ShadowBound: The Need For Power

One or two hours had passed since Chris Rature landed south of Veyrhold, and if Eldervale had intended to humble him at the beginning, it had failed to do so.

Compared to what many of the scattered second-years were likely enduring, Chris knew he had been dealt a stronger hand. His group had formed quickly after arrival, not because every student had landed neatly beside him, but because enough of them had appeared within a workable radius and responded well once he started giving orders.

Seventeen students with few injuries and no immediate dead weight. Several capable fighters, one healer-support student, one archer, an Earth Magic user, a few Tempestian students already inclined to listen to him, and Logan, who was many things Chris found useful when those things were aimed correctly.

It was not perfect.

It was better than most.

Chris understood that, and he used it.

The group moved north-northeast through the dark forest in a formation he had established within the first half hour. Two scouts kept ahead at a controlled distance, close enough to return quickly but far enough to warn the main body before it walked into a threat. Stronger fighters held the flanks, their job not to look impressive but to keep the sides from collapsing if something struck from the trees.

Logan moved near the front as muscle, spear in hand, broad shoulders tense with readiness. Mela, the Water Magic student with healing training, stayed near the center with the less steady students protected around her. One student marked the route behind them with careful cuts and chalk signs, though Chris had already reminded him twice not to make the marks so obvious that every creature with eyes could follow them.

Chris walked near the front-middle, not fully leading from the tip, not hiding in the center either.

He wanted the group to see him.

That mattered.

A commander hidden too deeply in formation became a voice without shape. A commander too far ahead became bait. Chris placed himself where orders could travel quickly, where he could observe the scouts returning, where Logan could act on his command without delay, and where the students inside the formation could feel that he was moving with them rather than sending them forward while he remained safe.

The method worked.

It was sharper than Sheila’s would be, he was sure. Less soft. Less concerned with easing everyone into steadiness. Chris did not ignore fear, but he treated it as something to be pressed into movement before it grew roots. His group did not need to stand around discussing every feeling the forest stirred in them. They needed to move, think, obey, and reach Veyrhold before the realm turned their scattered arrival into weakness.

He kept his eyes moving as they advanced.

The terrain sloped gradually upward in uneven stretches, which confirmed the direction they had chosen from the map and constellation reference. Broken branches along the left side suggested something large had passed through earlier, but the break pattern was old enough and too high to indicate an immediate threat. The mist was thicker in the low pockets between roots, and Chris ordered the group to avoid stepping through the densest patches unless necessary.

Sound traveled strangely between the trees, sometimes carrying farther than it should, sometimes dying too quickly. Once, Logan whispered something barely louder than breath and a student three places back heard it clearly. A few minutes later, one of the scouts called softly from no great distance, and the sound reached them muffled and warped.

Chris adjusted formation after that.

"Closer intervals," he ordered. "Not crowded. Close enough that hand signals pass if sound fails."

The students obeyed.

He watched their condition too. Varis, one of the flank fighters, was steady. Taron, who had been managing the map, looked nervous but functional. Mela’s breathing remained controlled, which confirmed she was not yet fatigued.

The archer, Iven, kept scanning the upper branches more than the ground, so Chris told him once to watch the mist lines as well. Two of the weaker students in the center had started lifting their feet too high over roots, wasting energy, and he corrected that too.

"Shorter steps," he said. "The forest is uneven, not a staircase. Stop fighting the ground."

They adjusted.

Stopping too long in open forest was a risk. Moving too fast was also a risk. Chris knew that. He was not stupid, no matter what certain people seemed to think. The trick was to maintain pace without letting the group become loose, loud, or blind. They could not afford panic, but neither could they afford hesitation disguised as caution. Veyrhold was the objective. The sooner they reached it, the sooner they could claim walls, central ground, and proof.

Proof mattered.

Sheila had the title now, recognized before deployment. Commander. The word sat in Chris’s mind like a splinter under the skin. She had earned enough support after the arena debate to take it, and the year had accepted Edith as vice with irritating ease. But Eldervale was not Beacon Hall, and it was not the arena.

