Garrin broke the silence first, his voice light but edged with curiosity. “You know, it’s not unheard of for bastards of noble houses to show up in odd places. Usually, though, they don’t come with abilities like yours. Most nobles don’t even have powers, much less anything close to yours.”

  Edric sighed, his sharp gaze cutting through the dim firelight. “Can we focus on the task at hand, Garrin? Or is idle chatter your idea of guarding the camp?”

  “Idle words stave off the cold, don’t they?” Garrin shot back with a grin, then turned to Ronan. “Still, it’s interesting, isn’t it? Makes you wonder—who in your family tree had a little fun with the wrong crowd?”

  Leoric’s calm voice carried a quiet weight. “Enough. Ronan’s here now, and that’s what matters. Save the bloodlines for the historians.”

  The group pressed beyond the camp’s edge, the forest swallowing them with its dark canopy and curling mist. The faint flicker of campfires behind them seemed a world away, leaving them in an uneasy limbo between light and shadow. Every step felt heavier, the oppressive quiet pressing in.

  A sudden rustle to their left shattered the stillness. Garrin froze, his body coiled like a spring. In a flash, he darted forward, his movements unnaturally quick, and snatched something from the underbrush.

  “Gotcha,” he muttered, holding up a squirming rodent by its tail. He inspected it with a smirk before tossing it back into the brush. “Nothing to worry about. But hey, reflexes save lives—and catch snacks.” He shot Ronan a wink, his grin undimmed by the forest’s tension.

  Edric folded his arms, his tone dry. “More like they save you when you’ve annoyed someone into swinging at you.”

  “Guilty as charged,” Garrin replied with a grin. He turned to Ronan, his voice light but sincere. “Still, speed is life out here, mate. You’ll learn.”

  Leoric sighed again, his tone tinged with exasperation. “Stop showing off, Garrin. You’re burning energy you might need later.”

  Garrin shrugged, unrepentant. “Plenty to spare.” His grin was infectious as he strolled over to Ronan. Lowering his voice to a theatrical whisper, he added, “So, I heard you got to spar with our dear leader, the Knight Paramount. Tell me—did you last one round or two? Poor Edric here barely managed three before the Duke planted him on his ass.” His grin widened, clearly relishing the tale.

  “I’m not sure,” Ronan replied, suppressing a grin of his own. “All I know is I woke up on my back with him standing over me. Thought for sure he’d take offense at me trying my hardest to kill him.”

  Edric spoke softly, but there was a faint, impressed note to his voice. “He lasted nearly ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes?” Garrin’s eyebrows shot up as he turned back to Ronan, his expression exaggerated for effect. “That’s nearly as good as Leoric. No wonder he asked you to join us.” His grin turned conspiratorial as he leaned closer. “And if even half the stories of the great Reaper of the Sardian Pass are true, we’ll be lucky to have you.”

  Ronan opened his mouth to reply, but Leoric stepped forward abruptly, his sharp gaze sweeping the treeline ahead. His posture stiffened, and his hand hovered near the hilt of his sword. “Quiet,” he said softly, but the word carried an authority that silenced the group instantly.

  Ronan strained his ears, but heard nothing unusual. The forest ahead seemed unchanged, its shadows thick and inscrutable. Still, Leoric’s focused stance sent a ripple of unease through him.

  “You feel that?” Leoric murmured, his eyes narrowing. “The wind’s changed. Something’s wrong.”

  Ronan glanced toward the forest, his pulse quickening. It was just darkness—branches and mist, nothing more. But Leoric’s calm intensity made him doubt his own senses.

  “Relax,” Garrin whispered, though his own hand had shifted toward his blade. “Leoric’s just got a knack for spotting trouble before it finds us.”

  Leoric didn’t respond, his gaze still fixed ahead. After a moment, he turned back to the group. “Stay sharp. We’re moving closer to the tree line. Spread out and keep a hundred feet between each of you—if something happens, we’ll need space to respond. Eyes and ears open. Ronan take position between me and Garrin.”

