Back at the Feisty Dwarf, the hearth’s glow hits first—warm, steady, familiar. We settle into a booth, wood worn smooth from years of use. Favored by the Busty Barmaid, plates arrive quickly—hearty, hot, exactly what we need. Around us, the tavern hums with chatter and clinking mugs.
Kit and Raka exchange a glance—small, amused. The kind that doesn’t need words.
I open the HUD, pulling up a map of the surrounding wilds and caverns, filling in what they can’t see.
“Here’s what we’ve got,” I say, pointing it out. “Slime Meadows. Kobold Cavern. Bushman Forest… and a few deeper routes we haven’t touched yet.”
A hunter’s edge slips into my voice.
“We’ve got unfinished business in Bushman Forest.”
Kit leans in, amber eyes sharpening. “An elder bushman dropped my Locket of Spectral Armor,” she says. “If we can find more nests like that, we could push our gear up fast.” A small pause. “But it won’t be easy.”
Raka’s grin spreads as she sets the head of her axe against the table with a dull thud. “Then we go deeper,” she says. “Find these nests. No point circling the edge when we’ve got the strength for more.”
I glance between them, weighing it.
“Maybe,” I say. “But we don’t rush it. We prep in the morning, test our flow… maybe scout the edge, gain a level or two before we commit to the deeper woods.”
“Still—” I let a faint smile slip. “—we’re not a two-person problem anymore.”
“We’ve got more bite this time.”
Raka huffs in agreement.
Kit’s tail flicks once.
The weight of it settles—not heavy, just… certain.
Whatever comes next, we face it together.
“Bushman Forest,” I mutter, eyes still on the map. “Let’s see what it gives us this time.”
The tavern’s warmth lingers as we rise from the table, leaving behind empty plates and half-finished mugs.
Raka slings her shield across her back. Kit checks the edge of her daggers, movements smooth and practiced.
There’s a quiet confidence between us now—held tight, not tested yet.
We leave just after dawn. Mist clings low to the grass as the sun begins to burn through the haze, the road carrying us past Slime Meadows and onward toward Bushman Forest. A few hours later, the forest comes into view—still early morning. We take only the briefest pause at the edge, checking straps, tightening gear, drawing steel, then cross the road and slip into the trees.
Raka takes point—shield forward, axe ready. Her movements are heavy, but controlled. Watchful. Her instincts do the rest. Kit slips just behind her flank, low and fluid through the brush, eyes scanning, ears twitching. “Lorica Noctis,” she whispers, tapping the locket at her chest.
Spectral Armor
Smoke-born shadow magic wraps around her in a dark embrace.
I hang back a step, spear in hand, watching how they move. Adjusting. Matching their rhythm. I catch Raka’s eye—and push the intent forward.
Not words. Not even a thought. Just direction. Pressure. The shape of the hunt.
She moves before I finish it.
We move—low. Steady.
Despite her size, Raka moves with a hunter’s grace, war axe sheathed across her back, shield slung to one side. Her gear barely sounds—just the faintest creak of leather and metal as she shifts from tree to stone, using every scrap of cover the forest offers. My chainmail whispers when I move, but I keep it tight, controlled. Spear ready. Shield close. Every step placed with care.
The forest breathes around us—wind through the canopy like breath over silk, insects already thickening, the quiet tension of something watching back—and not moving.
Up ahead—Kit. Barely there. Just a ripple of shadow crouched along a mossy ledge overlooking a shallow basin. She gives a small signal—two fingers, then taps her temple.
Movement below.
Raka eases down beside me. We pause. Listen.
“Three bushmen,” she murmurs.
Kit’s whisper follows, thin as smoke through the bond and brush. “Fourth’s a thorn variant. Hanging back near the rocks.”
I shift my grip on the spear, eyes narrowing.
This is where it either works… or it doesn’t.
The plan comes together fast—sharp and clean, like a blade drawn in the dark.
“Kit—flank left. Stay low. Wait for the blast.”
She’s already moving, vanishing into the brush with barely a sound. Just a flicker of amber eyes beneath the faint shimmer of her spectral armor.
I turn to Raka, drawing the charge through my core. Lightning gathers in my palm, crackling softly as it runs along the haft of my spear.
“Hold them,” I murmur. “Let them break on you.”
She’s set before I finish it—shield planted, stance low, solid, immovable. A rock waiting for the tide.
I release.
Arc Lightning snaps forward from my spear, blue-white energy tearing through the first bushman and chaining hard into the second. Bark splits. Sap hisses. The forest itself seems to recoil from it.
The fight snaps open.
I don’t move. I don’t need to.
Raka already has them.
They surge the moment the lightning lands—roots tearing free, bodies twisting forward, limbs stretching into hooked, thorned lengths that lash through the air—
—and she steps into it.
Packheart Sentinel answers through instinct more than thought. Her movement isn’t fast—it’s early. She’s already where the attack is going to land, shield rising to meet the first Tendril Lash before it ever reaches us. The impact cracks hard against her guard, wood grinding against steel—but it doesn’t pass her. It can’t.
The second lash snaps wide, angling for me—
—and she’s there again, shifting her weight, shield turning just enough to catch it. Not chasing the strike. Cutting it off. Placing herself between us and anything that tries to get through.
That’s the difference.
She’s not reacting.
