Chapter 117 Into the Mistwood Trap
Chase‘s POV
The marsh air turned cold against my skin as Wynter's warning settled over us like a shroud, and through the Bond I felt her wolf's instincts screaming danger with an intensity that made my own Alpha senses snap to full alert.
"How many?" I asked quietly, my hand already moving to the knife at my belt while my eyes scanned the darkening marsh for any sign of movement.
"I don't know," Wynter breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. "But they're good. I can barely sense them."
I closed my eyes for a heartbeat, reaching out with every sense my wolf possessed—hearing, smell, the subtle shifts in air pressure that spoke of bodies moving through space.
The faint metallic tang of silver mixed with the distinctive mineral scent of Bloodrock's volcanic soil. The almost imperceptible sound of fabric brushing against marsh grass. The way the birds had gone silent in a spreading circle around us.
Professional hunters, I realized with cold certainty. Not regular soldiers. These are Draven's Cleaners.
"At least four," I said, opening my eyes to meet Wynter's frightened gaze. "Maybe five. Moving in a coordinated pattern. They're trying to box us in."
Through the Bond, I felt her fear spike sharply before she forced it down. "What do we do?"
Before I could answer, Jax's sharp intake of breath made us both turn. He was staring into the mist ahead, his whole body going rigid with a tension that spoke of barely controlled fury.
Two small figures emerged from the fog like ghosts—children, moving with that same jerky, unnatural coordination we'd seen during the Academy attack. Their eyes glowed red-black in the fading light, and even from this distance I could see the blank expressions on their faces, the complete absence of anything resembling human awareness.
"No," Jax whispered, his voice breaking. "No, they're using children as hunting dogs."
One of them was a little girl, maybe eight years old, with tangled dark hair and clothes that hung off her thin frame in tatters. The other was a boy who couldn't have been more than ten, his face smeared with mud and his eyes burning with that horrible empty light.
Through the Bond, I felt Wynter's matching horror, felt her wolf howling with protective fury at the sight of these stolen children being used as weapons.
Jax's hand went to his knife, muscles coiling for attack, and I saw the rage building in his eyes—the kind of fury that would make him charge straight at whoever was controlling these children without thought for strategy or consequence.
I moved fast, grabbing his arm before he could lunge forward. "Jax. Stop."
"They're right there!" he snarled, trying to wrench free. "We can—"
"We can get ourselves killed and accomplish nothing," I interrupted, my voice hard with Alpha authority that made him freeze despite his anger. "Look at them. Really look. They're being controlled remotely. Whoever's doing this wants us to attack. Wants us to either hurt these kids or hesitate long enough for their operatives to close the trap."
Through the Bond, I felt Wynter's immediate understanding, felt her tactical mind engaging despite the horror of what we were witnessing. They're using the children as bait, her mental voice came through our connection. And as a test. To see if we're willing to hurt them.
Exactly, I sent back. Which means we can't fight. Not here. Not when they have this advantage.
Aloud, I said, "Four or five trained operatives. Two controlled children. And I can smell silver—they're carrying anti-Alpha weapons. We can't win a straight fight."
"Then what?" Jax demanded, though I felt him forcing himself to calm down, to think rather than react. "We just let them take us?"
"No," I said, my mind already racing through possibilities, cataloging our assets and their weaknesses. "We lead them somewhere they can't follow. Somewhere their training and weapons won't help them."
Wynter's eyes widened as she caught my meaning through the Bond. "The Mistwood," she whispered. "Chase, that place nearly destroyed us."
"I know," I said grimly. "But we know what to expect now. We know how to anchor ourselves against the illusions. They don't." I looked at Jax. "And more importantly—if whoever's controlling these children is operating remotely, the mist will interfere with their signal. Might give us a chance to break the connection and get them out."
Jax stared at me for a long moment, conflict clear on his face. Finally, he nodded. "Alright. We do it your way. But if those kids get hurt—"
"They won't," I promised, hoping I could keep it. "Not if we move fast and smart."
Through the Bond, I reached out to Wynter, flooding our connection with the complete tactical plan forming in my mind—every step, every contingency, every risk we'd be taking. I felt her absorb it all in seconds, felt her trust and determination flowing back to me even as fear threaded through it.
I'm with you, she sent. Whatever happens.
Always, I promised.
I deliberately stepped on a fallen branch, the crack echoing across the marsh with startling clarity. "Damn it," I said loudly, making my voice carry. "They found us. We need to move. Now!"
Wynter caught on immediately, her eyes going wide with perfectly feigned panic. "Which way?"
"Northeast," I said, already moving in the direction of the Mistwood. "There's cover in the deeper marsh. We can lose them there."
Behind us, I heard the subtle shift of movement as our pursuers registered our "panic"—the slight increase in pace, the tightening of their formation. Through the gathering darkness, I caught a glimpse of one operative speaking into a radio, his voice too quiet to make out words but the tone unmistakable.
They're taking the bait, I thought with grim satisfaction. Good. Let them think they have us running scared.
We moved quickly through the marsh, splashing through shallow water and dodging twisted roots with the kind of speed that looked desperate rather than calculated. The two controlled children followed with mechanical precision, their small feet moving through the water without hesitation or awareness of the cold.
The connection isn't perfect, I realized, watching their movements occasionally stutter. Distance weakens it. If we can push whoever's controlling them, make them divide their attention...
The mist began to thicken as we approached the Mistwood's edge, that same cloying fog that had nearly broken us during our journey to Morvanna's cottage. Through the Bond, I immediately reached out to Wynter, using our connection as an anchor point. Stay with me. Focus on what's real. On us.
I'm here, she sent back, and I felt her doing the same for me, our Bond creating a lifeline through the encroaching madness.
Behind us, one of the operatives cursed quietly. "Sir, the mist—it's not natural. This is Mistwood territory."
"Maintain formation," a deeper voice commanded—the leader. "Don't separate. Keep those children moving. We're not losing them now."
Too late, I thought. You're already in the trap.
We plunged deeper into the mist, and within minutes the Mistwood began its terrible work. I heard breathing change behind us—faster, shallower, the sound of training beginning to crack under ancient magic's assault.
"Contact left!" A voice, high with fear. Gunshot. The leader's furious shout: "Cease fire! There's nothing there!"