True to his word, five minutes later, we were moving again. Steve, my long-suffering steed, seemed to have regained some of his vigor, and I was grateful to be back on his broad, warm back. The ground had grown softer, a damp carpet of black soil and rotting leaves that muffled our footsteps. The air, already thick with the scent of decay, grew heavier still, clinging to my clothes and the back of my throat like a physical presence. The trees, gnarled and skeletal, seemed to lean in, their bare branches clawing at the bruised purple sky of dusk.

  Silence resumed its place as our fourth companion, but it was a different kind of silence now. Less awkward, more watchful. The tension of our argument had been lanced, replaced by the sharp focus of a shared, if unspoken, purpose. I found myself hyper-aware of Kaelen. The slight shift of his weight as he navigated a tangle of roots, the quiet rasp of his leather armor, and the way his gaze constantly swept our surroundings. He was a creature of this grim environment, as much a part of it as the menacing quiet.

  My new rule echoed in my mind. Look at me first. It was so simple, yet it felt like being told to breathe with someone else’s lungs. Everything in me was wired for action, for reaction. To cede that control, to put my life so completely in the hands of a man I barely knew… it was terrifying. But the memory of that Lure, the slick, insidious way it had peeled back the layers of my mind to find my soft spots, was even more so.

  “A most unsavory musk begins to permeate the air,” Bartholomew commented from his perch on my pack, his nose twitching. “It speaks of poor hygiene and a distinct lack of social graces.”

  I snorted softly. “Says the guy who licks his own butt.”

  “It is an act of meticulous grooming, I shall have you know, not a social faux pas,” he sniffed indignantly.

  Before I could retort, Kaelen held up a hand, his entire body going rigid. I froze mid-breath, my heart kicking against my ribs like a trapped bird. My hand flew to the hilt of the sword at my hip, an unfamiliar weapon that felt more like a liability than an asset. My eyes darted into the deepening shadows, trying to find the source of the alarm. Then I remembered.

  Look at me first.

  I wrenched my gaze from the oppressive woods and fixed it on Kaelen’s back. He hadn’t turned. He was a statue carved from granite and steel. I could see the muscles in his neck corded with tension. He tilted his head, listening to a sound I couldn’t yet hear. My own ears strained, catching only the faint whisper of wind through the dead branches.

  Then I heard it. A dry, scraping skitter. Like a thousand fingernails dragging across stone. It came from all around us.

  My knuckles were white on my sword hilt. My instinct screamed at me to draw it, to stand, to prepare. Instead, I glued my eyes to Kaelen, my entire world shrinking to the space between his shoulder blades.

  He slowly turned his head, just enough to meet my gaze. His grey eyes were flat, analytical. There was no fear in them, only assessment. He saw the tension in my posture, the panic warring with resolve on my face. He gave a single, sharp nod.

  That was it. The permission. The confirmation that this threat was real, physical, and something we had to fight. I shoved my new helm onto my head and shut the face guard.

  The first one burst from a pile of rotting leaves to our right. It was the stuff of kitchen nightmares, a cockroach scaled up to the size of a large dog. Its carapace was an oily, iridescent black, reflecting the dim light with a sickening sheen. Its long antennae twitched frantically, tasting the air, and a chittering sound, filled with mindless hunger, escaped from its clicking mandibles. Before I could fully process the horror, another scrambled out from under a mossy log, and a third dropped from a low-hanging branch with a wet thud.

  “Gloom Skitterers,” Kaelen said, his voice a low growl as he drew his own sword. The sound of steel clearing its scabbard was shockingly loud in the twilight. “Vermin. Aim for the head or the joints where the legs meet the body.”

  Steve whinnied in terror, sidestepping nervously. I slid off his back, landing with a soft thud on the damp earth. “Go! Get clear!” I smacked his rump, and the horse, needing no further encouragement, bolted a safe distance away.

