It was late afternoon, and the sky was turning grey.
Thin clouds covered the sun, and the cold had crept into the forest. Not the biting cold of winter, but the kind that settled in your clothes and stayed there. The trees were bare, their branches reaching out like claws. The wind made no sound, but everything felt quiet—like the world was holding its breath.
Two horses moved along a narrow dirt trail. No wagons had passed here in a long time. The ground was dry, but the grass was dead. Crows watched from the trees.
Gareth Ashvale sat on the front horse. His cloak was dark and worn. His hair, nearly white, hung behind his head in a loose tie. He rode with the ease of a man who had done it for years. A sword was strapped to his side, but it didn't shine. Nothing he owned shined.
Behind him rode his son.
Twelve years old, pale skin, green eyes that stood out like emeralds in the grey. Arlen sat straight in the saddle, even though he was tired. He had learned not to show it. His coat was old, his gloves full of holes, but his grip on the reins was steady.
They had been riding since sunrise.
No village. No people. Just woods, cold air, and the sound of horses.
Arlen pulled his scarf up around his neck.
"I think my toes are frozen."
"Still attached?" Gareth asked without turning.
"Barely."
"Then we ride."
Arlen made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. "You know, normal people stop and warm up sometimes."
"We're not normal people."
"That much is clear."
Gareth smiled. It was small, but it was there.
"You'll thank me one day," he said.
"For what? Losing all feeling in my feet?"
"For being tougher than the rest."
Arlen didn't answer right away. Then he said, "I'd still like to feel my feet."
Gareth chuckled. "You'll live."
Arlen leaned forward in the saddle a bit, letting his horse follow the trail on its own. "Do you ever miss it?"
"Miss what?"
"Having a roof. A bed. A place."
Gareth was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Sometimes. But not often."
"Why not?"
He looked over his shoulder at his son. "Because none of it meant anything without you."
Arlen blinked. "…That's probably the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"I can take it back."
"No, no, it's fine. Just—warn me next time."
Gareth shook his head, but he was smiling again.
They rode on a little longer. The trees began to thin, and the wind picked up.
"Should we stop soon?" Arlen asked.
"There's a lake ahead," Gareth said. "Good spot to rest."
"Will there be stew?"
Gareth gave him a look. "Did we bring anything for stew?"
"…No."
"Then no."
"Great. Cold, tired, and no stew. Best day ever."
"I raised a whiner," Gareth muttered.
Arlen grinned. "You love it."
Gareth didn't reply, but the way he sat a little straighter said everything.
The lake wasn't big, but it was calm.
The water sat still under the grey sky, broken only by a few reeds swaying near the edge. Trees circled the clearing, and there were no signs of people—just the quiet, open space and the sound of birds in the distance.
Gareth dismounted first. His boots hit the ground with a soft crunch. Arlen followed, slower, rubbing his legs.
"I swear my knees turned to stone."
"You'll be fine once we move around."
"If I still have knees," Arlen muttered.
They tied the horses near a low tree and took off the saddlebags. Gareth knelt down and started setting up a small firepit from stones and old ash.
Arlen began gathering sticks and dry wood, humming quietly to himself.
"Try not to pick damp ones," Gareth called out.
"I'm not five," Arlen replied.
"Could've fooled me."
Arlen returned a minute later with an armful of branches. He dropped them next to the firepit, then sat down on a flat rock and stretched.
Gareth pulled out a flint and began striking it. After a few tries, sparks caught on the dry grass.
"There," he said.
The fire grew slowly. It wasn't big, but it was warm. The light flickered on their faces as they sat close, shoulders almost touching.
Gareth handed Arlen a piece of bread and some dried meat. Not much, but enough.
"Here."
"Wow," Arlen said. "A feast."
"If you want more, you can catch a rabbit."
"With what?"
"Your charm."
"That hasn't worked on any rabbits yet."
Gareth gave him a sideways glance. "It barely works on people."
Arlen grinned and bit into the bread. It was hard, but he didn't complain. They ate in peace for a moment, watching the fire crackle.
After a while, Gareth asked, "How's your ankle?"
"Better."
"Still hurts?"
Arlen nodded. "A little."
Gareth reached into his pack, pulled out a cloth, and leaned forward.
"I can do it myself," Arlen said.
"I know."
But Gareth still wrapped the ankle, firm but gentle. He didn't say anything while he worked.
When he was done, he leaned back and said, "You did well today."
Arlen blinked. "What?"
"You sat straight. You watched the trail. You kept quiet when it mattered."
Arlen stared at him for a second, then smiled slowly.
"Thanks."
Gareth shrugged like it was nothing, but Arlen saw it. The little look in his eyes. The pride he never said out loud.
The fire burned low now, soft and warm.
Arlen lay on his side, wrapped in his blanket, his head resting on a rolled-up cloak. The stars had come out above the lake, small and pale between drifting clouds. The wind had died down. The world felt still.
Gareth sat nearby, sharpening his knife by firelight. The soft shhk, shhk sound of stone on steel was steady, almost like a heartbeat. He glanced at Arlen, who stared quietly into the flames.
"You did well today," Gareth said again, more softly this time.
Arlen didn't answer right away. Then, without looking up, he said, "You said that already."
"Doesn't mean it's not true."
