The camp had settled into its uneasy routine. Fires smoked lazily over cooking pits, the clink of water buckets and the scrape of swords against whetstones filling the air. Soldiers joked over whose watch was next, complained about the heat, and teased one another over trivial mistakes.
"Who gets the corner tent tonight?" one muttered, swatting at a fly. "Not me. I've had enough dust and viper tales for one lifetime."
"Better a viper than whatever's lurking in those trees," another replied, forcing a laugh that didn't reach his eyes. The men chuckled nervously, shifting uneasily, each glance toward the dark line of forest at the edge of the clearing.
Orrin walked among them, hands on his belt, checking supplies and ensuring the horses were settled. "Keep moving," he said briskly. "Water, firewood, tents—do it right, and maybe the forest will spare us tonight."
The soldiers continued their work, but their jokes were thinner now, their voices lower. The forest held a weight, a silent presence that pressed on the edges of their minds. Birds had vanished hours ago, the wind barely stirred the leaves, and the normal sounds of life seemed to shrink under the oppressive quiet.
Then, movement flickered in the treeline.
A girl stepped forward, careful and deliberate, almost gliding over the underbrush. Her clothes were plain, dark, and worn, but there was a stillness about her that made the air feel heavier. She did not call out. She did not stumble or falter.
A soldier nearest her barked, "Oi! Who—where are you coming from?"
She said nothing.
Another stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his sword. "Hey! This isn't a place for children. Speak!"
Still, she did not answer. Her gaze swept over the camp slowly, deliberately, before fixing on Aedric. There was something in that look, calm and precise, that made even the braver soldiers pause.
"She's… not lost," one muttered under his breath. "And she isn't a vampire… but… something's off."
Orrin motioned for the men to hold, stepping cautiously toward her. "Don't let her wander," he said quietly. "But don't touch her. Not yet."
The girl's lips remained sealed. Her eyes moved over the camp like a careful observer, taking in every man, every tent, every horse, and her stillness seemed unnatural, almost predatory—but calm. There was power in her presence, subtle but undeniable, and the forest seemed to bend around her.
A whisper passed through the soldiers: "She's a witch…"
-------
The forest seemed endless, shadows stretching like fingers as Lucen ran. Each step crunched against the underbrush, sending echoes that sounded far too loud in the oppressive silence. His chest heaved, throat dry, and every nerve screamed for him to stop, but he couldn't.
He clutched the heavy cloak to his chest—General Aedric's cloak, torn and smeared with dirt. It was all that remained of the man he had served for years, a grim token of the horror he had left behind.
Every snapped twig, every rustle of leaves made him flinch. The memory of the camp—fires snuffed out, tents slashed, men screaming and disappearing—replayed endlessly in his mind. The girl… the witch… had been there. He could see her face, pale and still, eyes cold as the forest itself, as she moved through the chaos with an eerie calm.
He stumbled over a root, catching himself just in time, and cursed under his breath. He couldn't—wouldn't—look back. Not until he reached safety. Not until the stone walls of Vishendor's palace rose before him.
By dawn, the first spires of the city appeared through the morning mist. Lucen's knees shook as he pushed toward the gates, his hands raw from clutching the cloak so tightly. Guards spotted him long before he reached the doors, their wary expressions sharpening as they noticed the state he was in.
He fell to his knees at the gate, gasping, tears streaking dirt and sweat across his face. "They… they're gone…" he rasped, clutching the cloak closer. "General Aedric… everyone… the camp… all gone…"
The guards exchanged tense glances, but no one spoke. Lucen's trembling hand shook as he pressed the cloak into the nearest guard's arms. "Take this… to… the King…" he managed, voice breaking. "Tell him… tell him what happened…"
Inside the palace, Simon's eyes narrowed as he received the cloak. The weight of it, familiar yet bloodied, carried the unspoken truth: something terrible had occurred. The silence surrounding Lucen, the trembling, and the ragged breathing said more than words ever could.
Lucen fell completely, shivering and broken, unable to say more. All he could do was repeat in his mind the last moments at the camp—the men screaming, the fires snuffed, the still figure of the witch standing among the ruins.
And Simon knew, just from that cloak and Lucen's terror, that the western border had become a place of death and darkness.
.....
Simon stood in the high-ceilinged hall, the cloak heavy in his hands. The sight of it—torn, dirt-streaked, and bloodied—settled over him like a shadow. Lucen knelt before him, trembling, unable to form coherent words, as if speaking might summon the horror all over again.
"Lucen," Simon said slowly, voice sharp but calm, cutting through the silence. "Tell me what happened."
Lucen swallowed hard. "S…Sir… the camp… General Aedric… the men… they… they didn't survive. Everyone… gone. It was… a girl, sir. She… she came from the forest. Didn't speak… just… watched. Then…" His voice broke, and he buried his face in his hands.
Simon's fingers clenched the cloak tighter. He didn't need the rest of Lucen's words to understand. Something unnatural, deliberate, and terrifying had struck at the camp. The calm, silent terror in Lucen's eyes spoke louder than any description could.
"Did anyone escape?" Simon asked, voice low, measured.
Lucen shook his head violently. "No, sir. Only… only I… I ran."
Simon's gaze went to the window, where the morning sun touched the city's stone walls. The forest beyond had swallowed the camp, leaving only ruin. A witch. That much was clear. Her presence had been precise, controlled, and deadly.
The cloak fell from Simon's hands to the floor, the symbol of Aedric's authority heavy with meaning. General Aedric's death wasn't just a loss of men; it was a statement—a reminder that even the strongest outposts could fall without warning.
Simon's expression hardened. Calm, cold, and terrifyingly precise, the mask of the king descended fully. "Prepare riders," he ordered. "Send word to the west. Find what remains. Bring me answers."
Lucen flinched. "Sir… with respect… it's too dangerous…"
Simon's gaze did not waver. "I understand the danger. But we cannot leave this unanswered. Go. Now."
Lucen nodded, swallowing again, and turned to obey. The fear in his eyes deepened, but the king's resolve was absolute. Simon knew nothing could stay hidden for long, and something—or someone—had left a trail of death that could not go ignored.
Outside, the city streets bustled with morning life, oblivious to the darkness that had spread across the western border. Inside the hall, Simon's mind already raced, calculating, planning. Whoever—or whatever—had done this, it would be met with Vishendor's full force.