  They moved into position, the glow of the campfires fading as they spread out along the tree line. Standing just beyond the light’s reach, Ronan felt the cool night air settle around him. The faint murmur of voices and the occasional rustle of movement drifted from the camp behind him, grounding him in the moment—but just barely. Beyond that, the forest pressed in, its shadows stretching long and deep. A twig snapped somewhere far off, and Ronan tensed, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword.

  "Probably one of those goats," he muttered, though his grip lingered on the sword. The words hung in the air, swallowed by the forest as if it had been waiting to listen.

  He shook his head, trying to steady his breath. It was just the night playing tricks—shadows deeper than they should be, sounds sharper in the stillness. But the unease clung to him, the kind that crept under the skin and refused to let go.

  He strained his senses, standing motionless as he stared into the forest. The mountains loomed above, their jagged silhouettes blotting out the stars and the moon. They felt less like protectors and more like silent sentinels, watching and waiting.

  The slight wind whispered through the trees, carrying a low, mournful whistle that tugged at his nerves. Branches swayed in the darkness, their movements casting fleeting shadows that seemed to reach for him.

  It felt irrational, this creeping fear, but Ronan couldn’t quite banish it. It gnawed at the edges of his mind, whispering of dangers he couldn’t name. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, the cool leather grounding him even as his thoughts churned.

  Another twig snapped, this time closer. Ronan’s pulse quickened, his heart drumming loudly in his ears. His fingers curled tighter around the hilt as he scanned the darkness, every sense straining for movement.

  To his right, Leoric’s outline stood steady, barely shifting. He looked relaxed, almost bored. A faint pang of frustration bubbled within Ronan. How could Leoric seem so calm when every nerve in his own body screamed of danger?

  Ronan clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus. The forest whispered around him, alive with the faint promise of something unseen. This was nothing like the streets of Kestrel at night. Back home, the streets never truly slept. Even in the dead of night, there were voices—merchants unloading goods, drunks stumbling home, the clatter of hooves on cobblestones. There was order, even in the chaos.

  Here, there was none of that. The only people were those back at camp, their faint murmurs barely reaching him through the trees. Beyond that, there was only silence, broken by the wind’s low moan and the occasional snap of a branch. The forest was alive, its whispers like secrets exchanged in the dark. Shadows stretched and shifted, their shapes too fluid, too alive.

  The order of Kestrel felt like a distant memory. Back home, there were walls, lanterns, and people. Here, the only walls were the trees, their branches twisted like claws, reaching toward the pale, cold light of the stars.

  A roar of laughter erupted from the camp behind him, breaking the fragile stillness. He turned instinctively, his gaze pulled toward the light. The glow of the campfire obscured everything beyond its reach, blinding him to the world outside its circle.

  "Probably someone who got too drunk," he muttered to himself, the sound of his voice strange in the heavy silence. It wasn’t like him to talk to himself—it made him feel oddly exposed, as if the forest might be listening.

  Turning back, he realized his mistake immediately. His night vision was ruined, the darkness now an impenetrable void. Shapes that had been clear moments ago—trees, rocks, the faint lines of the horizon—were swallowed whole. He blinked rapidly, willing his eyes to adjust, but the shadows seemed to press closer, alive with the subtle shift of branches and the whisper of the wind.

  Another crack of a twig breaking sounded somewhere ahead. Ronan tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword but forced himself to stay calm. The Varn had been soundly beaten; their scattered remnants would hardly dare to strike back. And besides, he wasn’t alone. He was flanked by three trained Knights—men whose skill and reputation were legendary. Who would dare attack them out here?

  But the shadows didn’t care for logic, nor did the wind that carried faint noises too hard to place. He shook his head, exhaling slowly. He couldn’t let himself be rattled. The Knights would handle anything that came their way, and he’d follow their lead. That was the plan.

