Sir William Bryce
The cold, gritty dirt that clung to the skin and filled the nose with its earthy scent felt cold and gritty under his hands, providing little comfort. Nonetheless, he pushed forward, the taste of blood on his lips and mud all over his face. Every movement of his body was a battle, and every slight gain in distance was a hard-won victory. Yet he fought on; resolve imprinted on his face. Finally, the pain eventually became too much. He paused and turned on his back, His breath was hard and struggled for, but his eyes revealed a more profound message—they were tired and furious as they focused on the person hovering over him.
"I will find you," the dying man said between tight teeth, his words as much a vow as a curse. "I'll find your wife. I will fu—."
A sword thrust through his chest silencing him mid-sentence. It withdrew with a wet hiss, and the identity of his killer was revealed. A Castling knight in an armour streaked with cold, gritty dirt that clung to the skin and filled the nose with its earthy scent and blood, Sir William Bryce.
Ruggedly handsome, Sir Bryce was no older than thirty-eight, yet kept the look of a man past forty. He had golden hair that fell to his shoulders, and his eyes were cold with the discipline of a seasoned warrior.
Sir Bryce turned away from the dead man to the clearing before him. The woods thick with tangled roots and the scent of moss and decay rang with the sound of repeated stabs. All around him, bodies littered the forest floor and knights moved among them, stabbing any who dared cling to life.
"Poor bastards," Sir Pennywort said, as he arrived beside Bryce. "They truly believed they could win."
Sir Bryce watched as Sir Pennywort happily drove his sword into a corpse beside him. A flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. His grip tightened on his sword.
"I think we're done here." Sir Bryce said as he turned to move on.
Sir Pennywort stabbed another corpse "Well, I'm not done. He shifted his gaze to Bryce, something like merriment on his face.
"I must say, I wasn't thrilled to be tasked with clean up. but now it's not all bad."
Bryce in a calm yet commanding manner continued forward "Well, don't get too comfortable, Vasilians have a way reaching up from the grave."
Sir Pennywort chuckled and kicked over another body, harder this time.
"Like they will have graves"
Suddenly at a distance, rose a loud cry. Both knights looked and see a body covered in cold, gritty dirt that clung to the skin and filled the nose with its earthy scent charging towards a knight with a spear in hand. Other knights rush in and quickly cut him down.
"He should have just stayed down." Sir Pennywort grinned, jabbing his boot into another corpse
Sir Bryce's irritation grew, but he said nothing, his eyes scanning the a battlefield littered with bodies, the air thick with iron and the buzz of flies. Suddenly, he froze, his gaze fixed on something behind Pennywort. He gripped his sword tighter, body shifting into a battle stance.
"Bryce?" Pennywort asked, sensing the change.
"Don't move," Bryce whispered urgently, though Pennywort barely caught the words. His instincts told him to look back. and that he did.
Behind him stood a giant of a man, huge, bloodied, terrifying.
"You fucking—"
The man grabbed Pennywort by the neck and drove a knife into his throat. Pennywort began struggling like a slaughtered hen, blood poured in thick waves. The man pulled Pennywort close and whispered, "Still thrilled fucker?"
Pennywort's struggle began to cease. Irritated, the man dropped Pennywort on the ground with a loud thud.
Sir Bryce's breathing became heavy. He grabbed his sword with both hands, his eyes scanning the height of the man that now stood before him.
A shout came from the distance— "I need five on him."
Knights sprinted towards the giant of a man. The man quickly snatched up Pennywort's sword and began to swing it wildly in defence, aiming to keep the knights away.
Sir Bryce watched, motionless. He saw that, as the man swung the sword, there was a smile on his face. Sir Bryce's hands began to slowly descend.
The man kept at the swinging until five knights quickly became ten. Then, out of nowhere, a spear pierced his gut. The man froze, his eyes steady but his smile untouched. He dropped the sword to the ground, his gaze, for some reason, fixed on Sir Bryce.
Other knights quickly drove their swords through him as blood spilled from his mouth. Despite the pain, the man kept smiling hauntingly at Sir Bryce.
In unison, the knights retracted their weapons, leaving the lifeless man to drop to the ground.
Sir Larkin, the knight with the spear, approached, nudged the body with his boot.
"Bloody Vasilian," he muttered, scowling.
He turned to Sir Bryce, "You holding up, Bryce, or do I need to find someone to patch you up?"
Sir Bryce straightened. "I'm fine Captain."
Sir Larkin clapped his shoulders, "Good. Now, keep looking. I'm bloody sure there are more of them."
The knights resumed their grim task.
Sir Bryce lingered. He stared at the dead man. The smile still lingered. Eyes open, unblinking.
He crouched, brushing fingers over the man's face. A birthmark, resembling that of an ancient inscription snaked from cheek to neck. Bryce closed the man's eyes.
"Bryce!"
Sir Larkin's voice snapped him from thought
He rose and made his way to toward the captain. Beside the Captain, two spotless knight waited. They didn't look like me who had fought that day.
"Why does he want him?" Larkin asked, eyes narrowed. "Did he do something?"
The knights didn't answer. Their eyes shifted to Bryce as he approached.
"Sir Bryce?" Sir Black asked to confirm.
"Yes," Bryce answered,
"With us. Lord Gregory summons you."
The two knights turned at once walking away without another word.
Sir Bryce glanced at Sir Larkin, who was surprised as he was.
