When the Cold One Riders spread through the rainforest, they did so without making a sound.
Their quarry was less than half a mile ahead.
A grey-scaled Skink scout lay flat among the upper branches, peering through the gaps in the leaves.
It had shadowed the strangers ever since they gathered at the abandoned quarry outside the forest, following them all the way to the rainforest’s edge.
It had counted every one of them.
Taken note of every weapon.
It had even memorised the colours of the hair peeking out beneath their cloaks.
Pale gold.
Silver-white.
Light brown.
Not humans.
Human hair did not carry that faint glow in the shade.
They were Elves.
Ten of them.
Six men.
Four women.
Lightly equipped.
No heavy armour.
No shields.
Each carried a slender curved blade at the waist, an Elven longbow across the back, and a full quiver of arrows.
Their cloaks were grey-green, woven from a fabric that shifted colour beneath the broken sunlight of the rainforest.
It wasn’t magic.
It was Elven craftsmanship.
The threads had been dyed using a rare colour-changing moss found deep within ancient jungles.
Across open grasslands, such cloaks were nearly invisible.
Along the rainforest’s edge, they could deceive almost any human patrol.
But they could not fool a Cold One.
Cold Ones hunted by scent, not sight.
Elves smelled different from humans.
Their blood carried a faint sweetness beneath its metallic tang, like crushed flower petals.
A Cold One could detect that scent from several miles away.
The Elven leader crouched behind the buttress roots of an enormous tree.
His long fingers rested upon the moss-covered ground as he studied the tracks before him.
Golden hair was tied neatly behind his head with a thin leather cord, leaving his pointed ears exposed.
The tips of those ears twitched slightly.
It was an unconscious habit all Elves shared whenever they became deeply focused.
His name was Lysandor.
Leader of this reconnaissance team.
A veteran who had served twenty years on the Alhart front.
He had scouted more enemy camps than he had attended Elven banquets.
Yet he had never seen footprints like these.
Pressed into the moss before him was a massive depression shaped like the foot of an enormous reptile.
Each claw had pierced deep into the earth.
From the depth alone, he estimated the creature weighed at least two tonnes.
Two tonnes.
There were countless prints.
Arranged in disciplined lines stretching through the forest.
Each footprint sank several inches into the rich soil.
Some had already begun filling with rainwater.
The stride between them was enormous.
The tracks were fresh.
The broken moss still oozed sap where it had been crushed.
Lysandor brushed his fingertips along the edge of one footprint.
He watched the green sap cling briefly to his skin before wiping it clean against his trousers.
“Not human,” he said quietly to the officer beside him.
The deputy was a young Elven woman with short silver hair.
A scar ran from her cheekbone to her jaw.
A human scout’s dagger had left it during the eastern campaign two years earlier.
She crouched beside him, studying the same footprint.
“A bear?”
“A giant lizard?”
“Would creatures like that travel in formation?”
Her voice remained calm.
Yet her fingers tightened slightly around the hilt of her curved sword.
“Neither.”
Lysandor rose slowly, scanning the forest.
The birdsong had dropped by nearly half.
He noticed.
A shrub in the distance shifted ever so slightly.
He noticed that too.
He had crossed enough forests to recognise this sort of silence.
It usually meant large predators were nearby.
“This isn’t the trail of wild beasts,” he said.
“The footprints form a marching column.”
“The formation width has been deliberately maintained.”
“The spacing along the outer line is too consistent.”
“That tells me one thing.”
“Someone ordered them to march this way.”
His deputy gripped her sword harder.
“We need to report this immediately.”
Lysandor nodded.
He raised one hand.
Five fingers spread.
The signal to withdraw.
Every Elf stood at once.
No panic.
They had spent years learning how to disappear silently, even within an enemy’s hunting grounds.
But today…
Their enemy was not human.
The first Elf crossed the warning line.
Nothing happened.
The vine hidden beneath the forest floor was far too thin for even an Elven scout’s light footsteps to trigger.
Because it wasn’t a trap.
It was a scent marker.
The Cold One Riders had scattered fragments of bark soaked in musk tree resin downwind.
The instant the vine snapped, the fragrance spread through the air.
Faster than any horn.
Faster than any shouted command.
Within seconds, the entire encirclement knew.
The Cold One captain lightly tapped his mount’s flank with the end of his tail.
The sixteen riders forming the centre advanced together.
Cold Ones burst from the shadows.
The peaceful forest exploded.
Branches shattered.
Leaves tore apart.
Heavy breathing erupted from every direction.
The Elves did not run.
Training held.
The instant Lysandor heard the movement, he understood.
Not predators.
An encirclement.
Cold One Riders emerged from three directions.
Front.
Left.
Right.
Each force numbered more than a dozen mounts.
