The Ghosts of Fenrir's Hollow

"GAIA, this is Seraphim. Do you copy? Over."

A voice, crisp and clear, crackled in Cutter’s earpiece. "This is GAIA Actual. We read you five-by-five. Proceed, over."

"Give me a SITREP. Over."

"We are boots on the ground in Albia, northern AO. Our official objective is to support loyalist forces in quelling a rebel coup. Unofficially, this is a cover for intelligence gathering. We are not committing our full strength. How copy? Over."

"Solid copy, Seraphim. Your new primary objective is to assist the loyalists, gain their trust, and extract any actionable intelligence. Hearts and minds. You are weapons-free to accomplish the mission. Acknowledge, over."

"Acknowledged. GAIA Actual, out."

Cutter pocketed the SAT phone, the connection severed. His gaze, hard as flint, swept over us. "Alright," he commanded, rising smoothly from his crouch. "We're Oscar Mike." He pushed forward, his G36C with its underslung M203 grenade launcher held at a low ready, slicing through the dense air.

I exchanged a nod with Bard before rising to my feet, melting into the space behind him.

Our targets were a three-man rebel patrol, meandering along the demarcation line between loyalist and rebel territory. They walked shoulder-to-shoulder through the wooded terrain of central Albia, their guard dangerously down.

"Hear the news from the Siege of Maxton?" the soldier in the center asked his comrades.

The man on the left shook his head. "No, what happened?"

"We lost," the first soldier said, his tone laced with defeat.

"What? How is that even possible?"

"I don't have the details," the first soldier admitted. "But the rumor is a pair of mages took out both siege-batteries and over a hundred of our men."

"You can't be serious," the second soldier scoffed. "Those towers were warded with sorcery. No one could have destroyed them."

"Yeah, well, they did," the first soldier insisted.

As they passed a massive, gnarled oak, a shadow detached itself from the trunk. Hands shot out, one clamping over the third soldier's mouth while the other drove a combat knife between his ribs, silencing any cry before it could form. He was dragged backward into the undergrowth without a sound.

"…Right?" the first soldier continued, turning to where his companion had been just a moment before. He was gone.

"Where the hell did he go?" the second soldier muttered. A rustle of leaves from above drew his eyes upward just in time to see a figure plummeting toward him. The impact drove the air from his lungs, slamming him to the forest floor with a sickening thud. "Argh!"

"Wha—" The first soldier watched, frozen, as the attacker locked his companion in a brutal chokehold. The man who pinned him wore mottled green-and-brown fatigues and a strange helmet bristling with optics. But it was the face that paralyzed him with terror: a grinning skull painted onto a mask. "D-Demon!" he shrieked, fumbling for his sword, just as a second adversary seized his head from behind.

"No! Let me go!" the soldier screamed, struggling against the iron grip. The hands on his skull only tightened, followed by a horrific snap that echoed through the silent woods.

The second soldier thrashed, his fingers clawing at the arm around his throat, but the pressure was relentless. Thirty seconds later, he went limp, his eyes wide and vacant, a string of saliva dangling from his lips. The figure released him, lowering an olive-drab facemask to reveal his face.

"Hostile neutralized," Arc, the Japanese operator, stated coolly.

"Same here," Bard replied, having been the one to break the first soldier's neck. His own mask was a simple, functional tan.

"Copy that. Me too," Cutter confirmed, emerging from the brush. He wore no mask, but his face was painted in a skull pattern so visceral it could make a grown man faint. "Hide the bodies. Move fast. We need to reach the village before nightfall."

This was our trade. We were Task Force G.A.I.A., the military's sharpest scalpel, now en route to a settlement named Fenrir's Hollow. As the name suggested, its population was predominantly canine-kin. The village sat squarely in the middle of disputed territory, a flashpoint between loyalist and rebel forces. Our objective was to evacuate the civilians before the loyalist army launched its inevitable counter-offensive.

Our performance during the Siege of Maxton had earned us a string of new assignments from the Albia Loyalists. They were the kind of missions conventional forces couldn't handle: assassination, sabotage, deep reconnaissance, and combat intelligence. The Albians considered some of them impossible. For us, impossible was just another day at the office.

