The woods were quiet that night—too quiet it was.
Darrel moved through the undergrowth with careful steps, the moonlight slipping through the canopy in thin, silver blades. He'd returned to the forest not to hide, but to watch. Ever since the humiliation in the square, he'd been restless, replaying every word, every laugh, every turn of his father's face away from him.
And every time, the same face rose in his mind like a cobra in the grass—Marcus.
Darrel didn't fully understand how his best friend had turned into his tormentor. But tonight, he was determined to find out.
Earlier that evening, while sitting by the riverbank, he overheard two woodcutters talking.
"…Marcus is meeting them again at the Old Chapel."
"Midnight, they said. He thinks no one knows."
"Bold boy, scheming with outsiders. If the elders found out— trouble"
Darrel had frozen at those words. The Old Chapel was a ruin deep in the woods, abandoned decades ago after a fire consumed there. Only excitement-seekers and fools went there.
But Marcus? Meeting "them"?
Darrel's curiosity had turned to a cold, focused anger. If Marcus was involved in something secret, Darrel would uncover it.
And now, here he was—creeping toward the dark outline of the Old Chapel like a shadow himself.
The building in a very bad condition rose from the forest floor like a black tooth. Its roof had collapsed years ago, leaving jagged beams sticking into the night sky. The stained glass windows were long broken, their shards scattered like dead eyes.
Darrel crouched behind a massive stone , his breath slow and controlled. He saw two lanterns flickering inside.
Figures moved in the shadows.
He strained his ears, and voices reached him—faint, but clear enough.
"…the spell worked perfectly," said a familiar voice. Marcus.
Darrel's stomach twisted.
A second voice, low and smooth, answered, "You've done well. The boy's humiliation will keep him broken long enough for us to move forward. The elders won't suspect a child's prank."
Marcus laughed softly. "He trusted me completely. It was almost too easy."
Darrel's nails dug into the dirt. Each word felt like a blade sliding between his ribs.
He edged closer, keeping low. Through a gap in the wall, he saw them more clearly now: Marcus stood near the altar, his lantern lighting up his smug grin. Beside him were two hooded figures, their faces obscured by deep cowls.
On the altar lay a strange silver disc, etched with swirling runes that seemed to shimmer in the lantern light.
One of the hooded figures lifted the disc reverently. "With this, we can breach the northern gate undetected. The elders will never see the attack coming."
Marcus's grin widened. "And my reward?"
The second figure pulled out a small pouch and tossed it to him. "Gold. And a place of power when the time comes."
Marcus caught it, the coins jingling faintly. "Pleasure doing business."
Darrel's blood ran cold.
This wasn't any prank. It was a plot. It was a planned scheme.
He stumbled back from the wall, his heart hammering.
Marcus had humiliated him—not just for fun, but to cripple him, to turn him into a scapegoat while something larger brewed in the shadows.
His mind raced. Northern gate. Breach. Attack.
This was treason.
He was helping some people to destabilize the village.
And Marcus was in the center of it.
For a moment, Darrel felt dizzy, like the world had tilted sideways. The boy he had called brother, who had shared meals and dreams and secret hiding places, was selling out their village for gold and power.
A twig snapped under his boot.
Darrel froze.
The lantern light inside shifted suddenly. "What was that?" Marcus barked.
Darrel ducked low behind the large stone. His pulse roared in his ears.
One of the hooded figures stepped outside, scanning the trees. Darrel held his breath, praying the shadows would cover him so that he would not be seen.
Minutes dragged like hours. Finally, the figure turned back. "It's nothing. An animal."
Marcus hesitated, then shrugged. "Fine. Let's finish up."
Darrel waited until their voices grew quieter before slipping away into the forest, moving like a hunted fox.
By the time he reached the riverbank again, his chest burned from running, but his mind burned hotter.
Marcus. A traitor.
All the mockery, the hypnosis, the laughter—it had all been part of a strategy. To break Darrel's credibility so that if he ever found out, no one would believe him.
And they wouldn't. Not after the vigil. Not after the square.
His family had already turned their backs. The villagers saw him as unstable. If he marched into the square yelling about hooded conspirators and ancient runes, they'd laugh him out again.
Marcus had planned this well.
Darrel sat down heavily on a tree root, staring at the water. His reflection looked unfamiliar—his eyes sharp, his jaw tight.
"Why?" he whispered.
But deep down, he already knew. Power. Greed. Marcus had always been clever, ambitious. Darrel had admired that in him once. Now it made him sick.
Memories flooded him—late nights in the barn, planning adventures; Marcus promising they'd always have each other's backs; laughter shared over stolen pies.
Was any of it real?
His hands trembled. Not from fear—but from fury.
"Marcus," he whispered, his voice steadying into a low growl. "You'll pay for this."
The night wind stirred the trees as if in answer.
He didn't return home. He stayed by the river until the stars began to fade. As dawn crept over Birmingham , Darrel made a silent vow.
If no one would believe him, he'd move in the shadows just as Marcus did. He'd watch, learn, and bide his time.
And when the moment came, he'd strike.
This was no longer about clearing his name.
This was war.