  And yet, the forest felt too still. No hoot of an owl, no rustle of a small animal—just the wind, carrying whispers that might have been voices. Ronan’s pulse quickened despite himself, his thoughts gnawing at the edge of reason.

  “Just the night,” he muttered under his breath, though the words offered no comfort.

  A sharp thud slammed into his right shoulder, driving him backward. He hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. Pain flared, hot and immediate, as he gasped for air.

  A faint whistle followed, cutting through the silence with a sinister clarity. Another pierced the air above him, close enough to ruffle his hair. Arrows, his mind supplied, though the thought felt distant, as if it belonged to someone else.

  Instinct screamed louder than the pain. Ronan scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding in his chest. His eyes darted through the oppressive darkness, searching for the source, but the forest revealed nothing—only shadows and the rustling of branches. The whistles continued, sharper now, like death whispering through the trees.

  “To arms, we are under attack!” Leoric’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding, cutting through the chaos. “Garrin, warn the camp! Edric and Ronan, to me!”

  The meaning was clear, the logic sound, but it barely registered. Something else stirred within Ronan, stronger than reason. The familiar, wild joy surged through him, wrapping around his chest like fire.

  His legs moved before he could think, carrying him into the trees. The shadows seemed alive, closing in around him, but he welcomed them. Each step quickened his pulse, the thrill drowning out pain and fear. The faint whisper of caution flickered at the edges of his mind, but it was already too late—he was running, the joy consuming him, into the dark unknown.

  As he ran, his hand shot up to the arrow lodged in his shoulder. The pain flared hot and bright as he wrenched it free, the sharp tip coated in blood. He barely registered it. The weight of the wound was a distant thing, drowned in the pounding of his heart and the heady rush of movement. He flexed his fingers, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly, testing. Yes. He could still swing.

  “Ronan, get back here!” The shout cut through the air, faint, distant, like a memory trying to claw its way forward. But it was lost beneath the rush of his breath and the crack of twigs beneath his boots.

  The forest seemed alive, its shadows twisting and shifting with every step. Branches clawed at his clothes, their gnarled fingers urging him deeper into their grasp. The thrill surged higher, a reckless, consuming fire in his chest. Nothing else mattered—only the next step, the next breath, the promise of something waiting in the dark.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  The arrow hissed through the air, a sharp whisper of death. He didn’t see it so much as feel its presence, dodging effortlessly as it cut through the space where he’d just been. His body moved faster than thought, instincts guiding him as he closed the distance to the nearest enemy.

  Every muscle tensed, his movements fluid yet explosive, carrying him forward like a predator closing on its prey. The thrill burned brighter, each step pounding with the promise of blood. As the figure loomed closer, he let loose a roar—so savage, so primal, it hardly felt like his own. The sound tore from deep within him, raw and unrestrained, echoing through the trees like the bellow of some ancient beast.

  The figure faltered, just for a moment, and Ronan felt the surge of exhilaration grow stronger. The darkness around him no longer felt oppressive—it felt like home.

  His sword arced down with unrelenting force. The blade struck the bow first, splintering it with a sharp crack before driving into the enemy’s chest. The resistance was fleeting, the steel slicing through muscle and bone as though the forest itself willed it forward. A gasp escaped the figure—a fleeting, fragile sound—before their body crumpled.

  The thrill surged hotter, brighter, drowning out everything else. The weight of the body sagged against his blade, warm blood slicking his hands and speckling his face. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the echoes of the clash fading into an eerie stillness.

  Ronan barely noticed. His pulse thundered in his ears, his body already shifting, already seeking the next target.

  A group of three emerged from the shadows, their weapons drawn and their steps measured. Well-armed and armored, they moved with cautious precision, their eyes scanning the darkness for threats. These weren’t panicked stragglers; they were seasoned fighters, disciplined and dangerous.

  But Ronan didn’t care. He gave them no chance to organize, no time to form a defense. With a feral snarl, he surged forward, his sword arcing through the air.