"Okay Bryce, get out of here," Sir Larkin said as he turned away. "Don't want to keep the lord waiting."
Sir Bryce nodded and followed the two knights through the a camp where weary knights tended their wounds by flickering firelight, the clink of armor echoing softly.
Sir William Bryce walked in silence behind the knights who had summoned him. Sir Olie and Sir Black said little, their steps steady and purposeful as they weaved through the a camp where weary knights tended their wounds by flickering firelight, the clink of armor echoing softly. Around them, the war-weary knights gather in clusters- some laughed, other sharpened swords in groups, others guiding horses away.
After a while, Sir Olie spoke without turning his head "I don't see any women. Where did you hear about the women?"
"Women?" Bryce asked.
Sir Olie glanced at Sir Black a bit irritated "Not talking to you, Bryce"
Bryce looked to the ground a bit disappointed at himself for speaking.
"So, where did you hear about the women?" Sir Olie urged, looking at Sir Black.
Sir Black kept his gaze ahead as he spoke.
"Sir Landsat said they found some at the spikes... Said they put up a hell of a fight. Although I find that hard to believe"
"And why is that?" Sir Olie asked
"The Vasilians have been hiding in these woods fot moons. The women… well they were for other uses, if you understand."
Sir Olie chuckled darkly. "Bloody hell. That's the one thing I envy about them."
"They're their wives," Bryce interrupted
Both knights paused "What?" Olie asked.
"The women. They're their wives," Bryce said again "I saw it in Athena. Same kind of camp.
"Who the hell brings his wife to battle?" Olie asked, incredulous.
"Vasilians," Bryce replied. "What better reason to fight than when your wife is just a foot away? It's cruel, but that's why they fight like animals."
A silence fell between them
Sir Black eventually muttered, "Still envy them?
Olie glanced back at Bryce, a little awed. Then he followed.
They continued forward, through canvas rows and murmuring knights. At the far end, two mounted figures watched a ransacked a dim, cramped cabin with cracked wooden beams and the faint mustiness of old smoke.
Lord Greogory and Sir Manfred
"Sweep the stables," Sir Manfred ordered. "Secure the water well. Check under the cabin floor. I don't want another Atticus."
Sir Bryce halted before them. " You summoned me, my lord?"
Gregory looked him over. "You're Bryce?"
"Yes, my lord."
"You're pretty," Gregory mused, then to Manfred. "didn't think we had pretty once left."
"Thought you were the last, my lord," Manfred replied dryly.
Gregory dismounted. "Indeed. Walk with me Bryce"
Bryce followed. Around them, wounded knights were dragged or carried. Many muttered greetings to the lord. Others barley raised their heads.
"No Vasilians giants. No bears. No wildfires," Gregory muttered. "We've been spared the horrors of Atticus. Yet my men lie like dogs."
Bryce hesitated. "Knights die in battle, my lord."
"Doesn't make it easier, does it?"
"No, my lord"
Gregory glanced at him. "Are you a good man , Bryce?"
Bryce considered. "I strive to be, my lord. But like any man, I sometimes give into the shadows within."
"Do they help?"
A pause " They're necessary."
Gregory nodded. "Necessary indeed."
They reached a a coarse, canvas tent smelling faintly of sweat and iron, flapping gently in the breeze. Gregory stopped and faced Byce.
"It came to me that you once led a scout south through the Cy Woods."
"Yes, I did. All the way to The Goats."
"That's why you're here."
He gestured for Bryce to enter the a coarse, canvas tent smelling faintly of sweat and iron, flapping gently in the breeze.
Inside, the dim a coarse, canvas tent smelling faintly of sweat and iron, flapping gently in the breeze held a map strewn across a rough table. At its far end stood a knight.
"Sir Bryce, meet Sir Nightingale. Sir Nightingale, Sir Bryce."
The two men clasped forearms.
"Pretty," Nightingale noted. "Didn't know we still had those." "Except for Lord Gregory, of course," he added quickly.
Lord Gregory rolled his eyes "Get on with it,"
Nightingale grinned, then turned to the map. "Since Atticus, we've faced little resistance from the Vasilians. No giants, no bears, no ambush. Until now. This camp was different. Stronger. Lord Erwin on our right flank found the same on his side, so did Lord Ty on the left. And according to both of them, the Vasilians fled into the Cy woods. And just like them, when we stormed the middle the same happened. Scouts were sent in after them but none have returned"
"You think they're gathering?" Bryce asked.
"Or setting a trap," Lord Gregory said. We want to attack, but we need to know what's in there."
The a coarse, canvas tent smelling faintly of sweat and iron, flapping gently in the breeze flap opened. Sir Haywise and Sir Randel entered.
"Started without us?" Haywise said.
"Gentlemen. Sir Bryce." Greogry greeted
They acknowledged Bryce with nods.
"So," Randel asked, "what can you tell us about these woods?"
Bryce studied the map. "The woods can't be navigated.
"What?" Haywise asked.
"They change. We marked trees to find our way back. By morning, the marks were gone. It was like we'd never been there."
"Horse shit," Randel snapped.
"It's the truth."
"But you found a way?" Gregory pressed.
"I was helped."
"By who?"
"A commoner from a local settlement."
"There's a city in there?" Randel asked.
"A village. Forest nomads. They've learned the omens of the woods."
