Interlude 5


    Raven Five


    The capsule hums with a low, resonant vibration, its walls shimmering faintly with alien runes. Stagger sits rigid, his back pressed against the slick, metallic surface of his seat. The others are quiet, their breaths steady but tense, as the descent accelerates. A soft hiss fills the air, and Stagger feels the shift—his stomach lurches as the capsule tilts into a steeper dive.


    “Brace,” Flint says, his voice steady. “We hit in twenty.”


    The temperature inside the capsule drops sharply, and a thick, translucent gel begins to seep from the walls and floor. It is cool against Stagger’s armor, flowing upward until it encases his legs, his torso, and finally his head. He closes his eyes as the gel fills the small space around him, its density pressing against his skin like a second layer. Breathing feels strange but not impossible, as the substance oxygenates automatically. He knows the gel is engineered to absorb the shock of impact, but it does not stop the tension in his chest.


    The capsule shakes violently as it hits the upper layers of the atmosphere, streaking through the fractured sky like a comet. Outside, the metallic forest stretches upward, its impossible geometry twisting into fractal patterns. Light refracts off the trees, casting jagged rainbows into the void below.


    The capsule jolts again, harder this time, and the gel tightens around him. Stagger forces himself to stay calm, his fingers gripping the harness at his sides. The others are visible through the thick haze of the gel: Flint at the front, stoic and unmoving; Wren shifting nervously, his head jerking toward every sound; Edge smirking as though this is just another game; Ash silent, his massive frame still as stone.


    “Impact in five,” Flint says. His voice sounds muffled, distorted by the gel.


    Stagger closes his eyes, counting down in his head.


    Four. The capsule roars, its walls groaning under the strain.


    Three. The gel presses harder, locking his body in place.


    Two. The ground rushes up to meet them, the metallic terrain gleaming with an unnatural light.


    One.


    The capsule slams into the forest floor with a deafening crash, its reinforced hull crumpling slightly on impact. The gel absorbs the worst of the force, holding them in place as the energy disperses outward. For a moment, there is silence, the air thick with the hum of the forest.


    Then the gel begins to retreat, draining back into the capsule’s walls. Stagger gasps as his lungs fill with air, the sudden rush leaving him momentarily lightheaded. Around him, the others unbuckle their harnesses, moving with practiced efficiency.


    “Form up,” Flint orders, already stepping toward the exit. The hatch hisses open, revealing the alien landscape beyond.


    The metallic forest looms around them, its twisting branches reaching skyward like skeletal fingers. Stagger steps out of the capsule, his boots crunching against the strange, gleaming ground. The air hums with an almost musical resonance, the vibrations thrumming through his chest.


    “Formation Gamma,” Flint says, scanning the horizon. His spear glints faintly in the fractured light. “Stay sharp.”


    Wren takes his position on the left, his spear at the ready. Edge moves to the right, his movements loose and confident. Ash lumbers behind Stagger, a steady and silent presence. Stagger falls into place, his eyes darting across the shifting landscape. The forest feels alive, the branches moving subtly, as if observing their every step.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Stagger’s gaze catches on faint marks in the metallic soil—a dragging pattern, uneven but deliberate. He crouches, running a gloved hand over the grooves. They feel recent, the edges sharp and untouched by the forest’s shifting geometry.


    “Stagger,” Flint snaps, his voice sharp. “Eyes up.”


    Stagger rises, letting the marks fade from his focus. His instincts whisper that something is wrong, but he keeps his thoughts to himself, falling back into formation as they move deeper into the forest.


    The gel, the crash, the shifting forest—it all feels like a prelude. Stagger’s chest tightens with the weight of unspoken tension.


    Something is coming.


    Something close.


    A patch of ground, seemingly solid, shifts beneath Wren’s boots. He stumbles with a yelp, catching himself on a low-hanging branch. The others freeze, weapons raised, as the ground ripples like water. A tendril of metal lashes out from the earth, coiling toward Wren’s leg. Flint moves instantly, severing the tendril with a single strike of his spear. The ground stills, the forest falling silent once more.