  The nearest man barely had time to react, raising his shield just in time to catch the blow. The impact rang out, a sharp clang that echoed through the trees. The force drove the man back a step, and in that heartbeat of hesitation, Ronan struck again. Pivoting with brutal efficiency, he angled his blade low, slicing across the unguarded gap between the man’s thigh armor and greaves.

  The man let out a strangled cry, his leg buckling beneath him as blood poured from the wound. Ronan’s movements were already shifting, his attention snapping to the next target as the thrill surged within him, sharper than ever.

  His blade came down in a savage arc, but the clash of steel on steel stopped it cold. The shock of the impact reverberated up his arm as his opponent blocked the strike, their swords locked for a brief, tense moment.

  Ronan had no time for hesitation. He twisted his wrist, wrenching his blade free, and stepped into the next swing. This time, his strike found its mark, slicing into the exposed joint at his opponent’s left arm. The blade bit deep, and a sharp cry escaped the man as his arm dropped, his shield faltering in his grasp.

  The thrill flared hotter, the rush of dominance sharpening Ronan’s focus as he prepared to press his advantage. Each movement felt instinctive, driven by the surging force within him, as though the battle itself coursed through his veins.

  Then, sharp pain exploded in his left leg, white-hot and searing. His balance faltered, the ground tilting as his footing gave way. Gritting his teeth, Ronan twisted as he fell, his blade still poised defensively.

  Turning, he caught sight of the second man—a glint of blood shimmering darkly on the edge of the enemy’s blade. The man stood poised, his stance solid, his movements measured. This wasn’t a desperate soldier but a calculating foe who had waited for the perfect moment to strike.

  The pain radiated up Ronan’s leg, sharp and relentless, but he forced himself upright, his breath coming in ragged bursts. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword as he shifted his weight to his uninjured leg. The thrill still pulsed within him, a roaring fire that pushed back the agony, sharpening his focus.

  He lunged forward, feinting toward the man’s stomach. The enemy moved to intercept, his blade swinging in anticipation, but Ronan twisted at the last moment. His strike changed direction with lethal precision, slamming into the vulnerable joint of the man’s sword arm. Steel met flesh, and a satisfying crunch followed as the man cried out, his weapon clattering to the forest floor.

  Ronan didn’t hesitate. His instincts surged, driving him to punish the audacity of his foe’s attack. He slashed at the man’s other arm, his blade biting deep into unprotected flesh. The man stumbled back, blood spraying in dark arcs against the shifting shadows. His cries of pain mingled with the echo of the strike, but Ronan barely registered them.

  The thrill surged, raw and consuming. Each strike felt inevitable, as though his body moved with the rhythm of the forest itself. His breath steadied, the pain in his leg dulled beneath the roaring fire in his chest. The enemy faltered, his movements slower, weaker. And Ronan stood over him, his shadow swallowing the man whole.

  The moment of dominance was shattered in an instant. He sensed the arrow too late—its deadly whistle a heartbeat away. He twisted, moving just enough to avoid a fatal blow, but the arrow struck true, burying itself deep in his right bicep. The impact sent a jolt through him, forcing his sword arm to falter. Pain lanced up his arm, joining the chorus of his battered body.

  The weight of his injuries pressed down on him now. His sword arm moved sluggishly, the shoulder’s relentless bleeding sapping his strength. His left leg throbbed with every movement, threatening to buckle beneath him, and now his right arm screamed in protest with every shift.

  Grinding his teeth, Ronan forced the pain aside. His fingers fumbled briefly, slick with blood, as he transferred his sword to his left hand. It felt alien, heavier than it should, but he tightened his grip and turned toward the last remaining opponent.

  The figure loomed before him, more than a shadow but not yet fully clear in the darkness. Ronan shifted his stance, leaning heavily on his good leg as he raised the blade. The thrill was there, flickering like embers, but now it mingled with something colder—determination. The man before him was the last barrier, and he would not stop until the fight was finished.