"Omens? To hell with this," Haywise muttered.
Lord Gregory sat on a chair and rubs his chin as he thought.
"The report said, you are the only knight that returned to action after that campaign. Why?"
"There are things in those words my Lord… Things that can drive any man mad.
Sir Randel voice sharpened. But this wasn't this in your report after the scouting?"
"We were young. If we'd told the truth, we'd be called madmen."
Haywise scoffed. "You're not any saner now."
Gregory turned to Nightingale. They exchanged a wordless look.
Gregory nodded.
"Wait outside, Bryce."
Sir Bryce exhaled slowly and left the a coarse, canvas tent smelling faintly of sweat and iron, flapping gently in the breeze.
He stood for a while… Looking at the commotions around the a dim, cramped cabin with cracked wooden beams and the faint mustiness of old smoke. Finally, Sir Gregory came out from the tent. He stopped by Sir Bryce touching his shoulders. Then without a word he walked away.
Sir Bryce is a bit surprised by this.
Sir Nightingale exited the a coarse, canvas tent smelling faintly of sweat and iron, flapping gently in the breeze too.
"Get your things Bryce, and the captain of your company also…we ride at dawn."
Sir nightingale began after Lord Greogry
"Where are we going?" Bryce asked, confused
"Where else"
Leon
The village buzzed with life, hidden deep in the Cy woods thick with tangled roots and the scent of moss and decay like a song no one remembers. Metal clinked, feet shuffled and voices rose in conversation and barter. The scent of woods thick with tangled roots and the scent of moss and decaymoke and earth lingered in the air.
Leon threaded his way through the crowd, tugging his younger sister by the hand. He was ten -sharped eyed tousle-haired, the Vasilian birthmark etched proudly on his cheek. His sister, Eulalia, seven, clutched a basket against her chest, struggling to keep up as her golden hair slipped from beneath her hood.
"Leon, slow down," she called, breathless.
"Keep up," he said without looking back.
Villagers blocked their path. Leon squeezed between them, pulling Eulalia behind.
Up ahead, a voice rose above the noise.
"There was once a time—"
Leon turned sharply toward the a scattered village of moss-covered huts, with smoke rising from cooking fires and the sound of bartering in the air square. His eyes widened with expectation.
"There was once a time…" the speaker tried again, fighting the noise of the crowd.
Leon pressed forward; eyes locked on the stage. Marcus stood there. His voice rising over the crowd noise.
"There was once a time, when we had no shame or fear to bear these marks," Marcus said, gesturing to the Vasilian birthmark on his check. His tone was fierce, defiant.
Eulalia tugged gently at Leon's sleeve, uncomfortable. She didn't want to be here.
"When our lands stretched farther than the skies, and our armies rolled like thunder", Marcus continued. " When our children were kings and we gods. Now, look at us. Reduced to whispers in the woods, with our birthmarks as burdens... We've forgotten the strength that once coursed through our veins. We've forgotten what it means to be Vasilian. So, tell me, counsel, what is it we should be merry about?"
Leon's chest swelled with pride. He stared, unblinking.
Eulalia looked away.
On the stage beside Marcus stood Damon, scrolls in hand, his expression calm.
"After the battle for Dawn," Damon began, "General Stamatios of the fifth regiment said, 'I have slaughtered my enemies, raped their women, and burnt their children. I did this in the name of peace. But since when has cruelty and blood brought peace?'"
The crowd hushed.
"Yes," Damon's said. "We were gods. And our children were kings. But tell me—where in history have kings and gods truly known peace? Or is it not peace we truly seek for?"
A low murmur spread through the gathering.
Marcus opened his mouth to respond but found no words.
Damon turned to the elders watching nearby. One nodded in approval.
"Peace through cruelty breeds monsters," Damon said. "if we must be Vasilians, let us be new ones"
The crowd began to thin, but the tension lingered like smoke. Marcus stood sill, jaw clenched. Damon descended from the stage and disappeared into the murmuring groups.
Leon remained; eyes wide with admiration. A long line had already formed before Marcus- men and women, eager to speak to him.
"Leon, I'm hungry. Eulalia tugged at his sleeve. "Let's go home."
"Soon," he muttered. His eyes lit up. He spotted boys his age at the front of the line.
"stay here" Leon said to Eulalia
"why?"
"I'll be quick. just wait"
Before she could argue, he darted toward the front of the line.
Eulalia stood alone, unsure. She sighed and began looking around. That's when she noticed someone watching her.
Damon.
He stood a few paces away, speaking with an old man. But his gaze was on her… gentle
Then came the sound of wood hitting flesh- a sharp, unmistakable crack.
Chaos erupted.
Men began to shout, soon fighting began. Wooden sticks and fists flew. Others screamed and scattered.
Marcus tried to calm the riot, shouting in vain.
In the chaos, Damon spotted Eulalia. She stood alone, frightened, searching, crying out
"Leon! Leon!"
Across the a dusty village square surrounded by old timber houses, the air filled with the scent of firewood and cooked grain, Leon returned where he had left Eulalia
She was gone.
Panic flooded his face.
"Eulalia!" he shouted.
Before he could run into the
But she was gone.
Panic flooded his face.
"Eulalia!" he shouted.
Before he could run into the chaos, the boys he had followed grabbed his arm.
"What are you doing?" one asked. "They're breaking heads"
"No! My sister let me go—" Leon struggled, his voice breaking.