To maximize our agility, we had traded our heavy plate carriers for lightweight chest rigs, tailored for combat recon. For this op, it was just the three of us. Elara Brightwood was scouting the borders for enemy spies; Xenous was acting as a courier between loyalist generals scattered across the region; and Brielle Vance was occupied with leading her knighthood and training militia for a major offensive.

As darkness consumed the forest, we flipped down our QNVG-18s. The world resolved into a phosphorescent green dreamscape. The quad-tube optics, famously used by OSN Sea Dragons Unit Six, gave us a panoramic, bug-eyed view of the night that was as effective as it was unnerving to our enemies.

As we neared the village perimeter, Bard’s boot came down on something soft.

"Poor girl," he murmured, looking down at the body of a young woman in Albia military armor. He slung his FN SCAR-H across his back and knelt beside her. The battle rifle, equipped with an ACOG scope and a Magpul foregrip, was his choice for this mission; its 7.62mm rounds offered superior range and stopping power over the standard 5.56.

The SEAL’s gloved fingers traced the winged insignia on the dead girl's breastplate. "Shieldmaiden Legion," he identified Albia's special knightly order. "Reminds me of the female marines we lost in the Expanse." He gently closed her unseeing eyes and offered a silent prayer.

"Dammit," I muttered, my own gaze sweeping across the area. More bodies were scattered everywhere. The chieftain's intelligence had been accurate. A fierce battle between the Shieldmaidens and rebel forces had taken place here, and recently. The blood was still tacky, the stench of death not yet masked by decay.

"The rebels hit them hard," Cutter observed, his voice grim as he surveyed the carnage, the bodies almost exclusively female. "Arc, check the village."

I nodded and moved toward the entrance gate. "Captain, I have eyes on the village," I transmitted back.

"Any hostiles? Armed foot-mobiles?"

"Negative," I replied, my gaze sweeping over a scene of total devastation. "The village is cold. We're too late."

"Roger that."

We moved into the ruins of Fenrir's Hollow. Evidence of the rebels' brutality was everywhere. Burned-out homes stood like skeletal sentinels, silent witnesses to the violence.

"Goddammit, the bastards torched everything," Bard growled, peering into a collapsed dwelling.

"This place isn't so different from Wahlrintz," I added, noting the bodies of canine-kin, mostly male, lying in the dirt streets. They were likely the local militia who had tried to fight back.

"There's nothing we can do for them," Cutter said, his eyes constantly scanning. "This whole place screams ambush. Let's head back to—" He froze, his hand shooting up in the universal signal to stop. A profound silence fell, broken only by a faint, distant sound.

"You hear that?" he whispered.

"Positive," Bard breathed as the sound came again: a low, muffled sob. We dropped into a crouch, rifles up, forming a triangle of overlapping fields of fire.

I tapped Cutter's shoulder and pointed to a one-story house to our left. Unlike the other structures, it was mostly intact, save for its shattered windows.

Cutter nodded. He pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at the house. I gave him a thumbs-up and moved silently toward the front door, the crying growing louder with each step. Bard took up a position behind me.

I took the left side of the doorframe, Cutter stacking up behind me in perfect breach formation. The captain tapped his helmet twice with a clenched fist. Bard nodded once, then drove his boot into the door, splintering the frame. I rushed in, my rifle sweeping a 90-degree arc, while Cutter covered the opposite side.

"Clear," I whispered. The sound was coming from behind a closed bedroom door. Bard moved to it, with me right behind him.

The cry came again, this time from beneath the bed. I dropped to a knee and looked, seeing nothing but dust and shadows. "Bard, give me a hand." Together, we heaved the heavy bed frame aside, revealing a hidden trapdoor in the floorboards. Peering inside, we saw a small dog-girl with matted brown fur, huddled in the dark space, her face buried in her hands.

"Cutter, we've got a survivor," Bard called softly. I flipped up my QNVG-18s and pulled down my facemask, trying to appear less threatening. The child continued to sob, terrified of us.