  A Skitterer charged me, its multiple legs churning through the leaf litter with horrifying speed. I yelped, stumbling back, and brought my sword up in a clumsy guard. This wasn’t a game. There was no respawn point. The thing was greasy and real, and it smelled like sour milk and damp earth. It lunged, and I swung wildly.

  There was a disgusting crack as my blade connected with one of its forelegs, shearing it off. The creature shrieked, a high-pitched whistle of pain and rage, and off-white, mayonnaise-like ichor sprayed across my boots. It faltered, and I saw my chance. Remembering Kaelen’s instruction, I lunged forward, shoving the point of my sword down into the soft-looking tissue where its head met its thorax. The blade sank in with a wet crunch. The Skitterer convulsed, its remaining legs thrashing, and then went still.

  I didn’t have time to dwell on it. Two more were scuttling toward me. I dodged a clumsy charge from one, its mandibles snapping shut inches from my leg. While I was fumbling, Kaelen was a whirlwind of deadly grace. He moved with an economy of motion that was both beautiful and terrifying. A step, a pivot, a flash of silver. A head flew from its body in an arc of black goo. A downward thrust through a carapace that split with a sound like cracking porcelain. He dispatched three of them in the time it took me to kill one.

  He finished the last one that was menacing him and turned just as I squared off against my second opponent.

  “Don’t stand flat-footed!” he barked. “Move with it! Use its momentum against it!”

  His words cut through my panic. Right, stay loose. As the next Skitterer rushed me, I sidestepped, letting it pass, and swung my sword in a horizontal arc, aiming for its legs. The blade bit deep, severing two on one side. The creature tumbled, screeching, and I finished it with another messy stab to the head.

  Within a minute, it was over. The clearing was silent again, save for my own ragged breathing. Six oily corpses lay twitching in their final throes, leaking black fluid onto the forest floor. I was splattered with the stuff, and the smell was going to haunt me for weeks. Eau de Roach Guts. Lovely.

  I leaned on my sword, trying to catch my breath, my heart still hammering. I looked at Kaelen. He was examining his blade, his expression unreadable. He wiped it clean on a handful of leaves with a practiced motion before sheathing it. He looked at the mess I’d made, then at me.

  I braced myself for a critique. For a lecture on my sloppy form or my panicked shriek.

  “You waited.” He said simply.I stared at him, confused.

  “What?”

  “When you first heard them. You hesitated. You looked to me.” He took a step closer, his grey eyes searching mine. “That is what mattered. The rest can be taught. The discipline must be learned. You did well.”

  The simple, unadorned praise hit me harder than any insult could have. He wasn’t just talking about my clumsy swordplay. He was talking about the rule. About trust. I had listened. I had passed the first, most important test.

  I managed a shaky smile, wiping a smear of bug guts from my cheek with the back of my hand.

  “Good to know. For a minute there, I was pretty sure my master plan was going to be ‘scream and get eaten.’”A corner of his mouth twitched, the closest I’d ever seen him come to a true smile.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  “A common strategy among novices. We will improve upon it.” He retrieved Steve, who was nervously eyeing the carcasses, and patted the horse’s neck. “Mount up. We lost time. The true dark is coming, and we do not want to be caught in the open when it does.”

  As I climbed back onto Steve’s back, the last vestiges of twilight were devoured by the Gloomwood. The shadows merged into an impenetrable wall of black, and the forest came alive with new, more sinister sounds.

  The air in the Gloomwood grew heavier as the sun fell past the horizon. Steve, bless his equine heart, shifted nervously beneath me, his ears swiveling like tiny radar dishes, trying to pick out the source of the rustles and whispers that seemed to emanate from every shadowed corner. Even Bartholomew, usually so unflappable, was a tense, furry ball of indignant silence perched on my shoulder, his tail twitching a mile a minute.

  Ser Kaelen rode ahead, a silent, imposing silhouette against the encroaching darkness. He moved with a practiced ease, his horse, a magnificent gray charger named Argent, navigating the treacherous terrain with effortless grace. I, on the other hand, felt like I was playing a particularly unforgiving game of ‘Simon Says’ with a bunch of predatory woodland creatures, my every decision potentially fatal.