"Eulalia!"
The boys pulled him away, dragging him into the safety of the woods thick with tangled roots and the scent of moss and decay.
****
Leon stood before an old a dim, cramped cabin with cracked wooden beams and the faint mustiness of old smoke, tucked among the trees. Stillness hung around it.
He looked back once, torn and horrified.
He looked forward again, fists clenched. He took a deep breath, stepped forward, and opened the door.
The a dim, cramped cabin with cracked wooden beams and the faint mustiness of old smoke was dimly lit.
Leon entered slowly, his eyes clenched shut. When he opened them, he saw her. Eulalia sat beside Damon, safe.
Relief washed over Leon's face. Then Artemisia, their mother, rose from her seat. Her dark hair framed a face both strong and beautiful—and burning with anger.
"Leon," she said sharply. "How dare you leave your sister alone in that madness?"
Leon froze. His face down , no courage to look at his mother's face.
"Mother, I—"
"What by the gods made you go to the square?" Artemisia snapped. "All I asked was herbs. Herbs, Leon. And yet you drag your sister into danger."
"I… I'm sorry."
The words slipped out, small and sincere.
Artemisia faltered. Her rage softened.
Leon turned and fled into the back room, the door slamming behind him.
Damon stood, stepped closer to Artemisia.
"You needn't be too hard on him," he said gently. "He's just a boy."
"A boy," Artemisia barked.
"A Vasilian boy. They will always lose their head at the mention of war."
"I know," Artemisia whispered. "But what if—"
"Nothing happened," Damon said. "They're safe."
Damon shifts his gaze Leon's door.
"May I speak with him?"
Artemisia folded her arms in frustration. She looked at Damon and nodded.
Damon kissed her on the head and began toward Leon's door. He knocked and entered.
The room was quite tidy for a boy his age. His bed arranged, chair to the wall. Leon sat on the bed, arms hugging his knees.
"You truly love Counsel Marcus, don't you?" Damon asked a bit sad by this
Leon said nothing.
Marcus sat close to him and continued. "If I'm asked to point men that I consider true Vasilians? Marcus will be the first I chose"
Leon finally looked up, surprised at what Damon just said.
"But he is your opponent."
"Which goes to show how go he is,"
Leon hesitated. "Is mother still angry"
"She is. But only because she loves you. When I told her of what happened? She ran out like a vasilian general."
Leon looked down in shame.
"She found your friends too," Damon continued a smile appearing on his face "They won't be glad to see you
Leon gave a sheepish smile.
"You'll be alright Leon"
Damon pulled the boy into his embrace.
Sir William Bryce
The horses shifted restlessly, their breaths rising in faint plumes against the cool morning air. Ahead loomed the Cy Woods—dark, dense, and unmoving. The tress stood like ancient sentinels, unmoving and unwelcoming.
Sir Bryce sat atop his horse alongside Sir Haywise, Sir Randel, and Sir Larkin. None of them spoke. All eyes were fixed on the treeline.
Sir Larkin finally cleared his throat. "So… if we go in, there's a high possibility we'll never come out."
Bryce nodded "Yes."
Larkin exhaled, "Here I thought I'd seen everything."
A voice called from behind. "Knights."
They turned as Lord Gregory and Sir Nightingale approached on horseback.
Without a hesitation, Sir Nightingale rode forward, past them, straight into the woods thick with tangled roots and the scent of moss and decay.
The knights exchanged glances surprised by his calm
Lord Gregory reined in beside them. "May the kings of old be with you."
Sir Haywise and Sir Randel exchanged a glance, then nudged their horses forward and followed Nightingale into the trees.
Bryce and Larkin lingered a moment.
They share a look—two warriors who had seen war, death, and betrayal—but the woods thick with tangled roots and the scent of moss and decay ahead was something else.
Then they too spurred their horses and rode in after the others.
****
The knights pressed deeper into the Cy Woods, their eyes darting around watching every movement as the silence grew thick like fog. Ancient trees stood shoulder to shoulder, gnarled branches knitting overhead to form a green ceiling that almost swallowed the whole light.
Sir William Bryce rode near the front, silent. Behind him, the others trudged in uneasy formation.
"How do we find this village again?" Sir Randel asked, worry itched all over his face.
"According to Sir Bryce here Sir Haywise replied, sarcastically "we don't. They find you. Which is absolutely madness to me"
"I've followed fools into battle," Randel said, his tone dry now, "but even they knew you must don't let your enemies find you ."
Bryce didn't answer. His eyes lifted to the canopy as a sudden trill of birdsong sliced through the stillness. A lone bird darted through the trees, shining red. It soared above the knights before veering northward.
He watched it go, thoughtful. But then he turned his horse—east.
"We move this way," he said, nodding toward a not too dense bush.
Sir Randel squinted. "There"?
There's a break in the trees," Bryce offered. " During the scout then, a break often meant softer ground. Might give us an easier passage."
Sir Haywise frowned. "Often?"
"Would you rather charge blindly into a bog?"
The reasoning wasn't poor, but it wasn't strong either. They all felt it.
Sir Nightingale looked at Bryce for a long moment. "Let's move," he said.
He continued in the direction Bryce suggested. Reluctantly, the others followed.
