Teclos stood by the window of the chief's house, hands pressed against the cold glass.
Outside, torches flickered as the party gathered.
Hunters adjusted straps and checked their blades for the last time. Guards murmured final words to one another. Father Pella stood among them like a comander, a beacon of hope—armor catching the firelight, axe resting against his shoulder as if it were nothing more than a walking stick.
They looked ready to move out.
And that terrified him.
What if they die… was the thought gnawing at his consciousness.
If they all die because of me—
His chest tightened.
They were marching into Ragla because he had told them to—or so he thought. He had run away and left the people behind, while his words sent new sacrifices to that horrible… thing.
All of this happened because he had been there… he was the reason Ragla burned, he told himself.
And what would he do now?
Stay behind?
In a warm home.
Safe and pampered by Saldia.
Useless…
Teclos clenched his hands.
Brahm had already left to fetch Saldia. The thought of seeing her made his stomach twist. She would worry. She would comfort him. She would tell him he'd done enough and that it wasn't his fault.
But maybe enough for her, didn't really feel like enough for him.
His gaze drifted toward the small table beside the hearth, where Elira had set the tea earlier.
The scent still lingered.
Herbs.
His eyes narrowed slightly as memory stirred.
Those leaves… the way she crushed them before steeping. Not common herbs. Saldia used them sometimes—sparingly. Teclos remembered his mother once speaking of her own mentor, how she'd learned which plants could strengthen the body instead of healing it outright.
"Her master burned her finger once," his mother had said, amused. "Right here."
Teclos swallowed.
An absurd idea formed in his head.
Elira had that same burn mark.
Right on her index finger. His heart began to race because of what he was about to do.
He crossed the room quietly.
Elira had been careful, but not secretive. Inside what looked to be a herbal room, awfully similar to theirs back home. Jars of dried roots and bark, toxic herbs, and books were neatly stacked on the shelves, and a working bench sat in the middle of the room.
Inside, he looked for specific herbs he knew of, thanks to Saldia's teachings.
Frostveil Moss — pale blue threads, used to ward off bitter cold.
Sunroot Shavings — bitter, but known to restore stamina.
Mindleaf Petals — rare, silvery leaves that sharpen focus.
Gravebloom Resin — dangerous in excess, but capable of reigniting spent mana reserves aswell as stoping a mild bleeding.
Just as he was about to take them, he caught his breath.
This could help the villagers and the expedition, as well as himself.
I'll return it, he promised silently. I'll gather twice as much later. I swear.
Guilt stabbed at him even as he slipped the full pouches into his jacket and rucksack.
His heart pounded harder now.
He knew this was wrong.
But doing nothing felt far worse, so he decided not to be a wimp anymore and, for once, be useful.
He pulled on his coat, strapped on his dagger, grabbed the bow and quiver from Brahm—near the door, and for just a second hesitated.
This was a bad idea, but one he wanted to go through with. And then making up his mind, he walked toward the window.
The drop wasn't far.
Still, his hands trembled.
Not because of monsters he might face.
Because of Saldia and Talmir.
They're going to kill me, he thought faintly.
Then he jumped.
Snow crunched beneath his boots as he landed and immediately moved, keeping low and as silent as possible. He skirted the shadows, climbed the narrow stairs built into the wall, slipped past the archer's platform, picking up a few more arrows—
And jumped down the far side.
Cold air burned his lungs.
He ran, toward Ragla again.
Without looking back, and with a new resolve.
Moments later, the house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Saldia stepped inside behind Brahm, her brow furrowed. Elira's hearth still glowed faintly. The scent of herbs and nostalgia lingered.
But—
"Teclos?" Saldia called.
No answer.
Her eyes moved quickly now. The blankets that should have been wrapped around him—folded. The cup empty. The window—
Open.
Her heart dropped.
"No, he wouldn't…" she whispered.
Brahm crossed the room in two strides. He looked outside, then back at the table. He noticed his wife taking a nap as well.
"There are footprints outside in the snow."
Their eyes met.
Understanding struck them both at once.
"That boy," Saldia breathed. "That reckless, stubborn—"
"He must've followed them," Brahm said grimly.
Silence followed, heavy with shock at the stupidity.
Saldia closed her eyes—and then she ran after him.
Meanwhile, on the road to Ragla, the forest felt wrong.
Father Pella and the hunters noticed it immediately.
No birds.
No insects.
No life.