  “So,” I started, my voice a little too loud in the oppressive quiet, earning me a sharp hiss from Bartholomew. “About those… noises. What exactly are we supposed to be listening for out here, besides the sound of our own impending doom?”Ser Kaelen didn’t turn.

  “The wood speaks, Paige. It always does. Some of the whispers are harmless. Others… others are warnings. Or lures.My grip tightened on Steve’s mane.

  “Lures to what? Discounted swamp tours? All-you-can-eat spiderwebs?”This time, he did turn, his grey eyes catching the faint moonlight that managed to pierce the dense canopy.

  “Lures to the Shadow Lord’s minions. Or worse.”

  “Right. Worse,” I muttered, trying to inject a note of nonchalance into my tone. “Because being lured to a nest of flesh-eating goblins is so last season.”Bartholomew, finally finding his voice, chimed in, his tone dripping with his usual disdain.

  “Must you insist on such vulgar analogies, child? One would think a communication major might possess a more refined vocabulary.”

  “Hey, I’m just trying to keep things light,” I defended, though I knew it was a losing battle. “This whole ‘shadows are coming, oh no!’ vibe is really starting to get to me.”

  “The darkness is not a mere aesthetic choice, Paige,” Ser Kaelen said, his voice low and serious. “It twists the land, and it empowers those who serve the Shadow Lord.”

  We continued in silence for a while, the rhythmic thud of hooves on the mossy ground the only sound besides our own breathing. The trees loomed taller, their gnarled branches like skeletal fingers reaching out to snatch us. It felt like we were walking through the throat of some ancient, slumbering beast.

  Suddenly, Ser Kaelen reined in Argent, raising a hand.

  “Halt.”

  I stopped Steve, my heart leaping into my throat. Bartholomew flattened himself against my neck, a tiny tremor running through him. Even Argent seemed to sense the shift in the air, his muscles tensing.

  “What is it?” I whispered, straining my ears.

  “Movement. Ahead. And… a scent.” Ser Kaelen’s voice was barely audible.

  I inhaled deeply. All I could smell was damp earth, decaying leaves, and the faint, metallic tang of fear that I’m sure was mostly mine.

  “I don’t smell anything,” I admitted.

  “You wouldn’t,” Ser Kaelen said. “Not yet. But it is there. And it is not friendly.”

  He dismounted, his movements fluid and economical. He gestured for me to do the same. Steve, clearly relieved, lowered his head with a sigh. Bartholomew, however, remained firmly planted, his emerald eyes narrowed, scanning the inky blackness.

  “We will make camp here,” Ser Kaelen announced, pointing towards a dense thicket of ancient roots that twisted out of the ground like the exposed bones of a colossal creature. “It offers some concealment. No fires.”

  “Camping? Without a fire?” I protested, shivering despite my leather armor. “Are you serious?”

  “A fire would be a beacon,” he stated flatly. “We are not in a position to advertise our presence.”

  “But… what about the spooky noises? And the unseen monsters?” I gestured wildly at the surrounding gloom. “Don’t we need a fire to, you know, ward them off?”

  “Courage wards them off, Paige. And discipline. Not a flickering flame that will only draw the attention of those who hunt in the dark.” He then knelt, his hands expertly sifting through the leaf litter and moss. “We will rest, but we will not sleep soundly. Stay alert.”

  He produced what looked suspiciously like a very large, very sharp hunting knife and began to clean it with a scrap of cloth. I watched him, a knot of unease tightening in my stomach. This was not the kind of ‘camping’ I was used to. No marshmallows, no ghost stories around a crackling fire. Just darkness and the unsettling feeling of being watched.

  We settled into our makeshift shelter. Ser Kaelen’s movements were economical and silent. He unpacked a saddlebag, revealing a remarkably compact supply of dried meat and hardtack. He offered me some, which I accepted with a grateful nod, chewing the tough, dry biscuit with a grimace. My stomach rumbled in protest, missing the simple comforts of take-out and Netflix.