They reached a narrow a narrow, gurgling stream where the water sparkled briefly before disappearing under the foliage a short while later, the only sound a gentle trickle of water over stone. The knights dismounted, grateful for the chance to rest. Armor clinked as they knelt to drink, boots sinking slightly into the mud.
Sir Larkin leaned on his knee. "A good call Bryce. A very good call'"
He bathed himself in water. The other knights follow except Sir Nightingale. His eyes, still scanning every inch around them.
Bryce rose from the water. His gaze locked on a small bush upa narrow, gurgling stream where the water sparkled briefly before disappearing under the foliage. The leaves there twitched against the stillness, barely perceptible, but not random. Something had moved.
He straightened slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove.
"If we live through this Bryce, Sir Larkin said "remind me to question Gregory's definition of 'light resistance."
Bryce said nothing. Only forced a smile and nod.
"Up Gentlemen, let's keep moving. "Sir Nightingale ordered. "Sir Bryce, you seem to be pointing us to good things, you think you could continue?
Bryce nodded "We should move through there," he said, gesturing subtly toward the underbrush.
The knights studied the bush.
Doesn't look so bad "Sir Larkin said, rising to his feet
The other knights nod in agreement.
Nightingale nodded. "Forward then."
The knights mounted their horses and continued after Nightingale.
A long while passed and the knights emerged into a clearing where they found tents in disarray. A fire pit smouldered at the center, thin smoke curling into the canopy. Crates and bedrolls were scattered, and the scent of ash, cold, gritty dirt that clung to the skin and filled the nose with its earthy scent and some other fowl odor lingered.
Randel crouched beside the fire. "Still warm."
Haywise poked through a crate. "Foods untouched. Whoever was here left in a hurry."
Vasilians?, Randel said a bit of worry in his tone
Haywise took an apple from one of the crates and chewed in. "Who else could leave like this?"
Bryce drifted toward the largest a coarse, canvas tent smelling faintly of sweat and iron, flapping gently in the breeze. He paused at the entrance. He studied the a coarse, canvas tent smelling faintly of sweat and iron, flapping gently in the breeze for a while and noticed some kind of movement from within.
Check the a coarse, canvas tent smelling faintly of sweat and iron, flapping gently in the breezes carefully, Sir Nightingale ordered, some may have decided to stay.
The knights began towards a coarse, canvas tent smelling faintly of sweat and iron, flapping gently in the breezes.
Sir Bryce, Eyes fixed on the a coarse, canvas tent smelling faintly of sweat and iron, flapping gently in the breeze before him. He took a step forward his hands placed on his sword. He noticed movement again. He looked back to Sir Larkin. Their gaze met and immediately he understood, Something is here.
In unison the pair unsheathed their sword. Sir Larkin began towards Bryce.
Suddenly The a coarse, canvas tent smelling faintly of sweat and iron, flapping gently in the breeze flap burst open. A Vasilian lunged at him, blade raised, yelling. They crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs and fury. Steel met steel. The clash broke the camp's stillness like a crack of thunder.
Then the trees erupted. Vasilians poured from the shadows, teeth bared and weapons raised.
An ambush.
Nightingale shouted " Ambush!"
but the chaos swallowed everything. Blades rang, men screamed, and soon blood began to spill.
The knights were skilled dispatching Vasilians quite quickly but they kept coming.
Bryce wrestled his attacker, managing to shove him off. He rolled, sword finding his grip just in time to parry another blow and in smooth counter he drove his sword into the Vasilian's stomach. The Vasilian falls to the ground.
Bryce slowly stood to his feet, trying to catch his breath. He scanned the area and spots not too far from him fending off Vasilians. Bryce noticed a Vasilian stalking Nightingale, looking for an opening.
The Vasilian found it. He charged Nightingale. Nighingale spotted him late. His eyes opened wide, The man had him. He heard the sound of a blade piercing skin. Nightingale froze. Something was off. He felt nothing. His eyes steadied.
In front of him, Bryce stood, the blade in his own ribs. He gasped. The Vasilian retracted his blade and Bryce fell to the ground.
Nightingale stunned. He quickly shook it off and raised his sword, roaring, He fought the attacker and drove his sword into him.
And like a catalyst, The knights began a rally. Steel flashed in the gloom. One by one, the Vasilians fell. Soon many began to run back into the woods thick with tangled roots and the scent of moss and decay. Then, at last, silence.
Bryce lay pale and still. Blood seeped into the cold, gritty dirt that clung to the skin and filled the nose with its earthy scent. Nightingale knelt beside him.
"Bryce! Bryce!," he said, voice low.
He began to put pressure on wound. Larkin dropped to his knee by Bryce.
Bryce! Larkin called out adding pressure too.
Haywise frantically glanced around the camp " We can't stay here. It's too open. We have to move"
"And leave Bryce?" Larkin barked visible annoyed and frustrated at the same time.
"We need to lift you Bryce" Nightingale said as he cautiously looked around.
They tried to lift Bryce… But he screamed and proved to be to heavy.
Randel found a stretcher in one of the tents. And drags it them "let's use this"
Together, they lifted Bryce onto it.
"Anything today we be good gentlemen," Haywise said, wiping blood from his cheek. "We move now."
The knights moved quickly, dragging the stretcher between them. Into the woods thick with tangled roots and the scent of moss and decay.
Every twig snap echoed like a drumbeat. Then: shouts in the distance. And the sound of approaching footsteps.
