Fear crept in the way it always does—quiet at first, then all at once. I kept trying to peer into the trees like sheer panic might grant me night vision. No such luck. The forest pressed in on every side. Every shadow looked like it might move. Every gust of wind sounded like a footstep.
Sora sat beside me, calm or pretending very well. Her hands folded in her lap, posture perfect. But her eyes—those eyes tracked Arden like she was bracing for a storm. She bit her lip just a fraction.
I wanted to believe her when she said, "He knows what he's doing." But the words landed hollow. Because I didn't know what to do. Not really. Not after losing my village. Not after being turned away from the last place I'd thought maybe I could start over.
That raw ache—like the world was ripping open beneath my feet—bubbled up in my chest, squeezing the breath out of me. I swallowed hard, blinked back a rush of tears I didn't want anyone to see. My hands trembled, clutching at the rough bark of the log beneath me like it might hold me steady.
Sora glanced at me, leaning closer in a way that felt both kind and strange. "We're safe here. He won't let them get close."
Her voice was soft, the kind you use when you're trying to soothe a frightened animal. Maybe she saw the wild look in my eyes, the way my breath hitched.
I didn't respond.
Arden raised his hands, and suddenly the air snapped.
Light flared around him—rings of shifting runes spinning slow and steady, like ancient wheels turning in a forgotten spellwork. The magic didn't look gentle. It looked like something that didn't ask permission.
The bandits didn't come charging in like idiots. They crept. Slid out of the trees in near silence, dressed in rough leathers and carrying the kind of weapons you stab people with when you're more interested in their coin purses than conversation. These weren't back-alley thugs. They were coordinated. Armed. Focused.
Perfect.
Arden didn't even blink. A shimmer of magic snapped out from one of the glowing circles and spread around me and Sora like a dome—faintly golden, just translucent enough to make the outside look even more terrifying. I didn't need an explanation. I could feel the barrier. Gentle hum, thick air, the sense of something solid keeping the worst at bay.
For now.
And then Arden lit them up.
Red light burst from his spell circles like fireworks with a grudge. They flew—dozens of them—each with a purpose, each with a target. No random sprays or wild chaos. Just surgical destruction. Every flash slammed into someone, flinging bodies through the air like scarecrows on a bad day.
I ducked instinctively, even though I knew nothing was getting through the barrier. The sounds outside were distant, muffled. But that didn't stop my heartbeat from going absolutely feral in my chest.
Sora's hand brushed my arm.
"It's okay," she said softly. "He's really strong. They won't win."
She smiled at me, like that was supposed to help. It was a small smile. Awkward. She wasn't great at hiding the tension in her shoulders or the way her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. But she was trying. I think that counted for something.
Arden moved like a ghost that had forgotten how to rest. Shadows curled around his arms like pets, stretched out into long, writhing tendrils that snapped and whipped through the air. They yanked weapons from hands, wrapped around legs, hurled people into trees with wet, unpleasant thuds. His sword flicked through the dark like a knife through silk, clean and impossibly fast.
The whole thing felt weirdly quiet. Or maybe that was just the magic dome. It turned the world into a snow globe of violence.
Then something slammed into the barrier. Hard.
I flinched as the dome flared, throwing light across Sora's face and mine. Her smile faltered for half a second.
"He'll be fine," she said again, firmer this time. Maybe for me. Maybe for her.
A low hum vibrated through the air. Deep and metallic and wrong. The kind of sound that feels like it was designed specifically to make your bones remember bad things.
Birds exploded from the trees, screeching into the night sky.
And then he appeared.
The knight stepped into the clearing like he belonged there—as if the trees had grown around him on purpose, silence settling with his every footfall. A wall of iron and silence. No gleam, no frills. Just bulk and intent. The kind of presence that made the forest go quiet out of something deeper than fear.
Even the bandits froze. No shouting, no charging. Just that awful, collective pause when everyone realizes they're suddenly part of something much bigger than themselves.
He didn't speak right away. Just tilted his helmet toward Arden, slow and steady. I couldn't see his face, but that didn't matter. You don't need to see fire to know it burns.
