Chapter 14: Shadows on the March
The second call of the horn tore through the forest like a blade. This time, no one mistook it for distance. It was near—too near—and every heart in our company knew it.
We moved quickly, though our bodies ached from battle. The wounded were lifted onto horses or carried between two men, their blood dripping and steaming as it struck the snow. The freed children walked in silence, eyes forward, their faces pale and unreadable. None cried. None asked where we were going. It was as if the sound of that horn had hollowed out what was left of their fear.
The forest pressed in as we marched. Branches clawed at us, snapping against shields, and the cold deepened, biting through wool and mail. Yet it was not the cold that gnawed at me—it was the silence between the horn blasts, thick with waiting. Every crack of ice beneath our boots seemed too loud, every breath a betrayal. The air was heavy, watching, as though the trees themselves held their breath.
Carrow rode at the front, his sword still unsheathed, black stains clinging to its steel. His armor was dented, his cloak torn, but his back remained unbent. He did not speak, but the weight of his presence drove us on. The men trusted him, even in their fear, for he had faced the masked one and struck him down. Still, I wondered if even Carrow's strength would stand against what answered that horn.
Joran fell in beside me, his blade notched and red from the last fight. His shoulders rose and fell with ragged breaths, yet his eyes burned with restless fire. He leaned close, his voice low.
"Did you hear what the girl said? About it knowing your name?"
I stiffened but gave no reply. His eyes searched mine, but whatever he sought, I had no gift to give. The words gnawed at me, heavy as a chain, dragging at every step.
The children began to hum. At first, I thought it was the wind sighing through the branches—but no, it was their voices, rising soft and eerie. A tune without words, but one that carried weight. It was the sound of something remembered, not learned. Men muttered and crossed themselves. Horses tossed their heads, rolling eyes wide with unease. The melody wound through the trees like smoke, curling in ways no song should.
Carrow turned in his saddle, his gaze sharp as a drawn blade. "Silence them."
One of the soldiers reached for a boy's shoulder. The humming stopped at once, all of them falling still. Yet the air did not feel lighter. It felt worse—like something had noticed.
And then the horn sounded again.
Not ahead. Not behind. All around.
The trees shivered, shedding snow in great showers. The forest groaned as if straining beneath an unseen weight. Shapes moved in the shadows—tall, gaunt forms with eyes that burned faintly red. They did not rush us, not yet. They circled, watching, waiting, their armor glinting with frost and strange runes that pulsed faintly with their breath.
The men tightened formation, shields rising, spears braced. My breath came hard, fogging in the cold, heart hammering against my ribs. Every shadow seemed to shift, every gust of wind carried the promise of teeth and steel.
Carrow raised his sword, its blackened steel catching the pale light. His voice carried, steady as ever, though I saw the tightness in his jaw.
"We do not falter. Not here. Not before them. Remember—steel holds, courage binds. Stand with me, and we live."
The company roared in answer, though fear cracked their voices. Some struck their shields with spears, as if to chase away dread with noise. Others muttered prayers beneath their breath, lips trembling.
The children said nothing. They only stared at the watchers in the trees, their eyes reflecting that faint red glow as if they had seen it before, as if it belonged to them.
The horn sounded one last time, and the shadows broke.
They came like a tide—swift, merciless, endless.
"— To Be Continued —"
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