"They're following," Haywise warned.
"Run," Nightingale ordered.
They ran.
Bryce stirred. Weak, blinking. Pain clouded his vision. Above him, branches. Sky. And then—a bird. The same one from before. It called out once. Then it turned. North.
Bryce's breath caught. He raised a shaking hand.
"There," he rasped. "Follow the bird."
"He's awake," Haywise said.
Randel glanced up. "What bird?"
"There! Follow it!"
Nightingale hesitated unsure. He looked at Bryce again as if searching for a reason to not follow. He sighs
Fuck it, follow the bird"
They increased their pace and continued after the bird. They ran as fast as they could. Soon , The shouts behind them began to reduce significantly. Until they could not hear it no more. But the knights dared not stop.
They run through bramble and brush, then the knights stumbled forward until the woods thick with tangled roots and the scent of moss and decay gave way to a moss-covered cabin, half-hidden by time.
Larkin slammed the door open. They rushed inside. They laid Bryce on the floor, bolted the door behind them. The knights fell to their knees to catch their breaths.
"Did they follow us? Randel asked, panting.
Haywise looked at Bryce on the stretcher, fury began to fill his face.
"Fuck!" He screamed visibly annoyed.
"Why the fuck did we follow this dammed-"
He froze, something catching his eyes as he turned into the a dim, cramped cabin with cracked wooden beams and the faint mustiness of old smoke, he found.
A woman stood frozen in the middle of the room, a wooden bowl in her hands and with the red bird on her shoulder. Artemisia. Her eyes locked on Bryce. She did not speak.
The other knights followed Haywise gaze and saw her. All eyes on her face. On her birthmark.
"Of all the gods," Sir Randel said as the standing knights placed their hands on the sword handles. Waiting for a move from Artemisia.
Artemisia took a step back triggering the knights to draw out their sword slightly.
"Now hold on lady," Sir Nightingale pleaded letting go of his sword. "We don't want any trouble. We just want to take care of our comrade here."
Artemisia's eyes flicked from Bryce, pale and broken on the floor, to the armored knights—tense, hands hovering near their swords. Silence held the room like a vice. Even the bird on her shoulder remained still.
Then, slowly, she reached down toward a cloth hanging near the hearth.
Steel hissed from sheaths as the knights drew their blades in unison.
Artemisia's hand paused. Her eyes snapped to the blades, then back to them.
She lifted the cloth—a mere rag—and raised it slowly above her head.
"I need space," she said quietly. "Put him on the table. Now."
Nightingale raised a hand. "Stand down," he ordered the others. After a beat, the knights lowered their swords. Haywise hesitated the longest, but finally relented.
The stretcher was lifted again, and Bryce was laid gently on the table. Artemisia moved fast, grabbing herbs, cloth, and a chipped basin of water.
She muttered to herself, the words foreign—old Vasilian, likely. Her hands worked quickly over the wound, pressing, cleaning, binding. The knights could only watch.
Damon
The door shook with loud, insisa coarse, canvas tent smelling faintly of sweat and iron, flapping gently in the breeze pounding.
Damon groaned, pulling the threadbare blanket over his head. The knocks didn't stop.
He cursed under his breath, rolled off the bed, and staggered toward the door.
When he opened it, Marcus stood there, breathing hard.
"Marcus?" Damon blinked. "What in the—"
"They did it," Marcus blurted. "I—I cost it, Damon. They heard. They listened. Gods help me, they acted."
"What are you talking about?"
"Some of the young ones, the ones who follow me… they heard Castling Knights were near the Cy Woods. They thought we should strike first. So they did." He paused. "It was a massacre."
Damon's breath caught. "How many?"
"Too many. And now the Castling Knights know. They'll come for us. Damon, we're in danger."
Damon swore. He grabbed his jacket and ran inside. Moments later, he was back at the door, fastening it over his shoulders.
"Come on."
Together they raced through the winding paths toward the a scattered village of moss-covered huts, with smoke rising from cooking fires and the sound of bartering in the air center.
As they ran, they passed chaos—a scattered village of moss-covered huts, with smoke rising from cooking fires and the sound of bartering in the airrs fleeing with bags and baskets, mothers weeping, children lost in the crowd.
When they reached the a dusty village square surrounded by old timber houses, the air filled with the scent of firewood and cooked grain, Damon stopped dead.
Bodies. Injured and dead Vasilian fighters. Blood stained the cobbles. Smoke curled up from burned cloth. The air reeked of blood, panic, and regret.
Marcus sank to his knees.
"What have we done?"
Eulalia
Eulalia heard voices outside.
She turned to Leon, who stood by the window, tense. He looked over his shoulder.
"There are men in the house," he whispered.
Eulalia's heart skipped. "Men?"
Leon nodded grimly. "noy possible, you're hearing things Eulalia"
The voices grew clearer.
Leon moved toward the door, took Eulalia's hand, and crouched low. Slowly, they crept toward the sitting room.
They peeked around the doorway—and froze.
Men in armor. Castling Knights. Standing in a circle around their mother, who was treating someone on the table.
Leon's eyes widened.
"Castling Knights," he whispered.
Eulalia's eyes locked on Bryce's pale face, then the swords resting within reach of the knights.
Fear crept in like ice. She took a step back—her foot struck a pot.
It crashed.
The knights turned; blades half-drawn.
"What was that?" Sir Randrl hissed.
