Helga crouched low in the forest, her breath blending with the whisper of leaves. Shadows cloaked her broad frame, while the light danced in time with the breeze. Two tomahawks hung at her sides, ready and sharp. Muscles rippled under her dark green skin; she was a predator poised to strike.

  In front of her, Cade and his team left the meadow with the quiet efficiency of seasoned warriors. The image seemed at odds with the haphazard crew she had witnessed back in Scorn’s temple, and she wondered what secrets these fools had that she should know.

  For starters, there were some thieves who escaped—a fellow named Hugh, for instance, who had dropped this team for a new one.

  How interesting.

  A few words reached her if she strained her ears, but she had to keep her distance. Orro, the assassin, would’ve sensed her lurking presence if she got too close. And then there was that damned cloudrift dragonling. How the thief had managed to ingratiate himself with a beast that powerful was a mystery to her.

  Watching closely, Helga's keen eyes lingered on Cade. There was something off about him. She couldn't quite grasp it, but she was determined to unravel the mystery.

  Scorn had sent her to guard the Remnant and ensure a replacement was found, and it had become abruptly clear that these fools had lied their way out of the temple.

  She remembered the whispers about the Remnant—powerful, coveted. Cade held it, imbued with its force. If they succeeded in extracting it, they would become vulnerable, ripe for her to bring the Remnant back to her Mistress.

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  And if they failed… well, the thought of their demise painted a cruel smile on her lips.

  Despite her warrior’s heart, Helga felt the thrill of the hunt—the anticipation before the kill. Cade's group was unaware of her presence, yet their practiced movements showed they were no strangers to danger.

  The forest sighed around her, the earthy scent mingled with the anticipation of blood. She gently ran her fingertips along the handles of her tomahawks, feeling the worn leather and her name engraved on the blades. Every fiber of her being was coiled like a spring, waiting to leap.

  Cade stopped, his eyes scanning the dense foliage. For a moment, their gazes almost met. Helga's heart pounded, but she remained a silent shadow. He turned away, oblivious.

  She let out a slow breath, relief and excitement mixing in her chest.

  Orro, the assassin, moved closer to Cade, whispering something Helga couldn't hear, but she read the tension in their bodies. It wouldn't be long now; the extraction attempt seemed imminent.

  She imagined the moment: Cade on his knees, the Remnant leaving his body. His team scattered or dead—the tomahawks flashing, slicing through flesh, the forest echoing their screams.

  Her Mistress would be pleased at Helga’s enacted vengeance.

  In the cool shadows of the forest, Helga was a harbinger of doom. No squirrels raced by, and no birds dared land anywhere near her. They feared her, and the forest itself shivered in the wind around her. She waited, with patience forged in the fires of countless battles. The moment would come, and when it did, she would strike without mercy.

  For now, she was a shadow. A whisper, little more than the inevitable end biding its time. Each breath deepened her resolve, and each heartbeat echoed with her barely repressed rage.

  Soon, Helga would unleash her wrath upon them, and if she was lucky, the Remnant would be hers.

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