The fog clung low to the damp earth, swirling around our boots like gray water as we marched in disciplined silence. We had intentionally chosen to go on foot, leaving every vehicle parked in the subterranean garages back at the stronghold. Engines were far too loud, their metallic rumble easily carrying through the quiet forest floor and giving away our location miles before we ever reached the ridge. A dark, quiet march was our best cover, and luckily, the distance wasn’t far.
The morning air grew colder as we neared the ridge, carrying the faint, crisp scent of pine resin and wet pine needles. No one spoke. The vanguard moved with the fluid, silent grace of seasoned predators, their hands resting loosely on weapons, their eyes constantly sweeping the shadows of the old-growth timber.
