CHAPTER 146: DANGER

Absolutely — here’s a rewritten

With the plan fully devised and every detail accounted for, Steve and the others spent the rest of the day resting in the quiet confines of the community. The people here welcomed them with cautious warmth — receptive, but wary. That ever-present fear lingered in the air, stitched into every movement, every breath. Sound itself had become the enemy. Even the children, and the few infants among them, were hushed with the kind of tender urgency born from survival. Laughter was a forgotten thing.

Dinner came in silence. A stew, meager but warm, crafted from what little venison they had managed to hunt down earlier. They cooked quickly, quietly — the fire brought to the barest flicker to avoid drawing attention. All eyes flicked to the edges of the treeline while the meal simmered, every shadow a threat, every snap of a twig an omen. But no enemies came. At least not yet.

They passed around tin bowls filled with the modest meal, their hands trembling more from caution than cold. And yet, even in that silence, there was something else — something that stood in stark contrast to the fear.

Steve noticed it. It wasn’t hope exactly, but it was something close — a quiet faith, centered not on any grand idea, but on a man.

Lemon.

Even in the darkness, even in the stillness of dread, they looked to him. It wasn’t in the form of loud declarations or desperate pleas — no, it was in the way they watched him, the way they moved when he moved, how their hands stopped shaking, even for a moment, when he was near. He had kept them alive this long. That meant something.

And Lemon didn’t disappoint.

As the day faded into a cold and uncertain night, he took up arms. With Jane and a few others at his side, he led a patrol around the perimeter of the camp, watching, waiting — daring anything to come too close. He wasn’t the strongest by power alone, but by resolve. Where most would crack, he stood firm.

Steve and the rest, for the first time in a while, were able to rest. Not fully — no one truly rested anymore — but enough. Enough to let their muscles relax, if only slightly. Enough to let Ali close his eyes for a few hours, knowing someone else was watching the darkness for once.

The night passed, heavy and slow.

And then came the morning.

It arrived not with light, but with sound — the distant call of birds, echoing through the trees like some forgotten memory of peace. A golden hue stretched across the horizon, spilling through the treetops. For a moment, it almost felt like the world was normal again.

But reality returned quickly.

The plan awaited them.

By the time the sun had fully crested the horizon, Steve was already up. The air was brisk, and the armor he strapped onto his body felt heavier than usual — not in weight, but in consequence. Every buckle fastened was another step closer to whatever would come next.

Fiona stood beside him, silent, focused. Her armor was already in place, glinting faintly in the soft morning light. Neither of them needed to speak. They both knew what the day held.

Without fanfare, they stepped out of the camp together, their boots crunching softly against the damp earth. The journey ahead wasn’t going to be easy. But they were ready.

They said their goodbyes in low voices, the kind that carried weight even in silence. Lemon clasped Steve’s hand with a firm grip, his usual quiet strength lingering behind his eyes. Sarah offered Fiona a brief, solemn hug, and Tonya—always the first to smile—just nodded and gave a quiet "Be safe."

Then, with little more than a final glance at the camp, Steve and Fiona turned and left.

Their mission had resumed.

The search for Maggie.

The first stop was obvious—the river. The very place they had first encountered Lemon. If there were any clues to follow, any trace of where Maggie might have gone, it would be there.

The walk back was quiet. The path, though familiar, felt different now. The tension was thicker. The silence heavier.

By the time they reached the riverbank, the morning sun had risen fully, casting golden streaks across the rippling water. The current moved with the same lazy grace as before, but Steve’s focus wasn’t on the river. His eyes flicked from one patch of earth to another, scanning with the precision of someone who had been through too much to trust the peace.

He crouched low, squinting at the ground. Nothing. Just their own footprints from the previous night—faint, fading fast. No signs of struggle. No fresh imprints. No trail.

Steve’s jaw tightened.

Either the tracks had been erased... or they’d never been there to begin with.

He started to pace, sweeping his eyes over the banks with increasing urgency. Fiona joined him, her boots crunching softly over wet gravel as they traced wider and wider circles along the water’s edge. Minutes passed. The wind whistled lightly through the trees. Still, nothing.

Finally, Fiona let out a sharp, frustrated groan.

"Damn it! There’s no sign of her—anywhere."

Steve didn’t look at her. He just kept scanning the area, eyes sharp. "Don’t wear yourself out," he said quietly. "She’s out there. We’ll find her. We just need to be patient, alright?"

