice left, a commitment to escape whatever danger might be lurking behind them.

They progressed, but the air was heavy with anxiety.

Nothing happened during the long march, yet the strain stretched until it felt like its own form of weariness, an invisible weight pressing down on every soldier. Men flinched at every loose stone; each rustle of wind through the cliffs made someone glance up too quickly, their hearts racing. After a lengthy silence, some of the newer recruits tried to laugh at their own nerves, with awkward and embarrassed sounds escaping their mouths. They exchanged whispered comments about overactive imaginations and restless spirits, and a few lowered their shields slightly, attempting to shake off the tension that clung to them like a tight garment.

Edrin felt that same urge to lighten the atmosphere. The night was long, and the hills felt strange and quiet now. He briefly considered that maybe, just maybe, the danger had passed them. Perhaps the fallen scout had just been a victim of bad luck instead of a sign of worse to come. This thought lingered longer than it should have, offering false hopes of security.

Then the front ranks halted, an unexpected wall of stillness that sent chills down Edrin’s spine.

News rippled back through the column in uneasy fragments—a phrase here, a shocked gasp there. Edrin pushed forward enough to see, dread pooling in his stomach.

One of the scouts lay sprawled in the middle of the road, lifeless, with an arrow lodged through his throat in a gruesome manner. The arrow stood erect like a harsh symbol of death. Blood gathered around him, flowing into the dirt and darkening in the flickering torchlight. The man’s eyes were wide and unseeing. He had not died facing the convoy; he had died looking up, perhaps in a last futile attempt to warn others about the peril above.

“Defensive formation. Now,” Vaeron’s authoritative voice sliced through the night, urgent and sharp.

The command should have been straightforward, a well-rehearsed maneuver established over years of training. It was not.

The new recruits stumbled over each other, confusion visible on their faces. Some turned the wrong way, their shields raised too late or placed too high, casting unsteady shadows on the ground. The veterans, frustrated, snapped the lines into order around them, curses escaping their lips in a ragged breath. Wagons were hurriedly pulled toward the center of the formation, horses bucked and struggled against their handlers, their instincts screaming for flight as the atmosphere thickened with a sense of impending doom. The narrow path left almost no space to breathe, let alone regroup as needed.

Edrin’s heart raced, pounding against his ribs, a frantic sound of fear and adrenaline. His damaged sword felt heavier than it had that morning, the cracked grip biting painfully into his palm, as if the weapon were protesting against the chaos unraveling around him.

Then, the golden light appeared suddenly.

It hovered at the corner of his vision, bright and cold, sharper than the darkness enveloping him.

[Hostile Authority detected.]

Edrin stared at the words, confusion washing over him. He did not grasp their meaning. He did not know what Hostile Authority was or why the Codex had decided to convey this information at that moment. The screen vanished just as quickly as it materialized, leaving only the surrounding darkness and the chaotic noise of men struggling to recall their training.

He looked up toward the cliffs, horror rising in his throat.

Dark forms were emerging along the ridgeline. Dozens at first—just shadows—then more came, a flood that built until the tops of the hills seemed to tremble with a menacing presence. A voice shouted from somewhere near the front of the column, breaking the moment's heavy silence.

“SHIELDS!”