Haywise was already moving. He found them in seconds, pulling them out by their arms.
"Children," he barked. "Hiding brats."
Artemisia screamed. "Leave them! They're mine!"
She bolted from Bryce's side and rushed over.
"Let them go!" she shouted, voice shaking.
Nightingale stepped in. "Haywise, that's enough."
Haywise frowned but obeyed, shoving the children forward.
Artemisia dropped to her knees, clutching them. "Are you hurt?"
They shook their heads.
"Continue," Nightingale said.
Artemisia returned to the table. Her hands worked with furious precision.
Leon and Eulalia sat nearby, eyes wide, watching their mother work.
After a tense moment, Artemisia looked up at Nightingale.
"I need supplies. For pain and infection."
"Where?" one knight asked.
She shook her head. "You're not Vasilians. You can't go into town. They'll kill you on sight."
"There's a town nearby?" Nightingale pressed.
Artemisia turned to Leon and grabbed his arm.
"You'll go to Damon. Tell him I need medicine. Fast."
Haywise stepped forward. "The boy? No. He'll bring soldiers."
Larkin growled, "So we just let Bryce die?"
Nightingale thought for a moment. "Let the boy go."
Haywise knelt before Leon, eyes hard. "If you bring anyone back here… I'll kill your mother and sister."
Leon's lip trembled, but he nodded.
"I don't want to leave—" he started.
"Go!" Artemisia snapped. "You worthless coward, go!"
Tears welled in Leon's eyes. He turned and ran into the woods thick with tangled roots and the scent of moss and decay, sobbing.
Later
Bryce lay still. His chest rose and fell slowly. The bandages had stopped most of the bleeding.
The knights sat, silent. Artemisia rested beside the children.
Eulalia lifted her eyes. Sir Haywise was watching her—ina coarse, canvas tent smelling faintly of sweat and iron, flapping gently in the breezely. Not cruelly. Curiously. Studying.
Bryce stirred. A growl escaped his lips. He opened his eyes.
Artemisia rushed to him. "Don't move," she said softly. "Medicine is coming."
The knights stood. A quiet murmur of relief. Each welcomed him back in their own way—nods, muttered greetings.
All except Haywise, whose gaze remained fixed on Eulalia.
Bryce's eyes found Artemisia. He tried to sit up, but she pressed him back gently.
"You need to lie still."
"Where are we?" he croaked.
The knights filled him in.
He listened, expression darkening. Something in his eyes… regret?
Haywise finally spoke.
"Why didn't you follow the bird sooner?"
Larkin waved a hand. "Let the man rest."
A hush fell again. Time passed.
Haywise rose and walked slowly toward Artemisia, eyes never leaving Eulalia.
"Your daughter," he said. "She's beautiful."
Artemisia's arms tightened around Eulalia. "Thank you."
"I love her smile," Haywise continued. "Her eyes. Her hair. The gold of it. The father must've had fine hair, because she didn't get it from you."
Nightingale's voice was sharp. "Haywise, that's enough."
Bryce's followed. "Stop."
Haywise turned slowly to Bryce, face unreadable
Sir Haywise stepped forward, his eyes hard and calculating. The firelight threw sharp shadows on his face as he paced, gesturing slowly, piecing things together aloud.
"Bryce said the woods weren't navigable," he began, his voice calm but laced with something colder. "Said we were wandering in circles. Lost. Then he gets injured, and what does he do? He tells us to follow a bird. A bird, gentlemen. And that bird brings us here. Right here. To a Vasilian woman's home."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the silence. "A woman with two children. And one of them—" he pointed slowly at Eulalia, "is the spitting image of our dear Sir Bryce. Don't tell me none of you see it."
The silence thickened.
"Haywise, shut up," Larkin growled.
Haywise turned sharply, his voice rising. "No, you shut up! You all need to open your damned eyes!"
He looked at Nightingale. "Look at her. Look at him. You telling me you don't see it?"
Nightingale met Eulalia's gaze, then Bryce's. His jaw clenched. For a moment, he looked as though he might speak, but instead, he looked away.
Bryce stirred. He groaned and pushed himself up, sweat beading on his brow. "Stop this," he said, voice hoarse but firm. "You're talking nonsense."
Haywise moved fast.
He grabbed Eulalia and yanked her toward him. The glint of steel flashed as he drew a dagger, pressing it to her throat.
Artemisia shrieked, lunging forward. "No! Please! She's just a child!"
Eulalia whimpered, frozen with terror. "Mama...!"
Bryce staggered forward, pain etched across his face. "Let her go!"
Larkin drew his sword in a fluid, practiced motion. Bryce followed suit, though every movement clearly cost him.
Randel took a step forward. "Haywise, let the girl go."
Haywise shook his head. "Not until he confesses. Say it, Bryce. Say it out loud. Or I kill her."
"You're mad," Larkin said. "She's a child."
"And you're all fools," Haywise hissed. "The boy is bringing soldiers. We're dead. Don't you see? Only Bryce walks away. And we rot in this forest."
Bryce, clutching his side, stepped again toward him. "You have no idea what you're doing."
"No," Haywise whispered. "I know exactly what I'm doing."
He pulled back the dagger.
Artemisia screamed.
In a blur, she dropped to one knee, reached into her boot, and pulled free a thin dagger. She plunged it into Haywise's foot.