I offered a hand, keeping my voice low and steady. "It's okay. We're here to help." Her wide, tear-filled blue eyes locked onto mine. "Come on. Take my hand." Hesitantly, her small, trembling hand took mine, and I gently helped her from the cramped space.

"Clear!" Cutter called out, emerging from the bathroom.

The SPG operator entered the bedroom and knelt beside the girl. She flinched and hid behind me. "It's alright," I reassured her with a slight smile. "He's my leader. He's a good man."

Cutter's expression softened as he looked at the child. "You're safe now, little one," he murmured, reaching out to pat her head. "No need to be afraid." But she grabbed his hand, her eyes large and pleading.

"Please! You have to save my mommy!" she cried out.

Cutter immediately covered her mouth, hissing, "Shh, not so loud. The bad men might still be nearby." She nodded, and he removed his hand.

"What's your name?" Cutter asked gently.

"My name… is Cera," she answered in a small voice.

"What happened here, Cera?" Bard asked. "Where is everyone?"

"Th-they… they…" She dissolved into tears again.

"Hey, no, it's okay!" Bard said quickly, holding up his hands. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"S-some men… with swords came," Cera said, her voice trembling. "They took everyone. Mommy hid Cera under the floor. Then th-they took her…" She buried her face in Cutter's vest, her body wracked with sobs. "Please, save my mommy!"

"Don't you worry, little one," Cutter whispered, stroking her hair. "We're going to save your mom."

"Looks like our 'simple' evac just became a hostage rescue," Bard remarked quietly.

"So, what's the plan, Cap?" I asked. "We have no idea where they took the villagers."

Just then, our comms crackled to life. "Seraphim to all stations, HDD is online. I repeat, we have satellite overwatch," General Garret's voice announced. HDD, our deep-orbit reconnaissance satellite. I just hoped the General hadn't named it after my favorite RPG, though I doubted he even knew what that was.

"Now we're talking," Bard murmured, pulling a ruggedized tablet from his assault pack. His fingers flew across the screen. "Gotta love technology."

"Yeah," I replied, rolling my eyes. "Right up until an EMP blast. Then you're screwed."

"Stow it, you two," Cutter snapped, fixing us with a glare. "Bard, you got anything?"

"Hang on…" Bard zoomed in on the feed. "I've got multiple structures ten klicks northeast of our position. Lots of activity." He turned the tablet for us to see.

"Looks like a hidden FOB," Cutter noted, studying the image. It showed a compound cleverly concealed within the dense forest. "So this is how the rebels have been able to launch attacks so deep in loyalist territory." Cera, her curiosity piqued, crept closer to look at the screen.

"Sir, I think that's where they took the villagers," I said.

Cera's eyes widened. "Mommy? Is Mommy in there?" She snatched the tablet, her small voice desperate. "Mommy, don't worry! Cera's coming!" She thrust the device back at us, tears streaming down her face. "Please… you have to get my momma!"

The three of us let out a collective, silent sigh. Bard and I ran a hand down our faces, unconsciously mirroring our leader. "Hey, sweetheart, calm down, alright?" Bard said, his voice gentle. "This is just a map. Your mom is somewhere in that place," he explained, pointing to the FOB on the screen.

"Okay, boys," Cutter said, his voice pulling us back to the mission. "Our objective has changed. We're no longer on an evacuation; we're on a rescue. This is high-risk. Check your ammo, check your gear." We all began reloading our weapons as he spoke. He then turned to the small dog-girl. "The only question is what to do with Cera."

"Please, take Cera with you!" she begged, her puppy-dog eyes impossibly wide. "Dogs can smell people from far away. Cera can help!"

Bard took a deep breath. "Well," the American concluded, "we don't have much of a choice, do we?"

"No," Cutter agreed. "God knows what would happen if we left her here alone." He turned to me. "Arc, Cera is your responsibility. You keep her safe. Whatever it takes."

"Yes, sir. You got it." I gave Cera a gentle tap on the shoulder. "You stick with me, okay? If the bad men come, you hide right behind me." She nodded bravely.

"Alright," Cutter said, his voice low and determined. "Let's move."