Every crunch of snow beneath Quill’s boots felt like a mistake. He had expected violence and chaos, loud screams and ringing steel. Instead, there was only an eerie silence, like walking through a graveyard at night. All he heard was snow beneath their feet and the slow, steady breathing of his squadmates.

Trevin had his bow in hand, an arrow always nocked and ready to be drawn at a moment's notice. The little man's eyes darted around as though he saw enemies shifting in the dark shadows around them. Quill started to see them too. Real or not, he would catch movement out the corner of his eye. Despite the frigid cold, a bead of sweat rolled down his brow. Even Stevan was quiet now. They were all tense even the veterans. But not Cross. His face was unchanged, and Quill wasn’t sure if that meant he felt no fear, or if he had always carried it like this.

The forest was dead. No plants. No animals. No life at all. A foreboding vision of death and decay. Quill could see the sky. There was nothing to block his view into the woods, but he still felt trapped. Closed in by shadow. By cold. And... by silence. The quiet made every other sound feel as loud as a scream. Quill wanted to write in his journal. To return to the warmth of the fire the night before. He wanted to go home. But there was no turning back, he had taken the plunge. He was a man of The Order now, whether he liked it or not. 

Wil cut the silence short with a whistle. Everyone turned. A cloud of green smoke was rising to the west. It was the first Hallowbound sighting since entering the Frostwood. It wasn't too far off, but the thought of moving to reinforce was cut off by Cross's next words.

"Not our problem. Keep eyes sharp."

Over the next hour Quill saw three more green smoke signals through the empty branches of the lifeless trees. Quill's heart jumped with every snapped twig and gust of wind. Some small part of him wished the chaos he’d imagined would just begin already. At least then his mind would be focused on a real threat rather than creating its own. 

His wish didn't take long to come true.

Trevin was the first to notice. He inhaled sharply, drawing everyone's attention.

"Sergeant—"

Cross raised a hand, cutting him off.

He held his Kindleroot pipe between clenched teeth, while slowly scanning the tree line.

The others saw the threat next, Yoran gripping his great axe with both hands, gritting his teeth. Slim knocked an arrow. Wil slowly grabbed the shield off his back and blade from its scabbard. 

Cross had finished his sweep, "Deckard. Green."

Deckard didn't hesitate. He reached into his pack and produced a scroll-sized tube of black iron wrapped in green twine. He twisted the tube and the seals on both ends broke, green smoke pouring out and rising into the sky.

"Arms," Cross said calmly, but Quill had already drawn his blade. He gripped the iron tight, knuckles white.

Then Quill heard it—a rustle in the trees. Snow crunching under something that wasn’t a boot.

"Trevin?" Cross turned to the archer.

Trevin had his eyes closed, straining to listen. “S-small,” he whispered. “Maybe ten—no, a dozen.”

"Needlemaw," Deckard muttered.

Slim rubbed the scar running across his face. "Fuck."

Sergeant Cross still hadn't removed the pipe. Smoke leisurely drifting into the freezing air.

"On me, men. Push forward. Don't get surrounded."

Weapons ready, squad S-22 moved to engage. Cross led from the front. Quill and Stevan brought up the rear. 

Quill’s hands trembled. His breathing came in shallow gasps.

I will not perish. I will not perish.

He repeated the words in his head, forcing his legs to move. 

A horrific sound filled the air, like a ragged beast's final breaths. But it was multiplying, growing closer. Quill's heart pounded like it might burst.

Then he saw them. A swarm nightmares bursting from the tree line at deadly speed. They were the size of large wolves, but their bodies were covered in sickly gray skin instead of fur. Their claws were long, curved talons, slashing through snow as they bounded forward on four muscular limbs. They had no faces, only neck-like extensions ending in circular maws ringed with lamprey-like teeth.

Sergeant Cross barked a single word: “ENGAGE!”

Then, chaos.

