Chapter 2: Shadows in the Camp

I wrote the Chief, desperate for answers—what could be so terrifying?

But for days, nothing came back.

Every day I waited, the tension in camp wound tighter. Cards stayed unplayed, coffee mugs untouched, even the rowdiest men double-checked their rifles. Rumors ran wild—some said the Chief was dead, others that he’d lost his mind or run off to Canada. I spent more time scanning the ridge for couriers than I did in my own tent.

A deep unease grew in my gut. The Chief had already been acting strange before the campaign.

A few days before we left, he was up late, watching the sky and muttering about an anomaly.

He always had a thing for the stars—old Army buddies joked he’d missed his calling as an astronomer. That night, he spent hours with the telescope on the courthouse roof, rambling about comets and bad omens. No one dared interrupt.

So for seven nights straight, he locked himself in his study, searching for answers.

I’d seen the light under his door burning all night, his shadow pacing back and forth. Even the cleaning lady said he hadn’t touched breakfast in a week.

When the Chief finally came out, two new white hairs had sprouted overnight.

Staff whispered about it in the halls. He looked ten years older, gaunt and haunted, his smile never reaching his eyes. I remembered watching him steady his hands on the mansion’s railing as he left.

After that, all the doctors and scientists in Silver Hollow were called in for a late-night meeting.

But no one knew what was discussed.

The next day, at the statehouse, the Chief filed for a northern campaign.

Suddenly, I remembered what the Chief told me before we left:

“Marcus, do you remember the great fire at Willow Creek?”

“Everyone says it was Luke Carson who set fire to the chained camps.”

“But in truth, that fire was set by the late President Grant himself.”

“Luke Carson saw the Union army across the river and was so spooked he’d already run.”

Even the Chief, usually so sure, couldn’t hide the panic in his eyes when he said it.

The great fire at Willow Creek set by President Grant himself? I could hardly believe it.

After all, the late President had led all our best troops into that battle.

Afterward, we lost our grip on the nation, and the late President died in grief at River’s End.

If it was true, why would he burn his own men alive?

While I was lost in these questions, suddenly the sound of fighting broke out outside camp.

Daniel saw me come out and nodded:

“General Marcus, for some reason, the other side sent out a young officer whose name we don’t know to challenge us.”

“I saw they had only a few dozen men, so I sent a hundred-man squad to engage.”

Daniel’s tone was light, but his eyes kept flicking to the horizon. I nodded, feeling command settle on my shoulders again.

I watched from the camp rampart.

From up on the wall, I saw the skirmish unfold—dust swirling, horses snorting, flashes of blue and gray clashing under the sun.

As soon as the sides met, the enemy fought like men with nothing to lose—never breaking ranks, faces set cold and determined.

Then, after a charge, the enemy suddenly wheeled their horses and bolted for the woods.

Classic bait-and-switch, but the way they retreated—so sudden, so rehearsed—made my skin crawl.

Daniel and I sipped coffee atop the fort wall, but after a long time, our squad never returned.

The breeze was cool, carrying the scent of wild sage. Somewhere, a harmonica played a few off-key notes before dying out, leaving the air heavy with nerves. My coffee grew cold as we waited, minutes stretching into an hour. Daniel kept glancing at his watch, lips pressed together.

Daniel finally snapped: "General Marcus, I’ll go check on them." I nodded.

He was already halfway down the stairs before I could answer. I watched him cross the field, rifle slung, shoulders squared against whatever was out there.

But before a cup of coffee could cool, Daniel returned.

He dropped to his knees before me, face ashen, voice trembling:

“So... something terrible’s happened... all our men are dead!”

He shook, eyes wild, fists clenched against his thighs. Sweat beaded his brow despite the chill.

“The way they died was awful... didn’t look like any man did it...”

His voice broke, and a chill crawled up my spine. The fort, always noisy, fell dead silent behind us.

Daniel pulled out a strange notepaper from his jacket.

“I found this in a dead man’s hand...”

He handed it to me with shaking hands, not looking me in the eye. The paper was stained, edges curled stiff with blood.

I frowned: "What’s this?"

He just shook his head, jaw clenched.

I saw clearly: blood had been used to draw strange patterns—rushed, twisted lines.

I stared at it a long time before recognizing a figure standing on a high platform, long coat and sleeves, summoning wind and rain.

A fan, a preacher’s robe, summoning storms—could this be the Chief conjuring the east wind at River’s Edge?

But why would a dying soldier draw this and hold it so tight?

What clue was he leaving for us?

The weight of that question pressed down. I felt as if the soldier’s last act was a message meant only for those willing to see. I tucked the bloodstained note away, swearing to keep it close until I found the truth.