  Bartholomew, meanwhile, had found a relatively comfortable spot on a gnarled root. He still scanned the darkness, but his posture was less rigid.

  “The boy’s assessment is… sound, though his delivery lacks a certain panache,” he opined, his voice a low rumble against the silence.

  “Oh, you think so?” I said, my voice laced with exhaustion. “Because my analysis of the situation is ‘we’re going to get eaten by something with too many teeth and not enough manners.’”

  “A valid, if somewhat melodramatic, concern,” Bartholomew conceded. “However, Ser Kaelen’s adherence to tactical discretion is commendable. A fire, in these environs, would indeed be an invitation to the insatiable.”

  I sighed, leaning back against the rough bark of the tree.

  “So, what’s the plan, then? Just… sit here in the dark and hope for the best?”

  Ser Kaelen, who had been meticulously sharpening his blade, paused. “We wait. We listen. And when the time is right, we move.” He sheathed his knife. “The path ahead is perilous, Paige. You have shown a capacity for courage, for which I am grateful. But courage alone is not enough. You must learn to control your fear. To command it, rather than be commanded by it.” He looked at me then, his gaze intense. “There are things in this wood that feed on fear. The darker the heart, the stronger they become.”I swallowed, the dry biscuit suddenly feeling like sandpaper in my throat.

  “Right. So, don’t be scared. Got it.” I tried to inject a bit of my usual sarcasm, but it fell flat.

  “It is not so simple,” Ser Kaelen said softly. “Fear is a natural response. To deny it is folly. But to let it consume you is fatal. You must find what lies beneath the fear. What drives you. What makes you fight.” He paused, and I could feel the weight of his unspoken thoughts. The Gloomwood seemed to press closer, the silence amplifying the beating of my own heart.

  “Who were you hearing earlier?” I blurted out, the question escaping before I could censor myself. “That woman who called your name.”

  Ser Kaelen’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. He looked away, his gaze fixed on some point in the impenetrable darkness beyond our meager shelter. The air grew colder, or perhaps it was just the chill of his silence.

  “It was… a memory,” he finally said, his voice rough. “A sound that echoes too readily in this place.”

  “A memory?” I pressed, my curiosity piqued despite myself. “What kind of memory?”

  He remained silent for a long moment, and I braced myself for another curt dismissal. But then, he spoke, his words slow and deliberate, as if each syllable was being dredged from a deep well of pain.

  “My sister,” he said, almost a whisper. “Lyra. She was… taken. Years ago. The Shadow Lord’s influence was already strong then, though many refused to see it. She was lost to me in a place much like this.”

  My sarcastic retort died on my lips. Bartholomew, for once, was silent, his tiny body radiating a palpable sympathy. Ser Kaelen’s usual stoicism had cracked, revealing a raw, exposed wound.

  “I heard her voice,” he continued, his gaze distant, haunted. “Or what I believed to be her voice. A plea for help. It came from the very depths of the wood.” He finally met my eyes, and the anguish in them was like a physical blow. “I… I hesitated. I looked to the others, searching for a sign, for a plan. By the time I acted…” He trailed off, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. “By the time I went after her, it was too late. She was gone. And I was left with only the echo of her cry.”

  He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the knight was back, the mask firmly in place, though the shadows in his eyes remained.

  “That is why I waited. That is why I listened. The voices you heard earlier… they were similar. A trick of the wood. A painful reminder.”

  I felt a pang of guilt for my earlier flippancy, for my constant barrage of jokes. This wasn’t just a game for him. This was a brutal, unforgiving reality.

  “I… I’m sorry, Ser Kaelen,” I managed, my voice sincere. “I had no idea.”

  He gave a curt nod, turning his attention back to his blade, though I suspected he wasn’t seeing the metal.

  “There is much you do not yet understand, Paige. Much that must be learned.”

  The darkness outside our root-cocoon seemed to deepen, swallowing the last vestiges of light. The forest spoke in hushed tones, its secrets whispered on the wind.