Every reptilian rider leaned low over its mount’s neck.
Long spears rested across their saddles.
Rows of sharp teeth caught the dim forest light.
Vertical pupils fixed upon every Elf.
Not with the gaze of hunters.
With the certainty of owners reclaiming something already theirs.
“Spread out!”
Lysandor had already drawn his blade before the command left his mouth.
Every scout reacted instantly.
No hesitation.
No questions.
They formed a crescent formation back-to-back.
Curved swords outward.
Archers protected within.
Against cavalry, bows had almost no advantage at such close range.
The riders would reach them long before they could exploit the distance.
Still…
They nocked arrows.
Even the act of drawing a bow might force the enemy to hesitate.
One heartbeat.
Sometimes one heartbeat was enough.
The Cold One Riders had already sealed both flanks.
Only one route remained.
Straight ahead.
Deeper into the rainforest.
No Lizardmen stood there.
Only darkness.
Lysandor glanced at it once.
Then dismissed the idea.
He had seen what happened to armies that fled blindly into unknown forests.
Half never returned.
“Loose!”
One archer released.
The arrow flew perfectly.
It struck the lead Cold One squarely across the shoulder joint.
Then bounced away.
Only the faintest scratch remained.
Not even a crack.
The Cold One merely snorted and continued forward.
“Teeth of Sotek…”
One Saurus rider muttered in a low voice.
His slit pupils followed the deflected arrow.
There was almost admiration in his expression.
Few enemies could strike a Cold One’s shoulder joint so accurately.
The Elf possessed remarkable skill.
Unfortunately…
A Cold One’s scales were living armour.
The joints carried the thickest protection of all.
Designed through countless generations to withstand ambushes.
The riders never charged. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
Instead, they advanced with deliberate patience.
Each Cold One moved sideways, presenting its broadest profile toward the Elven blades.
This wasn’t an assault formation.
It was a hunting formation.
They compressed the prey.
Tighter.
And tighter.
Until bows became useless.
Until swords could no longer swing freely.
The hot breath of the reptiles washed across the Elves’ faces.
Thick with the scent of freshly digested meat.
The enchanted cloaks pressed tightly against their bodies beneath the heat.
The colour-changing moss faded almost instantly into dull grey.
Lysandor gripped his sword until his knuckles turned white.
Yet his mind remained calm.
He waited.
For an opening.
None came.
Both flanks suddenly tightened formation.
The Cold Ones crouched.
Their hind legs coiled like springs.
Then exploded forward.
Two mounts burst across the edges of the Elven line.
Their riders thrust their spears low from the saddle.
The spearheads stopped level with the Elves’ eyes.
One Elf struck instinctively.
His curved blade crashed into the rider’s scaled leg.
Sparks flew.
The sword rebounded.
A notch appeared in its edge.
Then the central sixteen riders closed the gap.
Lysandor saw it.
A narrow opening.
He slipped through.
As he passed, he felt the rough scales of a Cold One scrape against his shoulder.
Three steps.
He made it three steps.
Before his fourth footfall landed…
A heavy scaled tail swept across his legs.
Not from behind.
From above.
The deputy commander had somehow climbed into the canopy.
Its tail wrapped around a thick branch as it hung upside down directly in Lysandor’s escape route.
The strike caught him perfectly behind the knees.
He crashed into the forest floor.
One knee buried itself in the rich soil.
He planted a hand to rise.
At the same time, his eyes swept the surrounding riders.
None advanced.
None lowered their spears toward him.
They simply watched him kneel.
Slowly…
Lysandor released his sword.
It dropped into the mud.
The blade sank into a bed of wet leaves with a soft sound.
Then he placed both hands calmly upon his knees.
His deputy stepped from the encirclement.
Her silver hair had been blown loose by the Cold Ones’ breath.
She walked past the arrow that had bounced harmlessly away.
Then knelt beside him on one knee.
One after another…
The remaining eight Elves laid down their weapons.
Not one spoke.
The archer quietly retrieved his damaged arrow.
The tip had curled where it struck the Cold One’s scales.
He slid it back into his quiver.
Then knelt at the rear of the group.
“Take them back.”
The cavalry captain growled the order.
Its deep voice rumbled between the Cold One’s teeth, ending with a harsh reptilian hiss.
The riders dismounted.
Three Cold Ones remained standing guard.
The others stepped forward.
Using thick jungle vines, they bound the Elves’ wrists together.
Moments later, the riders mounted once more.
The ten Elves marched at the centre of the formation beneath the towering shadows of the Cold Ones.
One young Elven woman limped noticeably.
She had twisted her ankle during the brief confrontation.
The Cold One beside her slowed its pace without command, allowing her to keep up.
One amber eye rolled toward her.
Its vertical pupil widened slightly.
Then, just as quietly, looked away.