Calcharo

The wind howled through Huanglong’s outer plains, carrying with it the dry scent of dust and wheat. Calcharo stood on a rise overlooking the valley below, his pale hair snapping in the current like a banner of light.

The mission was a simple one—too simple for his taste. Exiles blocking a trade route. A clean-up job, nothing more. Normally, Calcharo wouldn’t waste his time with something so mundane, but it had been days since a fight worth his blade had crossed his path. The restlessness clawed at him, and the idea of action—even minor—was enough to draw him here.

He crouched low, gaze narrowing on the camp below. Flickering fires cast dim orange halos over the makeshift tents. A few guards lingered near the outskirts, weapons slung loosely over their shoulders—they weren’t expecting trouble.

Calcharo exhaled, slow and steady, then lifted a hand to signal the others forward. The Ghost Hounds shifted into motion with quiet precision, circling wide through the sparse brush. They were green, this particular group—new blood that still believed missions like this proved something.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and measured. “Keep your heads down. We move on my mark. Anyone who panics stays behind.”

The recruits nodded quickly. He adjusted his grip on the broad blade strapped to his back, feeling the faint hum of static beneath his skin. The electricity in the air seemed to mirror his anticipation, crackling along his fingers before he forced it down. The wind picked up again, sweeping through the camp. Calcharo’s hair whipped across his face, his narrowed eyes glinting silver under the pale moonlight.

“Move.” At his word, the Ghost Hounds surged forward.

Calcharo rose to his full height and followed, his footsteps silent but deliberate. His hand settled on the hilt of his weapon as he descended the hill, eyes locked on the largest tent at the camp’s center. The leader would be inside—waiting, unaware of what was to come.