Trevin, Slim, and Deckard all loosed arrows. Two finding their mark in the same Needlemaw causing it to tumble over itself. It made a human sounding yelp before sliding to a stop in the snow a few feet from the squad. The rest of the squad moved quick in an attempt to form a line. But the Hallowbound were fast—faster than any wolf or dog Quill had ever seen.  Two had moved around the flank and charged at Quill and Stevan. The first spat a spear like projectile made of bone out of its monstrous mouth. Stevan elbowed Quill aside, saving him from a swift end. The bone spear only nicked Quill in the arm, but the force and pain sent Quill sprawling. As Quill fell, the second creature leapt at Stevan, firing another bone spear mid-air. Stevan moved with surprising speed for his size, ducking the projectile and lunging forward to jab his spear into its chest. A gout of dark black blood spewed from the creature as it writhed on the end of the spear, desperate to be free. Another Needlemaw lunged for Stevan but Quill's focus was forced elsewhere.

One was barreling straight for him. He was still on the ground when a bone spear came flying. He shoved off the snow, half rolling, half diving to his right. Face buried in the snow, he felt the creature's breath on his neck. He spun wildly, swinging his sword with every bit of might he had. It found purchase in the creatures strange neck, cutting deep into its flesh. Dark blood sprayed into Quill's eyes. Blinded, he scrambled backwards on his hands in a panic. He wiped the blood away in time to see the creature leaping, its gaping maw aimed at his face. He lifted his blade and thrust upward. The creature's momentum carried its body all the way through the blade. With its final moment of life, the creature would take its due. One of the talon like claws raked hard into Quill's face. He pulled back in time to save his life, but not his ear. Pain unlike anything he'd ever felt explode on the right side of Quill's head. Blood poured into his mouth, his eyes, down his neck and armor. He let out an anguished cry before shoving the now lifeless Needlemaw off of him and clutching his face.

The rest of the squad was still locked in combat. Quill saw Vardok nearby, crushing a Needlemaw’s body beneath his mace. Yoran swung at another injured creature with his previous victim still hanging limp on the other side of his greataxe. Every man was covered in dark blood, from wounds and enemies alike.

A strong hand grabbed Quill's shoulder and pulled him to his feet. Stevan stood over him, armor soaked in black Hallowbound blood, spear still held at the ready.

"Stand and fight, friend."

Another Needlemaw appeared from the shadows of a tree, bounding forward with rage. 

Quill's pain dulled as he and Stevan stepped toward it. The monster weaved side to side before firing another bone spear at Quill. He raised his blade just in time to deflect it, but the impact knocked the sword from his hands. He managed to stay on his feet this time as the creature leapt at him. Stevan's spear impaled it in the air, slamming it to the ground and pinning it there. It writhed and spat another bone spear into the snow. 

"Finish it!" Stevan shouted, straining to hold it in place. 

Quill fumbled for the dagger in his boot before falling on the creature and stabbing down.

He kept stabbing—again and again—and the writhing stopped. Even then he continued his assault, black blood spraying into the air with every thrust. 

Only when Stevan laid a hand on his shoulder did he relent. Chest heaving and head throbbing from the pain, he stood and looked across the field. More than twenty Needlemaw littered the ground, black blood pooling under the squad's feet. Each man stood, breath ragged, eyes looking for any sign of movement in the shadows. 

After a long silence, Trevin finally muttered, "M-more than a d-dozen."

Quill stared down at the Needlemaw he had killed. Even in death, it was hideous. On closer inspection, its skin seemed human like, only gray and withered, like it was made from the flesh of a rotting cadaver. Quill saw no eyes, no ears, no nose. Nothing it could’ve used to track them.

They really can sense us…

"Are they all dead?" Wil shouted.

"I think so," Deckard replied. 

It was over. No one had died. But...

Quill reached up to feel where his ear once was.

Nearly all gone.

Stevan clapped him on the back sending another shockwave of pain through his skull.

"Not bad for a scribbler, eh?"

He grinned and grabbed Quill’s shoulders, eyeing the wound with mock seriousness.

"And only slight disfigurement." 

Quill grimaced. "Thank you, Stevan I—" 

A shout.
A rush of air.
Snow slammed into his face.
Then, warm blood spilled over him.