Captain Feren stood at the forefront of his trusted band of elven warriors, their figures sleek and graceful against the backdrop of Mirkwood’s towering trees. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, a familiar aroma that both comforted and heightened his senses. They had departed swiftly from the heart of the kingdom, where King Thranduil ruled, setting out to investigate a disturbance reported at the edge of their realm. As they ventured deeper into the shadows of the forest, Feren raised a hand, signaling his companions to tread lightly.

“Stay close,” he whispered, his voice barely above the rustle of leaves. “We do not yet know what awaits us.” His keen eyes scanned the underbrush, attuned to the slightest movement, the faintest sound that might betray the source of their unease. The group moved in silence, each step measured and deliberate. The warriors were clad in dark green and brown, their cloaks blending seamlessly with the foliage around them. Feren could feel the tension in the air, a palpable reminder that danger lurked just beyond their sight. He trusted his companions implicitly; they had trained together for years, honing their skills and instincts.

As they reached a clearing, the disturbance became evident. The ground was churned up, and the remains of a campfire smoldered, its embers barely clinging to life. Feren knelt, examining the ground closely. “This was recent,” he murmured, his voice steady despite the unease settling in his gut.