  His opponent stepped forward, his armor catching faint glimmers of light. The shield hung limply from his left hand, blood darkening its edge. The man’s sneer twisted in the dimness, a cruel expression of disdain, as though Ronan’s injuries rendered him unworthy of the fight.

  But Ronan wasn’t swayed. He moved again, each step deliberate, inexorable, dragging the weight of his wounds behind him. The man’s sneer deepened, but his eyes flicked briefly to Ronan’s blade—a crack in his confidence that only fueled Ronan further.

  The distance between them closed, every step a test of Ronan’s resolve. His breaths came shallow, each one tightening the ache in his chest, but his grip on the sword never faltered. He didn’t need speed anymore. He didn’t need perfection. All he needed was the will to finish this.

  Then it hit.

  The arrow came from nowhere. One moment he was moving, his focus locked on the fool before him, the next he was on the ground. White-hot, searing pain spread from his chest, consuming every thought, every sensation. His breath caught, ragged and sharp, as though the air itself was refusing to enter his lungs.

  His hand loosened on the sword, fingers trembling as he tried to make sense of the moment. Blood seeped through his tunic, hot and wet against his skin, pooling beneath him. The world tilted, shadows spinning as the forest around him seemed to loom closer, suffocating.

  For a fleeting second, Ronan thought of the thrill—the fire that had carried him this far. But now, it felt distant, flickering weakly against the cold that seeped into his limbs. He tried to push himself up, his body screaming in protest, the pain radiating with every movement.

  Somewhere, faintly, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. His vision blurred, the figure of his opponent no longer sneering but steady, towering over him like a shadow made flesh.

  Blood filled his mouth, metallic and bitter, and his ragged breaths came wet and shallow, each one a fight against drowning. Anger flared within him, raw and undiminished. He would not lie here and die, bested by this nameless figure. Summoning the last of his strength, Ronan swung his sword in a final desperate arc, aiming for the groin.

  The blow never landed. His opponent swept the strike aside with contemptuous ease, the sound of clashing steel ringing out like a death knell. The man stepped closer, planting his boot firmly on Ronan’s left hand, grinding it into the dirt. Pain flared, but he had no air to cry out, only a gurgling rasp escaping his throat.

  The man loomed over him, the glint of firelight reflecting in his cold eyes. His lips curled into a sneer as he drove the blade into Ronan’s chest. Steel bit deep, igniting a searing pain that radiated through his body. Ronan gasped, his breath catching as his lungs refused to obey. Blood welled from the wound, soaking his tunic in a spreading, crimson stain.

  The man twisted the blade cruelly, wrenching another wave of agony from Ronan, before ripping it free with a wet, sickening sound. “So this is the famous Aetherian Knights?” he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. “I expected…”

  His words were cut short by a deafening crack. His head snapped forward violently, a grotesque spray of blood and bone erupting as his skull shattered. For an instant, his body seemed frozen, teetering as though unaware of its own death, before collapsing to the ground in a boneless heap.

  Behind him stood Edric, his broad silhouette framed by the vague moonlight. His shield, slick with blood and fragments of bone, swung in a low arc as he exhaled a grunt of satisfaction. The unnatural strength behind his strike was evident in the ruin he had wrought.

  “Got him,” he muttered, casting a brief glance at the crumpled corpse before stepping aside to reveal Leoric, who emerged from the darkness with blade in hand. The tip of his sword dripped red, leaving a trail of droplets on the forest floor as he moved swiftly to Ronan’s side.

  Dropping to one knee beside Ronan his expression was grim as his sharp gaze swept over the younger man’s injuries. Blood soaked the earth beneath Ronan, pooling where his tunic clung to the gaping wound in his chest.

  “Damn you, Ronan,” Leoric growled, his tone low but filled with frustration. He tore a strip of cloth from his tunic and pressed it firmly against the wound, ignoring the blood that slicked his fingers. “Why in Oblivion did you rush in here?”

  Ronan coughed weakly, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. The world around him felt distant, his body heavy and unresponsive as though it no longer belonged to him. He opened his mouth to reply, but only a faint rasp escaped, lost in the chaos of his own failing senses.