"I've waited for this," he said. His voice was wreckage—low, dry, old pain and older pride ground together. "To face the one they whisper about. The ghost who walks through fire and leaves only ruin."
Arden said nothing, not even a twitch; he simply pushed his glasses up as if adjusting to a sun no one else could see. Calm. Casual. Like he was waiting for his tea to steep, not a duel to the death.
But there was a shift. Small. Barely more than a twitch in the air. Enough to make me wonder if he was… wary? No one else seemed to notice. But something had changed. Like the wind had drawn in a breath and didn't dare let it out yet.
The knight pressed on, his voice eager—almost feverish—as he recounted his journey and the dark cause that brought him here. He had trained for years, bled for the chance to prove himself in this moment. His words spilled into the night like a rant, his excitement palpable, but Arden remained silent, almost disinterested, as though none of it mattered.
Arden stared silently, like he was listening out of politeness and not particularly enjoying the tale.
Finally, the knight raised his sword, its massive blade gleaming in the pale moonlight. "Show me," he said, his voice almost reverent. "Let's see what the ghost can do."
The words barely had time to fade before Arden moved.
No flash. No noise. Just a blur—too fast, too clean. One step forward, and the air cracked like a whip. The knight swung his blade down with a roar, but Arden was already gone, a shadow shifting past him, like he was just a part of the night.
A streak of red magic traced across the knight's side.
Nothing.
Then the knight's shoulder pauldron cracked in half.
Arden raised his hand. A quick snap. The ground beneath the knight lit up with glowing runes, like the earth itself had come alive to trap him.
A shockwave hit the knight, throwing him off his feet and into a tree hard enough to make it shudder. The bandits, surprisingly, didn't scream. They didn't even hesitate. They ran. Well, tried to.
Black tendrils shot up from the ground, twisting with deadly precision, wrapping around ankles, weapons, throats. A dozen bandits were lifted off the ground, screaming as their limbs flailed, caught like puppets in a bad dream. Then, in quick flashes, crimson magic shot through them, precise and deliberate, too fast for even the eye to track.
The knight got back up. Not fast. Not strong. Just… stubborn. He swayed a little, boots dragging through the moss as he steadied himself. Smoke still curled off the gaps in his armor where the runes had burned through, edges glowing faint like dying coals. His sword hand shook. Not from fear—just worn down. Like even his anger was starting to crack.
Arden didn't give him the chance to catch his breath.
A single ribbon of shadow slid from his sleeve. No theatrics. No grand flourish—just a lazy flick. Like swatting a bug. It snaked forward and punched through the knight's chestplate without resistance, like the metal was made of paper.
For a heartbeat, it looked like nothing had happened.
Then came the sound. A low, ugly crunch as the metal caved inward. The knight staggered, chest rising once, twice—then he wheezed, sharp and broken, as the air fled his lungs. He stumbled a step back.
Tried to raise his sword again.
Arden stepped in close.
No words. No warning. Just one clean strike—a vertical slash, straight down like a guillotine.
The sword dropped. Not with a clatter—more like a soft thump, swallowed by the moss. The knight followed it, knees hitting the ground, then slumping forward, facedown in the dirt.
Silence swallowed the clearing. Deep and sudden, like even the trees were holding their breath.
Arden turned to us. Calm. Not proud. Not cold. Just… done. Like this hadn't been a fight. Like it had been a chore. Something on a checklist. He brushed a bit of dirt off his sleeve, looked up, and said in a voice so steady it somehow made my skin crawl:
"Let's keep moving."
And then he walked away. Simple as that.
I didn't follow. Not right away.
I just stood there, staring at the knight's broken body like it might twitch. Like maybe this wasn't real.
My legs weren't listening. My thoughts weren't either.
Another village. Another nightmare. And I was still here. Somehow.
Why?
What kind of person walks through a massacre and doesn't even flinch?
That knight—some monster of steel and fury, the kind of man you'd build statues for—was dead. Just dead. Sliced open and dropped like firewood. The air smelled sharp and heavy, full of blood and something burnt.
And that man, Arden, was already walking like none of it mattered.
I didn't know what else to do. So I followed—because stopping wasn't an option, and neither was breaking.