The man Riku captured didn't scream again.
Even after Ashmaw pinned his shoulder against a fallen stump with one paw — claws digging just enough to warn, not tear.
Even after Riku pressed the flat of his obsidian knife against the man's cheek, cold and silent.
He breathed hard, teeth clenched.
Then spat blood and whispered, "I'm not from a tribe."
That was a lie.
Riku could see it in the way the man moved. The way he didn't panic. The silent discipline. Not a rogue. A scout. And trained.
They stripped him of gear.
Most of it was generic: shortblades carved from jungle bone, bark-glass canisters of filtered water, dried glimmerleaf meat for rations. But two things stood out.
A map fragment, drawn in curved lines and scent markers — no names, but symbols that implied zones and perimeters.
A spike of obsidian tied to a leather strap — the exact shape and material of Riku's own dagger.
Juran confirmed it quietly. "Same stonework. Could've come from the Sulfur Cradle mines, three ridges east."
Thalya frowned. "We've never seen another tribe from that far."
Riku said nothing.
But now he knew: someone was pushing into zones, collecting resources — and maps — from areas they shouldn't yet know existed.
They put the scout in the cell with the other one.
Neither spoke.
But Riku didn't need them to.
Fog rolled in over the cliffs.
Ashmaw paced the high ledge, alone. Riku sat nearby, eating in silence — roasted manaroot, dry flatleaf, and a half-boiled eye-berry. Simple, quick.
Then his vision glitched.
Not a message.
Not a warning.
Just a single line, pulsing at the bottom of his sightline:
[Enhancement Event – Combat Asset: Emberfront Unit]
– Target: Emberfront Spearman (#17)
– Condition: Combat Conditioning Recognition
– Effect: Reaction Time Improved (x1.5)
– Muscle Memory Accelerated
– Pain Threshold Slightly Raised
– Assigned Trait: "Second Strike" (Free instant thrust after first parry)
[Change applied silently.]
Riku exhaled.
That soldier — number seventeen — had been in the front lines during the Blood Moon defense. Quiet, solid, young. Never once lost footing.
Now he was better.
Not trained.
Not evolved.
Just... sharpened.
Riku reviewed his patrol rosters and reassigned #17 to central reaction command, responsible for intercepting incoming flanks and leading short-range charges. He didn't explain why. No one questioned it.
But they would notice soon enough.
That man would fight faster.
And his enemies would fall before they understood what changed.
Riku sat alone with the scout's map scrap under filtered light.
It was rough, coded in travel scent and broken paths — no terrain names, no landmarks labeled. But the center symbol was unmistakable: three rings, jagged-edged.
It was a designation mark.
Used to indicate confirmed Sovereign activity zones.
Meaning:
These scouts were not wandering.
They were documenting.
And they had confirmed multiple tribes — perhaps even Riku's — in a navigational system someone else had designed.
That was dangerous.
Because it meant someone, somewhere, was trying to map the world.
And connect it.
He stared at the map until the ink faded into the fibers.
Then he crushed it in one fist, stood, and gave a single order to Juran:
"No more prisoners."
Juran blinked. "You sure?"
"Yes. We've learned what we needed."
"And if they send more?"
"We won't let them leave."
That evening, Ashmaw let out a low hum — not a growl, not alarm.
A signal.
Riku turned toward the dark ridge and whispered, "They're coming again."
But this time, they wouldn't be watching.
This time, they'd be testing his walls.
And they'd find out just how sharp his silence had become.