The night air was cool and crisp as Adrian adjusted his cloak and buckled his sword belt with practiced efficiency, the leather straps settling into familiar grooves worn by months of nightly patrols.
His squad—Brann, Finn, and Edric—assembled beside him in the western courtyard where patrol assignments were distributed each evening. Torches burned in iron brackets mounted along the stone walls, their flames casting sharp, dancing shadows that made the ancient architecture seem to move and breathe. The smell of burning pitch mixed with the autumn night's chill, creating an atmosphere of vigilance and preparation.
Sir Varic stood at the center of the courtyard, flanked by a pair of assistants holding clipboards and roster sheets. His scarred face looked even more severe in the flickering torchlight as he read names and assignments aloud, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority that silenced even the most restless squires.
"Blackthorn's squad," he called, his gaze landing on Adrian with that sharp, assessing look that had become familiar over the months. "You are to rendezvous at the western crossroads with the patrol under Knight-Captain Thorne. They've been assigned to escort a merchant caravan from the coastal road. Your squad will join them as additional support for the return to the city gates."
Adrian nodded, his expression neutral. Standard escort reinforcement—nothing unusual about combining patrols for high-value merchant protection.
Brann shifted slightly, his earlier complaints about boring assignments dying unspoken. If they were sending two squads, the cargo must be valuable enough to warrant serious protection.
Finn simply tightened his gauntlet straps with methodical precision, his dark eyes already processing tactical considerations. "How many in Thorne's patrol?"
"Ten squires under the Knight-Captain," Varic replied. "You'll bring the total to fourteen. The merchant requested substantial escort—claims valuable cargo and concerns about increased bandit activity on the coastal road. Your job is to supplement their numbers and follow Thorne's commands without question."
Edric swallowed hard, recognizing that merchant escorts could turn dangerous quickly. Bandits, monsters, even the occasional demon scouting party had been reported on the outer roads.
Sir Varic's gaze swept across the four of them. "Knight-Captain Thorne is a veteran of thirty years. His patrol has been carefully selected for this assignment. You will follow orders precisely. You will maintain formation. You will remember that merchant protection is not just about guarding goods—it's about maintaining Arathor's reputation for safe trade routes. Understood?"
They bowed in unison. "Yes, sir."
"The rendezvous is at the western crossroads, two miles beyond the gate. They should arrive there within the hour with the merchant caravan. You will wait no more than thirty minutes past the expected time. If they fail to appear, send a runner back immediately. Move out."
They set off toward the western gate, boots echoing on stone as they left the familiar confines of the inner city.
The western crossroads lay where the coastal road intersected the main thoroughfare to Arathor's capital—a junction marked by ancient standing stones weathered by centuries, their surfaces carved with protective runes that had long since faded to illegibility. A small shrine to the road gods stood at the center, offerings of bread and copper coins left by grateful travelers.
Sir Gregor, the patrol knight supervising Adrian's squad, had ordered torches placed in iron brackets around the intersection, creating a circle of light in the otherwise dark countryside. The flames danced and flickered in the night breeze, casting long shadows across the packed earth.
Adrian's squad took up defensive positions—not expecting trouble, but trained never to stand exposed. Brann leaned against one of the standing stones, arms crossed, eyes on the eastern approach. Finn paced slowly, checking sight lines, noting escape routes with automatic tactical awareness. Edric sat on the shrine's edge, nervous energy evident in the way his fingers drummed against his sword hilt.
Adrian stood at the edge of the torchlight, his gray eyes fixed on the dark road stretching east toward the coast. Around them, the night pressed close—forest on both sides, shadows thick between ancient trees, the kind of darkness that felt alive with watching eyes.
"How long now?" Brann asked, his voice carrying an edge of impatience.
Sir Gregor consulted a small timepiece. "Twenty-three minutes since we arrived. They're seven minutes late."
"Road delays," Brann muttered, though he didn't sound convinced. "Merchant probably stopped to count his coins twice."
Finn paused in his pacing, his eyes on the eastern road. "They're late," he said quietly, and something in his tone made it sound like more than simple observation.
"Probably nothing," Edric offered, though his voice wavered. "Like Brann said—mules get stubborn, wheels break, things happen on the road."
"Or something's wrong," Finn countered, his hand drifting to his sword hilt.
Adrian said nothing, but his instincts—honed by three hundred years of warfare—whispered warnings. The timing was off. The night felt wrong. That unnatural silence in the forest, the way even the wind seemed to avoid this stretch of road, the prickling sensation at the base of his skull that had saved his life countless times before.
Something was wrong.
Sir Gregor shifted uneasily, his own veteran instincts clearly sensing the same wrongness. "Ten more minutes. If they haven't arrived by then, we send Edric back as a runner and we advance to investigate."
"We should go now," Adrian said quietly.
Gregor turned to him, frowning. "Orders are to wait at the rendezvous point."
"Orders also said they'd arrive within the hour," Adrian pointed out, his tone respectful but firm. "We're past that now. They're late, and we have no message, no runner. Knight-Captain Thorne is a veteran—he wouldn't be late without sending word unless something prevented him."
The logic was sound, and Gregor knew it. His jaw tightened as he weighed protocol against instinct. Finally, he nodded. "We advance cautiously. Maintain formation. Weapons ready. If this is nothing, we'll rendezvous with them on the road and I'll take the tongue-lashing for leaving our post. If it's trouble—"
His hand settled on his sword hilt, white flame beginning to flicker along the blade.
"—then we'll be there when they need us."
Adrian's hand moved to his own sword, and he felt the familiar dual sensation—the white flame ready to ignite, and beneath it, the crimson coiled and waiting, sensing something in the darkness ahead.
Demon blood. The smell was faint but unmistakable to someone who'd spent three centuries among them. Sulfur and ash and something else, something that made mortal flesh crawl with instinctive revulsion.
They were out there. Waiting. Hunting.
And Knight-Captain Thorne's patrol had walked straight into whatever trap had been laid.
"Move out," Sir Gregor commanded, his voice hard. "Double time. Torches extinguished—we go dark."
The flames were snuffed, plunging them into sudden darkness. Eyes adjusted slowly to moonlight filtering through clouds.
They moved forward into the night, leaving the safety of the crossroads behind, advancing toward whatever horror awaited on the coastal road.
Adrian's grip tightened on his sword hilt as they ran, his white flame still unlit but ready, the crimson beneath it pressing harder against his control with every step.
Ahead, somewhere in the darkness, his instincts screamed that people were dying.
And they were running out of time to save them.