The wind changed that day.

  It wasn’t a storm, nor cold wind—

  just an untimely chill,

  like a leak from a roof tile had quietly soaked the whole stone floor.

  The report came while it was still light.

  A city guard on patrol near the southern slope said he saw someone by the riverside.

  Tall, still, in old military uniform—

  just standing at the edge of the water, like waiting for something.

  “I called her three times. She never turned,” he said.

  “I walked up and tapped her. That’s when she turned.”

  He didn’t describe the face.

  Only said two words:

  “Had horns.”

  We reached the site immediately.

  Nothing there.

  Only a circle of deep footprints in the sand—pressed hard, as if someone had stood there a long time.

  I crouched down, pressed my fingers into the mark.

  The spacing and depth matched her step pattern exactly.

  I recognized her posture from the snow days—

  even the habit of turning her left foot slightly outward.

  It was her. No doubt.

  But the horns—

  that detail stayed in my mind.

  Horns aren’t only for Fiendkins.

  Some tribal priests wear them.

  Some alchemic helmets use pointed shapes to reduce shock.

  But the guard was sure—

  they weren’t decorative.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “Looked like… bone. Like they grew out.”

  I didn’t question him.

  The eye can mistake color.

  The ear can mishear.

  But the outline of fear—never lies.

  He added, “She looked at me, then ran. I couldn’t catch her.”

  “She didn’t leap, didn’t teleport—just walked into the woods. But no matter how I chased, I couldn’t close the gap.”

  We locked down the southern forest.

  Set up a half-circle sweep net.

  Six-man squads fanned out into the trees.

  Signal posts every twenty steps.

  Each squad had three scouts and one magic sensor.

  We weren’t trying to capture her.

  We were trying to confirm one thing:

  Was the one who looked like our adjutant... still one of us?

  That night, I patrolled alone outside camp.

  The wind was cold—colder than in days past.

  Tree shadows swayed like something hiding.

  I climbed a slope, stared into the forest, and didn't blink.

  Then I heard footsteps.

  Not a beast. Not a soldier.

  It was that kind of step—

  the kind you recognize by rhythm alone.

  I didn’t turn.

  I just asked, “Is it you?”

  No answer.

  I asked again, not to hear a reply, but to leave the question behind:

  “Did you come back to explain—or to leave for good?”

  Wind brushed my ear.

  No voice followed.

  When I turned,

  no one was there.

  I returned to camp and called the scribe.

  I said:

  “Log into the battle report:

  Suspected traitor sighted. External mutation confirmed.

  Escaped. Not intercepted.”

  “Conclusion?” he asked.

  I looked at the blank line.

  Then said:

  “Advanced mutation detected. Designated as a Fiendkin.

  Full lockdown begins.”