He roared in pain, dropping Eulalia, who stumbled and ran straight into Artemisia's waiting arms.
Haywise, face twisted in fury, raised his sword to strike.
And Bryce was there.
Their swords clashed. Sparks flew. The a dim, cramped cabin with cracked wooden beams and the faint mustiness of old smoke echoed with the shriek of steel. Bryce gritted his teeth, the wound at his side bleeding freely.
He looked at Artemisia, then Eulalia. His eyes softened.
Something unspoken passed between them.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I shouldn't have put you in danger
He turned back to Haywise. "Run," he said to Artemisia.
She hesitated.
Bryce roared: "RUN!"
Artemisia clutched Eulalia and bolted from the a dim, cramped cabin with cracked wooden beams and the faint mustiness of old smoke. The night swallowed them whole.
They ran.
Branches lashed at their faces. Roots threatened to trip them. The sound of steel behind them faded, but did not disappear.
Eulalia sobbed. "Where are we going?"
Artemisia stopped, panting. She knelt before her daughter.
"You must run to Damon. Find Leon. Do not look back. Do you understand?"
Eulalia's eyes widened. "What about you?"
"I have to go back. For him."
"No!"
"Promise me, Eulalia!"
Eulalia nodded, crying.
Artemisia kissed her forehead. "Run. And don't stop."
Eulalia turned and fled into the woods thick with tangled roots and the scent of moss and decay.
She ran.
She tripped once, twice. Her dress caught on thorns. Her legs burned. Her lungs screamed.
She fell hard, rolled, and came to a stop.
A figure stood before her. She blinked.
"Leon!" she cried, rushing forward.
Leon caught her, his arms tight. Behind him stood Damon and a group of grim-faced Vasilian men.
She buried her face in Leon's chest, sobbing. "Mama... They're..."
Damon's face darkened. He turned to his men. "With me. Now."
He handed Eulalia to a warrior. "Keep her safe."
The warriors ran. Fast and silent.
They reached the a dim, cramped cabin with cracked wooden beams and the faint mustiness of old smoke. All was quiet.
Too quiet.
Damon crouched. A hand signaled the others to flank.
He opened the door. Stepped inside.
"By the gods..."
Eulalia crept forward behind the warrior. She peeked in.
Three knights lay dead in pools of blood.
Sir Larkin. Nightingale. Randel.
And there, slumped against the wall, sword still in hand...
Bryce.
Artemisia lay in his arms.
Both were still.
Both were gone.
Eulalia let out a sound that wasn't a cry. It was a fracture.
She ran to her mother, collapsing beside her.
Leon fell to his knees beside her, burying his face in her shoulder.
Damon stood frozen, his mouth trembling, hands clenched.
He closed his eyes. A single tear fell.
****
Later the forest was still.
They dug two graves side by side. The soil was thick, dark. The sky overcast, as if even the heavens mourned.
Artemisia was laid to rest first. Eulalia kissed her forehead, whispering something no one heard.
Then Bryce.
Damon stood between the graves. "He died protecting her. Whatever sins he committed before this, he paid for them. And she... was the heart of us all."
They covered the graves slowly, every handful of cold, gritty dirt that clung to the skin and filled the nose with its earthy scent like a blow to the chest.
Eulalia wept until there were no more tears.
Then came the sound of galloping hooves.
A shout. "Castling knights!"
Damon moved fast.
He grabbed the children, dragged them into the house, pulled up a floorboard.
"Get in. Don't make a sound. Not a sound."
Eulalia clung to Leon. The trapdoor closed.
Outside: shouting. Fighting.
"Hold the line!" Damon's voice rang.
Leon sat, fists clenched. "I hate them. I hate them."
He stood.
"Leon! No!" Eulalia tried to pull him down.
He looked at her. "I have to. Stay here. Don't come out unless it's quiet."
He climbed out.
Eulalia sat alone. Crying. Rocking.
****
Time passed. The noise died.
She opened the hatch.
Bodies littered the yard. Vasilian men. Still. Cold.
No sign of Leon.
No sign of Damon.
She ran.
Through the woods thick with tangled roots and the scent of moss and decay. Into town.
A crowd had gathered at the a dusty village square surrounded by old timber houses, the air filled with the scent of firewood and cooked grain.
Castling knights stood in ranks. Silent.
A platform loomed at the center.
Haywise stood beside it, dragging prisoners forward.
Lord Gregory watched from horseback.
Damon stood among the captured.
So did Leon.
Eulalia moved to scream, but a hand grabbed her.
"Don't," Marcus whispered. "You'll get yourself killed."
She watched, horrified, as one man was dragged forward.
He was forced to kneel. His head placed on the block.
The sword rose.
Eulalia screamed as it fell.
The head rolled.
Leon trembled in line, crying.
Damon looked at him. "Look forward. Be brave."
He began to sing:
"Don't cry, child, Castling listens, Stay strong and true like warriors of old... Somewhere out there, a land that glistens, Where heroes are crowned with gold..."
Leon joined in. His voice small but steady.
"We're on our way to paradise, Where we will dine with kings and knights... A place where Vasilians never die, A paradise for you and I."
He climbed the platform.
He knelt. Placed his head down.
Eulalia fought against Marcus, sobbing.
Leon looked at Damon. Damon smiled. Nodded.
Leon sang the last line:
"A paradise for you and I."
The sword fell.
And the world broke.