The fog rolled thicker now, swallowing the road and the moon alike.
Élise's lantern flickered, a feeble island of light in a sea of gray. The air had changed—heavier, colder, tasting faintly of iron.
Something shifted behind her.
She froze.
Then came the scrape—soft, wet, dragging across the stones. Another followed.
"Who's there?" she whispered.
No answer.
The sound came again, closer this time. A low rasping breath joined it, like lungs full of mud.
Her lantern trembled in her hand as she turned. The mist parted just enough to show movement in the ditch—a shape pulling itself from the soil. The head came first, bald and slick with decay, followed by thin arms ending in claws that glinted dull gray.
A second figure crawled up behind it. Then a third.
Their bodies were wrong—too long, their joints bending the wrong way. Their mouths were open as if laughing, but no sound came except that wet, meaty shuffle.
Élise backed away, one slow step, then another.
The first ghoul lifted its face toward her, sniffed the air, and let out a screech that shattered the silence.
She ran.
The lantern swung wildly, throwing shards of light over the trees. Behind her came the slapping rhythm of pursuit—bare feet and claws striking the road, wet and fast.
Her lungs burned, her skirts caught on roots, her heart pounded so hard she couldn't hear herself think. She didn't know how far she ran before the sound changed—something ahead, heavy, rhythmic, not pursuit but approach.
Hooves.
A glow bloomed through the fog: torchlight, gold and steady.
Élise nearly sobbed in relief and stumbled forward, waving her lantern. "Help! Please! They're behind me!"
Out of the mist came a black carriage, its iron trim gleaming dully under torchlight. Six mounted guards rode beside it, their armor reinforced with leather and chain, white sigils stitched onto their cloaks.
The driver pulled hard on the reins. The carriage halted.
"Behind her!" one of the riders barked.
The guards moved as one, torches and swords flashing. The fog lit up in bursts of gold and silver.
And then the carriage door swung open.
A young man stepped out, his movements quick, purposeful. He wasn't armored like the guards—only dressed in a dark leather coat reinforced at the shoulders, a long sword sheathed across his back, and a smaller blade at his hip. His hair was red, catching the firelight in streaks of copper and ember. An eyepatch, plain and black, covered his left eye.
"Rogue!" a rough voice called from inside the carriage. "Stay near the road!"
"I see them," the young man called back, drawing his sword.
The steel caught the torchlight, gleaming white along the edge. He moved forward, not running, not charging—just walking with the measured rhythm of someone who'd been drilled too many times by an older man who yelled about stance.
The first ghoul came shrieking out of the fog, leaping low, arms spread. Rogue stepped sideways and swung.
The blade met flesh with a hiss. The creature's head tumbled into the ditch, the body collapsing mid-scream.
"Left flank!" one of the guards shouted.
Two more ghouls crawled from the mist. The guards formed a half-circle around Rogue, torches raised, blades flashing in practiced arcs. The creatures lunged and were met with steel. One burst apart under a hammer blow to the chest; another shrieked as a torch pressed against its face.
The air filled with the smell of rot and burning.
Rogue slashed downward again, splitting another ghoul from shoulder to hip. His arms trembled afterward—not from fear, but from exertion. This wasn't practice. The creatures moved faster than straw dummies and screamed like people.
"Keep your footing, boy!" the voice from the carriage thundered. "Don't chase—let them come to you!"
"I'm not chasing!" Rogue snapped, though his pulse said otherwise.
The last ghoul turned to flee, its skin peeling in ribbons of smoke. A guard threw a silver-tipped spear. It struck the creature through the spine. The thing convulsed, hissed, and lay still.
Silence fell again.
Only the sound of the horses' breathing remained.
Rogue lowered his sword, panting, the blade dripping black. He glanced back toward the carriage. "They're dead."
"Good," came the reply. The door opened wider, and Lucien Ardent stepped down—older, gray now along the edges of his beard, his left hand resting on the hilt of his hunting sword. His coat bore the silver fang insignia, faded with years of travel.
Lucien surveyed the scene with the calm of a man who'd seen too much. "Ghouls this close to a main road. Hmph. Either the Church is sleeping or someone's stirring graves without leave."
He looked to Rogue. "You did well enough. Didn't drop the sword, at least."
Rogue wiped his blade on a fallen ghoul's tattered cloth. "They were faster than I expected."
Lucien grunted. "Everything is, the first time it wants to kill you."
One of the guards approached, saluting briefly. "Sir, the girl's alive."
Lucien turned. Élise stood a few paces away, trembling, clutching the remnants of her cloak. Her face was pale, her hands streaked with blood and mud.
Lucien's tone softened. "Bring her here."
Rogue sheathed his sword and walked to her. His expression was still set, adrenaline not yet cooled. "You can stand?"
She nodded shakily.
"Come on, then." He offered his gloved hand. When she hesitated, he added, "You'll be safe now."
She let him guide her toward the carriage. Her eyes darted over the dead ghouls, their bodies already beginning to flake into black dust.
Lucien gestured toward the open door. "Inside. You're freezing."
She hesitated. "Who… who are you people?"
Lucien's expression didn't change. "Travelers," he said simply. "Headed north to the Cathedral."
"Witch hunters?" she whispered.
At that, Lucien's lips curved faintly, though his eyes stayed sharp. "Not yet. But the lad's studying to be one."
Rogue shot him a look. "I haven't even started classes."
"Then consider this your first field lesson." Lucien turned to the driver. "Set course for Brielle. We'll see her home before sunrise."
The driver nodded, snapping the reins. The horses stirred, the carriage wheels groaning softly as they began to roll.
Rogue helped Élise climb inside, then followed, settling across from her. Lucien sat opposite, adjusting his coat, the smell of oil and smoke clinging to it.
Outside, the guards rode close, torches high.
Lucien glanced toward the window, watching the fog slide by. "You're lucky, girl," he said, voice low. "If we hadn't stopped to rest the horses, the next soul to find you would've been digging a grave."
Élise said nothing, still shaking.
Rogue sheathed his sword and looked out the opposite window, the glow of Brielle faint in the distance. His heart was still racing, though he wouldn't admit it aloud.
Lucien poured a small measure of wine from a flask into a tin cup and handed it to her. "Drink. You'll stop trembling faster."
She hesitated, then took it.
Lucien leaned back and closed his eyes. "So. North road, middle of the night, alone. Foolish or kindhearted?"
Élise swallowed the wine, voice small. "An old woman needed medicine."
Lucien snorted softly. "Kindhearted, then. That's rarer."
He didn't look at Rogue, but the boy could feel the weight of the lesson hanging in the air anyway.
The carriage rattled onward.
When they reached the first lights of Brielle, dawn was already brushing the sky with pale blue. The driver slowed.
Lucien nodded once. "Drop her at the chapel. Then we move on."
Rogue looked out the window at the quiet streets and the bell tower in the distance. The town looked peaceful—too peaceful for what they'd just seen.
Lucien followed his gaze. "Don't get attached to quiet places, boy," he said softly. "They're always hiding something loud."
The carriage rolled into the waking town, mist curling off the cobblestones.
Inside, Élise sat silently, clutching her arm where Rogue's glove had steadied her. Across from her, the red-haired boy stared out the window, his one visible eye reflecting the first light of dawn.
He didn't look back when she whispered, "Thank you."
Lucien did, though. And for a moment, something like a smile ghosted through his beard.