    “Everyone all right?” Flint asks, scanning the group.


    “Fine,” Wren mutters, though his face is pale.


    Edge smirks and cuts in with a dry chuckle. “Somebody remind me—is this a mission or a babysitting gig?”


    Stagger does not respond.


    He crouches again, running his hand over the severed tendril. It feels warm to the touch, pulsating faintly before it dissolves into the ground. He straightens, watching the way the forest seems to ripple in response.


    “Let’s keep moving,” Flint orders, and they press on.


    Stagger lingers at the rear, his gaze darting between the shifting trees and the faint marks in the ground. Something about this place feels wrong—not just dangerous, but deliberate, as though the forest itself is alive and watching. The hum grows louder, a subtle vibration beneath his feet.


    They reach a fork in the path. One direction slopes upward, the other delves deeper into the forest. Flint pauses, considering their options.


    “Suggestions?” he asks.


    “The high ground,” Wren says quickly. “Better visibility.”


    “Deeper,” Edge counters. “That’s where the action will be.”


    Ash remains silent, his calm gaze fixed on Flint. Stagger hesitates, then steps forward.


    “The deeper path,” he says softly. “It’s less disturbed. If there’s something dangerous, it has not been through there yet.”


    Flint glances at him, eyebrows raised. Stagger keeps his face neutral, letting his words hang in the air. After a moment, Flint nods.


    “All right. Deeper it is. Stay sharp.”


    As they move, the forest seems to shift around them. The metallic trees lean closer, their branches twisting into impossible shapes. The light dims, shadows stretching long and unnatural. Stagger keeps his spear ready, but his attention is divided. He notices everything: the faint vibrations in the ground, the subtle shifts in the air, the way the trees seem to breathe.


    Then he sees it—a shard of something embedded in the ground, glinting faintly in the dim light. He crouches, running his fingers over the jagged edge. It is smooth and cold, humming faintly with energy. Recognition flashes through him: Skathrith. His stomach tightens. He slips the shard into his pouch before anyone notices and rises, his gaze darting to the trees.


    The hum intensifies, vibrating through the forest like a warning. Stagger slows, glancing over his shoulder. The others press forward, unaware of the growing tension. His pulse quickens as the shadows shift, shapes flickering at the edge of his vision.


    “Something’s wrong,” he says, his voice low.


    Flint glances back at him, frowning. “Stay focused, Stagger.”


    The words are barely out of his mouth when the forest explodes into motion. Metallic branches lash out, the ground splitting open as the Thrynix emerge from the shadows—creatures with translucent chitin faintly aglow and limbs tipped in serrated claws. Their clicking mandibles reflect shards of pale light, while shadowy shapes writhe beneath their shells. A chorus of chittering echoes through the clearing, an eerie rhythm that grates against Stagger’s nerves.


    “Ambush!” Flint shouts. “Form up!”


    The team scrambles, their weapons flashing as the Thrynix close in. Stagger presses himself against a twisted trunk, heart pounding. The shard in his pouch hums faintly, its energy pulsing against his skin. He grips his spear tightly, forcing himself to breathe.


    These Thrynix are coordinated, their movements precise. Stagger watches them through the distorted reflections in the glassy sky above, tracking their positions. Five of them, armed with lethal claws and dripping mandibles, their void-black eyes set on the group with singular focus. They are not random creatures—they are Thrynix, lethal and deliberate in their assault.


    He tightens his grip on his spear. The hum in the air grows deafening, the shard in his pouch vibrating violently. He knows he could unleash it, let its power surge through him and obliterate the threat. The thought tempts him, but he remembers his secret mission.


    This is suppose to be his first mission.


    He is suppose to be the weakest member of Raven Five.


    The Thrynix surge closer, their clicking intensifying as they fan out around the group. Stagger steadies his breath, fingers curling around his weapon. He will not use the shard. Not yet. Not like this.


    As the first Thrynix steps into the clearing, Stagger moves, quick and precise, his spear slicing through the chaos.


    The battle begins.