She’s intercepting.
Holding the line.
Exactly where we need her.
Kit moves through that space like it was made for her.
Echo Step carries her along the flank in a ripple of shadow, her form slipping from one patch of brush to the next before resolving inside their reach. Her daggers ignite as she moves—
Soulfire Veilstrike—violet fire tracing twin arcs through bark and sinew, leaving a burning seam that doesn’t close.
The nearest bushman jerks toward her—
Too late. Raka is already in motion.
Savage isn’t a single strike—it’s pressure. Her war axe comes down hard, not for precision but to overwhelm. The first blow breaks its guard, the second drives it back, and the third lands before it can recover—each hit forcing the next, momentum building until the thing simply can’t keep up.
It collapses under the weight of it.
Down.
I step into the opening they’ve made without thinking.
Eldritch Strike runs lightning down the length of my spear as I drive it forward, thunder snapping on impact as it punches through the second bushman’s core. The energy tears through it, finishing what Kit started before it even understands it’s dying.
Two down.
The Thorn variant doesn’t rush. It spreads. Roots tear free of the basin floor as it anchors itself, body widening, limbs locking into place as spines rise along its form. The air tightens, pressure building before the attack ever comes.
I see it a heartbeat early.
“Brace.”
Raka is already there.
Lunar Bulwark blooms from her shield—not a flash, but a steady expansion, pale moonlight sheening outward as the space around her hardens. It isn’t just the shield anymore—it’s everything near her, a widening zone she can hold.
Thorn VolleyThe forest erupts. A storm of razor growth screams through the clearing, tearing through brush and bark alike as it slams into us—and breaks.
Thorns splinter across her bulwark, skidding off that hardened edge of space, some glancing, some shattering, all of it stopping short of reaching past her—and us. The force drives through her stance, pushing her back half a step—but no further.
She holds. And because she holds—we don’t move.
We don’t scatter.
We don’t give ground.
And for the first time—they’re the ones reacting to us.
The last bushman surges the moment the volley fails, roots tearing forward as it snaps toward us in a full-body rush. The Thorn variant shifts with it, dragging the ground into motion, spines flexing as it repositions for another cast.
They’ve learned. So have we.
Raka steps into the push without waiting.
Savage
The first hit breaks its forward momentum.
The second drives it back.
The third lands—and it doesn’t recover.
A tendril snaps toward her exposed side but never lands. Her shield is already there, turning the lash aside as she shifts her weight and keeps pressing forward. She doesn’t give it space. Doesn’t let it breathe.
Kit moves through the pressure like water finding a crack.
Echo Step carries her from Raka’s flank, vanishing and reappearing behind the bushman as it tries to reorient.
Soulfire Veilstrike
Twin arcs carve across its back, violet fire blooming deep in the seams Raka forced open. It thrashes and Raka answers it.
Savage
The next hit caves it in. The body collapses under the combined pressure, bark splitting, form unraveling as it finally gives.
Three down.
The Thorn variant is already moving.
Roots snap tight beneath it as it tears free from its anchored stance, dragging mass with it as it lunges sideways—trying to create distance, trying to cast.
“Don’t let it—” I’m already moving. Shield—stormlight snaps into place as a tendril whips across my path, lightning crawling uselessly across the barrier instead of through me as I drive forward.
It pulls back too slow. I close the gap.
Eldritch Strike
Lightning runs the spear as I thrust, the impact forcing it off its rhythm, the spell breaking before it can fully form. It recoils, spines flaring as a burst of thorns tears upward, smaller than before.
Kit is already gone. Echo Step. She reappears off its flank, low. Too low to be hit. Too close for it to ignore.
Raka shifts with her, cutting the space off again.
Packheart Sentinel
Shield forward. Step in. No gap.
No escape.
We don’t chase it.
We close it.
And now—
it’s the one running out of room.
The Thorn variant tears free of its roots, forcing distance the only way it can—spines flaring wide as it drags the ground with it, trying to brute‑force a cast. Too slow. We’re already inside it.
I drive forward, closing the gap before the spell can take shape. Eldritch Strike—lightning snaps down the spear as I thrust, the impact breaking its focus and scattering the forming magic before it can settle into anything real.
That’s all it gets. Kit is already moving through the opening—a flicker of shadow at the edge of my vision—
Echo Step—and then she’s there, high along its flank, inside its reach where it can’t turn fast enough—
Soulfire Veilstrike
Violet arcs carve deep, crossing lines through bark and vein, fire blooming beneath the surface.
The creature shrieks, twisting violently and runs straight into Raka.
Savage
The axe comes down hard—driving it toward the ground.
It tries to recover—she hits it again.
The Thorn variant buckles, structure collapsing in on itself, form unraveling as the pressure finally breaks it apart and I step through the last of it.
Eldritch Strike
The spear drives in clean, lightning detonating through its core as what’s left of it gives way completely.
The creature convulses once—
then drops.
Hard.
Raka grinned slowly, baring sharp teeth, her white-and-silver fur streaked with green sap instead of blood. “That,” she growled, chest heaving, “felt good.”
Kit smirked, wiping her blades on a fallen vine. “Welcome to the family.”
I couldn’t help but grin at both of them. The difference was staggering.
For the first time, we weren’t surviving in Bushman Forest together.
We were hunting as one.