Fiona gave him a sidelong look, her expression clouded. "Easy for you to say." She sighed, folding her arms. "I’m just... tired of walking in circles. We’re not getting anywhere."

Steve nodded slowly, still not meeting her eyes. "I know. But we can’t afford to give up. She’s out there. I know she is."

And then he stopped.

Mid-sentence.

His voice faded as his gaze froze on something in the distance—something just barely out of place.

Without a word, he stepped forward.

"Steve?" Fiona called, frowning. "What is it?"

He didn’t reply. He just kept walking, slowly, as if pulled forward by instinct. His boots sank lightly into the riverbank with each step. Fiona followed, now close behind, her earlier frustration slipping into confusion.

"Steve, talk to me. What are you—?"

Then she saw it.

A footprint.

Massive. Pressed deep into the soft mud just beyond the tree line.

Not just one, either.

Several.

And they didn’t belong to a normal person. The impressions were far too large, too heavy. Whatever made them had size... and power.

A giant.

The footprints trailed along the riverbank, leading somewhere deeper into the woods.

Steve knelt beside one of them, brushing a few leaves away to get a clearer look. His face was unreadable, but Fiona could see it—the slight narrowing of his eyes.

The prints didn’t belong to a lone wanderer.

They didn’t even belong to a group.

No.

They belonged to goblins.

And not just a handful.

Steve and Fiona stood frozen at the riverbank, staring at the impossible spread of footprints pressed deep into the earth — hundreds of them. Dozens at first glance, then more. They stretched across the clearing like a sea of clawed impressions, all converging at a single point before veering into the dense forest ahead.

Fiona’s breath caught in her throat.

"Oh god..." she murmured, her voice trembling. "There must be... fifty? A hundred?"

Steve didn’t answer. He stepped forward slowly, his boots crunching against the edge of a print nearly the size of his torso. He crouched, running his fingers along the edges. The soil was still damp.

"Fresh," he muttered. "Too fresh."

His eyes followed the trail — a winding path of destruction that vanished into the underbrush. Whatever this was, it hadn’t happened long ago.

"We’ve never seen this many before," Fiona said. "Not even close."

Steve stood up slowly, jaw clenched tight. "They moved as a unit. A whole clan, maybe more."

Behind them, the quiet rush of the river was the only sound. The birds had gone silent.

Fiona looked around, unsettled. "What do we do?"

Steve didn’t hesitate. "We follow them."

"What?" she blinked, startled. "Steve, are you serious?"

He nodded. "The prints lead straight into the forest. And that forest is the same one the refugee camp is in."

Fiona’s face twisted in disbelief. "No. No way. That can’t be—Steve, the camp is west. These prints are headed east. That’s the opposite direction."

"I know," he said. "But distance doesn’t matter when you’re dealing with this many. If they loop back, or if they’re scouting... it doesn’t take much for them to stumble across the camp. And if they do—"

"They won’t. They’re far. Too far," Fiona insisted, but her voice cracked with uncertainty.

"Maybe," Steve replied calmly. "Maybe not. But can we risk it?"

Fiona looked at him, struggling for words. "Even if they are heading that way, what do you expect us to do? Take on a horde? That’s suicide."

"I’m not trying to fight a hundred goblins," Steve said. "I’m trying to warn the others. We at least need to be there—help them escape, lead them out, something. We can’t just turn our backs."

"And what if this is a trap?" Fiona shot back. "What if we’re walking straight into it?"

Steve turned toward the forest, his eyes narrowing at the tangled shadows. "Then at least we’ll know."

There was a pause. The tension between them was thick, like a storm pressing against the skin.

Fiona exhaled slowly. "This is the first time we’ve seen them like this. A swarm. They’ve always moved in small packs. Five. Maybe a dozen. But this..."

She trailed off, her voice barely a whisper. Her eyes flicked again to the ground, to the monstrous number of tracks disappearing into the trees.

"What the hell could’ve drawn them all together?" she asked. "Why now?"

Steve didn’t answer immediately. His gaze was distant, troubled.

"I don’t know," he finally said. "But we need to find out. If we’re going to survive this entire mess, we need to understand what’s coming. Not just fight it blindly."

For a moment, there was only the rustling of leaves.

Then Fiona nodded, reluctantly. "Alright. But we move carefully."

Steve gave a faint nod. "Agreed."

\n(o)v.e\l.com

They exchanged one last look, and then turned toward the treeline.

Together, they followed the trail into the woods, where answers—and danger—awaited.