Arlen turned his head to look at him. "You're not very good at compliments."
Gareth smiled a little. "No. But you're getting better at hearing them."
They both laughed—quiet, tired laughter.
Gareth finished sharpening the blade and slid it back into its sheath. He stirred the fire once more, then laid out his own blanket next to Arlen's.
"You warm enough?" he asked.
"I'm fine."
"Blanket tucked in?"
"Yes."
"Boots off?"
Arlen rolled his eyes. "I'm not six."
"You're close."
Gareth laid down, hands behind his head, staring up at the sky.
Arlen pulled the blanket tighter around him. The warmth of the fire, the sound of the wind in the trees, the quiet breathing of the horses—it all made his eyelids heavy.
"Goodnight," he mumbled.
"Sleep well."
A few minutes passed. The fire cracked softly. The wind whispered through the reeds by the lake.
Then—
Arlen opened his eyes.
He wasn't sure why.
The fire was still glowing faintly. Gareth was beside him, sleeping, unmoving. The horses stood still in the dark.
Nothing seemed wrong.
But he was awake.
He sat up slowly, listening.
The forest was quiet.
But it felt like something had changed.
Arlen sat still for a moment.
There it was again—faint, distant. Not loud. Just a soft sound, carried by the wind.
A crack.
Like a branch snapping.
Then silence.
He turned his head and looked at Gareth.
His father was asleep. Deep, steady sleep. His chest rose and fell in slow rhythm. One arm was tucked under his blanket, the other resting near the hilt of his sword.
Arlen hesitated.
He could wake him.
He should.
But the sound wasn't close. It didn't feel like danger—just… something strange. Something worth seeing.
And Gareth had barely slept the past few nights.
Arlen got up slowly, careful not to make a sound. He wrapped his cloak around himself and took a few steps away from the fire, into the shadow of the trees.
The cold bit harder without the flames.
He paused, listening again.
Nothing.
Still, he moved forward—quietly, step by step, following the shape of the sound in his memory. The forest around him felt darker now, as if the trees were holding their breath.
He didn't go far. Just past the edge of the clearing. Just far enough that the firelight was a memory behind him, and the woods ahead were unknown.
Then—another sound.
Closer this time.
Not a branch. Not wind.
Something else.
Arlen narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the dark.
And then—he saw something.
Then—he saw them.
Flickers of light through the trees. Moving shapes. The crackle of fire.
Torches.
At least three. Maybe four.
Arlen crouched low behind a thick bush, heart suddenly pounding.
Men. Grown men in cloaks and armor, their boots heavy on the forest floor. One of them laughed—quiet, rough, like gravel. Another held a torch high, casting long, flickering shadows across the trees.
They hadn't seen him.
They were standing around something on the ground.
Arlen leaned forward, slowly, breath held.
It was a body.
Small. Motionless. A child.
Lying in the leaves like a broken doll.
One of the men stepped closer, drawing his sword with a metallic hiss.
"No need to waste time," the man muttered.
And without a pause, he drove the blade down.
Straight into the lifeless body.
Arlen's breath caught.
The sound was dull. Final.
The men didn't flinch. One of them even kicked the body aside like it was nothing. Another said something Arlen didn't catch, then laughed again.
His hands were shaking now.
His throat felt tight.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't speak.
Couldn't look away.
Behind the group, farther into the trees, Arlen saw light.
A small house stood there—barely more than a wooden hut. Smoke rose from the chimney, glowing red in the night. The door was open, swinging gently.
More soldiers stepped out.
One of them carried something over his shoulder.
No—someone.
A woman. Her arms hung limp, but her voice was sharp and desperate. She screamed, kicked, thrashed.
"Let me go! Let me—!"
The soldier dropped her.
Not carefully. He threw her to the ground like she weighed nothing.
She tried to crawl away.
He stepped forward, pulled his sword without hesitation—
—and stabbed her through the neck.
The scream died in an instant. Her body jerked once, then stilled.
Arlen's breath froze in his throat.
He felt something inside him twist. Something deep. Something raw.
The man wiped his blade on her dress like it meant nothing.
Another soldier shouted from inside the house.
"Check the floorboards! Look under the bed! The Captain said it has to be here!"
"They won't find anything," one muttered.
"They better. Or we burn it down."
They weren't here for food. Or for revenge.
They were searching for something. Something important enough to kill for. Again and again.
Arlen crouched lower, pressing a hand over his mouth.
His heart was racing. His whole body was tense.
He knew he should run. Wake his father. Do something.
But his feet wouldn't move.
Not yet.
Arlen crouched lower, heart thudding so hard it hurt.
They were looking for something. He could see it in how they moved, how they tore the place apart.
What could be worth this?
Worth killing a child.
Worth murdering a woman in the dirt.
Worth burning down a home.
He didn't know. He didn't want to know.
I need to go back.
I have to wake father.
He turned slowly, still crouched low, breath caught in his throat. The fire from their camp was behind the trees now—far, but close enough to reach if he moved fast and quiet.
Gareth was still there. Sleeping. Unaware.
One step.
Then another.
He moved carefully, every muscle tight, every breath controlled.
He wasn't that far away.
Then—
Crack.
His boot landed on a dry branch.
It snapped beneath him.
And everything stopped.