The guards noticed it too.
"Anyone else got the creeps?" Obin muttered.
"It's too quiet," Darnel said. "Like the forest is scared of something."
They marched on, weapons close, shoulders tense. Ready for anything.
Halfway there, unease settled like the frost on the trees.
Murmurs began more frequently—worry, doubt, and fear slowly creeping closer.
Then Pella stopped.
He turned, planting the haft of his axe into the earth.
"Enough already, you wimps!" he said firmly.
The group halted.
"I have fought undead before," Pella said, voice steady. "They fall like anything else when struck by my axe."
A few hunters exchanged glances.
"Our numbers are good enough," he continued. "If nothing else, we extract the survivors and retreat. That alone would be our victory."
He lifted the axe slightly, a faint smile tugging at his beard.
"And besides—this old thing's cleaved worse than just those undead bones in Ragla."
A few chuckles broke the tension.
Shoulders eased, reassured once again. Backs straightened.
They marched anew.
Unaware—
That a boy was already running behind them into the dark.
But as much as there was hope, there was also despair elsewhere.
Snow clung to boots and hems, crunching softly beneath dragging feet as the line of survivors pushed onward through the dark forest. Breath came in ragged bursts, each inhale burning the lungs, each exhale fogging the air in thick, trembling clouds. No one spoke. There was no strength left for words.
The villagers marched in a ragged formation, towards Kolma as per that hunters instructions.
Most were injured. Cuts wrapped hastily in blood-soaked cloth. Burns hidden beneath borrowed coats. Blood frozen stiff against sleeves and collars. The gravely wounded were carried between two or three people. The elderly leaned heavily on younger villagers, children pressed tightly against chests, eyes wide and silent with shock.
Progress was painfully slow.
But it was progress nonetheless.
Someone whispered it aloud—half a prayer, half a lie.
"One more step… just one more step away from Ragla and we are safe."
They clung to the thought desperately. Every footfall carried them farther from the screaming, farther from the burning streets and the dead that refused to stay dead. Ahead, the forest thinned slightly, and beyond that lay the wide road—open ground, visibility, hope.
And as if by fate, their hope was cut again by something moving just behind them.
A low, wet sound slipped through the night, almost lost beneath the wind.
Someone turned and screamed.
"Ghouls!"
Five shapes erupted from the darkness.
They did not charge blindly like zombies. They moved with intent—low, fast, long limbs carrying them from trunk to trunk with terrifying ease. Claws bit into bark. Snow scattered beneath their landings. Torchlight caught brief flashes of fangs and glinting eyes before they vanished again into shadow.
Panic rippled through the group.
"Form up!" a man shouted, voice cracking. "Form a Circle! Now!"
They obeyed instinctively.
Men and women stepped outward, torches raised high, axes and woodcutting tools clenched in numb hands. A handful of bows were drawn, arrows shaking as stiff fingers struggled to find purchase. The injured, the elderly, and the children were dragged into the center, pressed close together in a knot of shivering bodies.
Firelight flickered.
The ghouls circled.
They didn't rush in.
They watched.
"They're waiting," someone whispered hoarsely. "For an opportunity."
That realization settled like ice in their veins.
"River," another hissed urgently. "If we can reach the river… where there are no trees. No hiding or jumping for those monsters, we might survive."
It was a gamble.
But staying meant certain death.
Slowly—agonizingly—they began to move again, the circle shuffling forward, step by careful step. Torches swayed. Snow crunched. Somewhere ahead, the faint sound of flowing water grew louder.
Then one of the ghouls struck.
It slipped through a blind spot faster than eyes could track, claws hooking into an injured man near the edge of the formation. He screamed once before being dragged backward, heels carving frantic lines in the snow.
"Help him!"
Axes swung. A torch flared.
Too late.
The darkness swallowed him whole.
They pressed on, terror tightening their formation, breathing accompanied with sobs. Minutes passed—maybe less—before it happened again.
This time it was a child.
A mother's scream tore through the night as her grip was ripped away, small hands flailing before vanishing into the trees.
The scream ended abruptly. Blood sprayed across the snow.
One of the defenders fell moments later, throat opened from behind before he could even turn. His body collapsed at their feet, eyes staring lifelessly upward.
By the time they reached the riverbank, their numbers were smaller.
They backed against the icy water, the river at their heels, breath shaking violently as exhaustion and cold gnawed into their bones. The ghouls prowled just beyond the firelight now, hissing softly, snapping their jaws in frustration.
