Fillan Foxweaver

The forest was alive with muted whispers of the night—rustling leaves, distant hoots of owls, and the soft crunch of paws on the undergrowth. Fillian crouched low, her body blending into the shadows as she observed the two men standing by the truck. They were laughing, one tossing a cigarette onto the damp ground while the other slung his rifle over his shoulder. Insurgents. Scum.

Her grip tightened on the bone knife, a weapon as primal as her instincts. The blade had been sharpened to a vicious edge, its pale surface glinting faintly under the moonlight. She couldn’t let these men alert anyone or escape.

Fillian parted her lips and let out the fox's keening cry—a high-pitched, eerie wail that cut through the forest like a ghost’s lament. The men froze, their heads snapping toward the sound.

"The hell was that?" one of them muttered, his voice low but nervous.

"Fox, maybe," the other replied, though his grip on the rifle tightened. "Stay sharp."

They turned their backs to her, scanning the trees, and that was all she needed. Silent as death, Fillian closed the gap. The first man didn’t even realize she was there until her knife found his throat, slicing clean and deep. She caught his body before it fell, lowering him to the ground without a sound.

The second man turned, his eyes wide, but Fillian was on him before he could react. Her knife sank into his gut, and when he tried to cry out, her teeth clamped down on his throat, feral and unyielding. His muffled screams were short-lived.

When he went limp, she dropped him unceremoniously. Her breath came quick, fogging in the cold air. She wiped her knife on the man’s jacket and straightened, her eyes darting toward the truck.

There would be more enemies soon. But for now, the forest was hers, and the trail to her team was one step clearer.