  “Stay with me, you idiot,” Leoric muttered, his tone softening, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his fear. His hands worked with practiced precision, stemming the flow of blood even as his expression hardened with determination.

  Leoric pressed a firm hand against the wound in Ronan’s chest, the other gripping a torn piece of cloth. “I guess we should’ve taught you control before throwing you into battle, huh?” His words were low, more to himself than to Ronan, his tone laced with guilt.

  A faint voice broke through the tense silence. “It’s too late, Leoric,” came the low, even tone of Edric as he stepped closer, his boots crunching softly on the blood-soaked ground.

  Leoric snapped his head up, his face twisting with defiance. “Shut it, Edric,” he barked. “I’m not letting him go.”

  Edric shook his head slowly, his gaze fixed on Ronan’s pale face. “Look at him,” he said, his voice calm but heavy with finality. “He’s too far gone.”

  Leoric’s hands faltered, the pressure against Ronan’s wound slackening. He looked down at the young man beneath him, his chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic breaths. Blood bubbled at Ronan’s lips, staining his teeth crimson.

  "I'm sorry, lad," Edric said softly, his words measured and deliberate, carrying a weight Ronan had never heard before. “None of us are healers.”

  For the first time, Ronan saw something in Edric’s expression—a crack in the stoic mask he wore. A hint of sadness touched his voice, an ache buried beneath the calm exterior. His dark eyes lingered on Ronan, unflinching, as though he owed him this moment of honesty.

  Ronan could feel the world slipping away, the edges of his senses fading into a cold, creeping numbness. The searing pain that had consumed him was dulling, giving way to an unsettling stillness. His body felt distant, as though it no longer belonged to him.

  His breaths came shallow and strained, each one harder to draw than the last. His vision swam, the forest around him blurring and darkening, its shapes melting into shadow. He tried to speak, to protest, to hold on, but all that escaped his lips was a faint rasp, drowned in the bitter taste of iron.

  Leoric’s grip tightened on his shoulder, anchoring him, though it felt more like a tether to a world he was slipping away from. The older man’s eyes stayed locked on his, unflinching, even as despair flickered in their depths. “We’re here, Ronan,” he said quietly, his voice breaking under the weight of the moment. “We’re not leaving you.”

  From the camp, distant commotion drifted through the still night air. The clamor of boots and urgent shouts reached Ronan’s ears, faint but growing louder. Garrin had finally roused the camp into action. But for Ronan, it no longer mattered. He could feel the cold spreading, overtaking the fire that had once burned so fiercely within him.

  A tremor shook his chest as he coughed, blood spilling from his lips. His eyes fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, as he forced his mouth to move. Each word was a battle, his voice thin and fragile. “Tell my da...” Another cough racked his body, a fresh surge of blood staining his teeth. “Tell him I’m sorry.”

  Leoric swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he fought back the raw emotions threatening to overtake him. “I will,” he said, his voice rough and low. “I promise.”

  The flickering firelight of approaching torches cast long shadows over Ronan’s still form, its warmth a distant echo as his breaths slowed, then stopped entirely. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the weight of silence settling over them as the night grew darker still.

  A hand rested firmly on Leoric’s shoulder. “He’s gone, Leoric,” Edric said quietly, his voice steady but not unfeeling. The words cut like a blade, sharper for their finality.

  Leoric closed his eyes, his head dipping as a tremor passed through him. For a moment, he didn’t speak, his bloodied fingers trembling. Then he exhaled slowly, his eyes opening to reveal a simmering fury beneath the grief. “I know,” he said, his tone low and measured, though every word burned. “And I’m going to kill the bastards who did this.”

  He stood, the weight of his words grounding him, his gaze fixed on the shadows beyond the firelight. “He might only have been a Knight Initiate for half a day,” Leoric continued, his voice growing steadier, harder, “but he was still a member of the Aetherian Knights. And we do not let this stand.”