Two of them lay dead—one with its skull caved in by combined axe blows, another riddled with arrows and burned until it finally stopped moving. It was a minor success, but one that cost them heavy casualties to kill.
Three remained still, hungry and angry.
The cold was merciless—but the fear was worse.
They held their ground for now.
But for how long would their luck last?
Somewhere between the trees on his way to Ragla—
Teclos ran until his lungs felt like they might tear themselves apart.
Snow burned his throat with every breath, legs heavy and numb beneath him, yet he forced himself onward until flickering torchlight appeared ahead through the trees.
Organized.
Evenly spaced.
A marching line.
Relief surged through him so sharply it almost brought him to his knees.
Kolma's hunters.
He nearly called out—
Then stopped himself just in time.
He would surely be sent back if they knew.
Besides, an arrow could fly faster than recognition.
Teclos slowed, heart hammering, and veered wide to the left—far enough to keep distance but close enough to follow. Darkness mana seeped outward, bending shadows around his form, dulling his presence just in case. The effort burned his reserves, but he didn't dare ease it.
He followed like a ghost.
When the path split toward Ragla, the hunters halted briefly, voices low and tense. Teclos couldn't make out the words—but something else caught his attention.
Fresh footprints and blood.
The hunters missed this trail because they were too far to the right.
His heart skipped violently.
Talmir…
Without thinking, Teclos turned away from the hunters and followed the trail into the trees. The blood worried him—but hope clung stubbornly to his heart.
My father's alive. He has to be.
Then he saw claw marks gouged deep into the bark of a tree and a dead person.
Dread pooled in his stomach.
Teclos stopped, closed his eyes, and forced more mana into his concealment, wrapping himself fully in shadow. He moved slower now—quieter and fully concealed.
He heard the river before he saw it.
Then torchlight flickered ahead through the trees.
Relief surged for a second—then froze solid.
Something was wrong.
His shadow sense screamed.
Above him.
A ghoul clung to the branches overhead, muscles coiled, eyes fixed not on him—but on the villagers by the river.
Teclos's breath caught painfully in his chest.
Panic flared—
Then another ghoul burst from the darkness to his left, leaping into the firelight below. Screams erupted as it slashed wildly, inflicting shallow but bloody wounds before retreating into the trees again.
Just great… more than one, he realized numbly.
He stayed still and watched.
The villagers were barely holding together—shaking, freezing, eyes hollow with terror. Children whimpered weakly. Men gripped weapons with white-knuckled desperation.
Seeing that scene, more than anything, Teclos wanted to help.
Then the idea came.
Another spectacularly stupid and dangerous idea.
He gulped.
And started climbing the tree the ghoul was on, to get a closer look.
He stayed just beneath it, studying the ghoul above him—its breathing, the way its muscles tensed before it moved, the pattern of its attention. Minute by minute, fear dulled into something colder, sharper.
Then after twenty minutes passed, and he was getting used to this new sensation.
The ghoul never noticed him.
It was both frigjtening and Exhilarating.
When it finally shifted away, Teclos climbed down slowly, silently, every movement measured. He nocked an arrow, fingers steady now.
Next time one of them strikes—
I won't miss.
With newfound conviction, he stalked his prey like an expert hunter.
Like he had Awakened, remembering Talmir's lessons and training.
Silent, concealed, and ready to attack, he read their intent and habits.
Out of the three ghouls, he chose the one on the right flank. It was waiting to jump from a bush near the riverbank, but that wasn't his true target, as he knew this ghoul would be the last to attack based on the distance. His real goal was the other two ghouls that would strike eventually.
Arrow nocked, he waited in the tree for the next attack, aiming for a swift double kill—one with the arrow, the other below with the dagger.
After a while, the silence shattered. A ghoul from the opposite flank lunged at an injured defender. Teclos didn't miss this moment.
He unleashed the arrow, coated in darkness mana, while the arrow was flying—almost invisible. He jumped down already, dagger in hand, ready to strike the second one like a venomous viper.
The arrow struck perfectly, lodging through the ghoul's eye and skull mid jump.
But he wasn't done.
Falling onto the ghoul beneath him, he stabbed it through the eye as well, darkness mana coating the blade, piercing it effortlessly.
Not even a scream of pain escaped either of them.
Like marionettes with their strings cut, both ghouls collapsed to the ground.
Dead—still and final.