Titles given before deployment could be weakened by results after arrival. If Chris reached Veyrhold first with a larger, organized group, if he secured an entry point, gathered students, and began turning chaos into action before Sheila appeared, the entire year would see the difference.

She could have the speech.

He would have the outcome.

Logan drew closer as the scouts paused ahead to check a root-choked passage. His voice dropped, but not enough for Chris’s liking. "This is why the year should have chosen you. We are actually moving instead of standing around counting breaths like scared first-years."

Chris looked at him sharply. "Lower your voice."

Logan blinked, then glanced back toward the center of the group. A few students were near enough to hear if the forest carried sound poorly in the wrong direction.

Chris continued, quieter but firm. "Openly insulting Sheila in front of everyone makes us look petty, not prepared. We are not here to complain. We are here to perform."

Logan lowered his head slightly. "Right. My mistake."

Chris looked forward again. "Keep your attention on the scouts."

Logan obeyed, but Chris allowed himself to enjoy the words for one private second.

This was why the year should have chosen him.

Logan was crude, but not wrong. Chris was moving. Chris was organizing. Chris was making decisions while the realm was still dark and dangerous around them. If Sheila was somewhere behind them, being careful and gentle with every frightened student she encountered, then let her. There was value in that, perhaps. But command was not only preservation. Command was momentum. It was taking the field before the field consumed those too slow to claim it.

One of the scouts returned before Chris could think further.

Naren, a lean girl with quiet feet and sharp eyes, came in low through the trees and signaled once. The second scout, Pell, followed several steps behind, breathing harder but controlled. Both stopped in front of Chris, and he lifted one hand to halt the formation. The group obeyed with only a little shuffling.

"Report," Chris said.

Naren spoke first. "We found another group. Six of them. They are northwest of here, not far."

"Condition?"

"In trouble," Pell said. "Realm-Touched threats. I think Glassmaws."

Chris’s eyes narrowed. "How many students injured?"

"One definitely," Naren answered. "Maybe two exhausted or disoriented. They are wasting Myst striking at mist and reflections. I did not see anyone pinned."

"What terrain?"

"Low mist pocket between stone ridges and roots. Narrow channel on the far side. A lot of reflective mineral patches on the rocks."

"Surrounded?"

"Not fully," Pell said. "But they are turning in circles. The creatures keep appearing and vanishing around them. They cannot tell where the real bodies are."

"How many threats?"

"Three confirmed," Naren said. "Possibly four. Moving like a pack, but not charging together. They herd them with false angles."

"How far?"

"Three minutes if we move fast. Five if careful."

Chris did not move immediately.

He pictured the terrain as she described it. Mist pocket. Reflective stones. Root-lined channel. Glassmaws. The guide had described them as low-light predators adapted to visual distortion. Lean bodies, reflective hide patches, translucent jaw plates, movements that bent perception in mist. They did not need to be invisible if they could make students attack the wrong place.

"Any signs of larger threats nearby?" he asked.

"None," Naren said. "But sound is strange there. Hard to judge distance."

Chris looked toward Mela. "You stay center unless I call you forward. Iven, with me. Varis, Logan, front pressure. Taron, hold the main group here and keep formation tight. No one follows unless ordered."

Taron looked startled. "Me?"

"You have the map and you have been watching route discipline. Keep them here. If anything approaches, withdraw ten paces south to the marked root split and hold there."

Taron swallowed but nodded. "Understood."

Chris turned to the rest. "We retrieve them quickly. No heroics. No scattering. Glassmaws use confusion, not strength. Do not chase what your eyes want to believe."

The words steadied the group more than he expected. He noticed that and stored it away. People liked clear danger better than vague fear. Give fear a name and rule, and it became something they could stand inside without breaking.

Chris took Logan, Varis, Iven, Naren, Pell, and one shield-bearing student named Casso. Mela followed at a distance despite his first order, close enough to help if the injured student worsened but far enough not to be drawn into the first engagement. Chris noticed and allowed it. A support student with judgment was useful, as long as she did not start mistaking caution for command.

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