They emerged from the trees one by one, their gear gleaming only as much as needed, no more: hardened leather breastplates, half-helms that spared their vision yet offered no shield against the rain, and broad-bladed knives, heavier than suited for single combat, bound to their thighs with straps frayed by wear. As they reached the camp's edge, no words were exchanged; instead, they aligned in silent order behind the horse standing at the forefront, watching their last companion hasten towards them, wiping mud from his hand onto his cloak until he reached the rider seated in the saddle.
"Nothing." he reported.
The rider, upon hearing this, showed neither movement nor change, for the news was as expected, its outcome known before it was spoken. He merely extended his gaze to the horizon through his red locks, having removed his helm in vexation at the summer's heat and its redundancy. Then, lowering his eyes, he cast a glance at his band and said, "We'll veer to the right for a look before returning to our course."
He did not turn to see the discontent on their faces. Marco was the first to let out an audible sigh: "Again…" he muttered, not so quietly that it escaped Matteo's ears, though the latter chose to ignore it deliberately. He knew the man meant to be heard, not punished.
"Why always again?" Marco pressed.
Girolamo shot him a look, a silent rebuke folded within it. Good, Matteo thought, at least one of them knows the boundaries.
But Marco merely shrugged in irritation. He was weary of chasing phantoms.
Rami, standing beside Matteo, voiced their doubts plainly: "Is this truly necessary?"
No… but Matteo could not admit it. Instead, he said, "We've done this before…" and left it at that, for he knew, as they did, that they were pursuing a hopeless endeavour. Yet he was willing to persist, if only to honour the memory of the lost knight.
He paused, seeing the silent frustration in their eyes—not defiance, but a muted groan.
He looked at their faces. Mud-streaked. Hollowed by weeks of
pointless searching.
They'd obey. They always did.
He could remain silent; as their leader, it was natural for him to be the most aware of the futility of their task. But they did not see that in him.
A leader must not only know but speak. To the men, silence was weakness, though to the wise it might be prudence. This was their first mission together, his first time leading them. They still weighed him by his words as much as by his sword, judged what he said as keenly as what he did.
They needed him to remind them that he saw what they saw, feared what they feared—even if it was obvious, even if his fears were entirely different from theirs.
"More than once. This is our fourth campaign, perhaps the fifth, but…" He gripped the reins of his lost comrade's horse, trying to guide it. At first, it resisted, so he tugged harder until it yielded reluctantly. Then, bowing his head slightly, he whispered soothing words to it. He looked at each of them in turn.
But if this mission failed—when it failed—the nobles would
shrug and find another scapegoat. Matteo's title would survive.
His men's futures?
Less certain.
They knew it too. He could see it in Marco's tight jaw, in the
way Rami watched him without quite meeting his eyes.
So he chose his words carefully. No grand speeches about duty
or honor—that was for generals begging peasants to die for
their land. He wasn't begging.
"This is a knight who fell. Our duty is to bring him back."
Plain. Direct. It united them under the banner of duty and reminded them of the goal, not the consequences.
Then, because loyalty needed feeding: "We can take half a day's rest when we return to the course."
He sensed a slight relief as some of the grumbling faded from their faces. Half a day's rest—a fair price for fleeting loyalty.
He patted his horse's mane gently, turning to lead the march, when he halted abruptly. There, at the edge of the horizon, a shadow limped towards them with effort. The axe dangling at its hip marked it as a woodcutter. Matteo gestured to it and ordered Rami to investigate.
Rami, who had also noticed the figure, responded at once, striding forward with wide steps, subtly swaying his left hand near his stomach—a movement that kept a smaller, concealed dagger within reach, hidden in the inner folds of his cloak, should the need arise.
The knight watched from atop his horse in silence, observing the woodcutter as he drew closer, his weary features growing clearer in the fading sunlight. The woodcutter stopped abruptly upon spotting them, his eyes widening in terror. Yet his gaze soon shifted from the entire band to Rami, who advanced towards him, halting an arm's length away.
Rami noted the woodcutter's stare fixed on the dagger at his hip, then how his trembling hand slid to his axe, gripping it without drawing. It was a purely defensive gesture, fitting his stance. So Rami extended his hand slowly, revealing an empty palm, and placed it gently on the woodcutter's slanted shoulder.
"Take a moment," he said, letting the man catch his ragged breaths.
He cast a quick glance behind to ensure nothing had escaped his notice. "What are you fleeing from?" he added. "There's nothing behind you."
His words seemed to calm the woodcutter slightly, who drew a deep breath, though a pained exhale cut it short. Rami's attention fell to the man's limping leg, wrapped in a torn cloth stained a dark brown. "This wound…" Rami continued, guiding him back towards the band. "What caused it?"
This time, the woodcutter did not hesitate as Rami shifted his supporting hand from shoulder to back. Realising the danger had passed, he draped his arm over Rami's shoulders, leaning his weight on him, whispering broken thanks. But Rami pressed, "How were you injured?"
The woodcutter answered in an exhausted voice, "In the village… something happened." He paused before adding cautiously, "You… where are you from?"
"A scouting party from the capital," Rami replied. "We seek the knight who slew the dragon, and now we've come across you."
"Wait." The woodcutter let out a stunned whistle. "The dragon was slain? Truly? Did it not destroy a fortress only recently?"
The disbelief in his tone was clear, and Rami understood it, for the beast's devastation had lingered so long it had become part of everyone's existence. But his aim was not to trade news, so he gave a quick nod of confirmation. He meant to steer the conversation back: "Yes, before—" but the woodcutter cut in, "But… why seek him? Did he do something wrong?"
A clever, evasive question.
"No, no…" Rami replied, deciding to offer an answer regardless. "It's only that we haven't found him, as we found the dragon's corpse. We're scouts, not warriors…" He forced the talk back to its course. "And so I wondered if your injury was related. Have you seen anything that might aid us? You're near the place of the dragon's death."
"I saw nothing of that…" the woodcutter continued, wiping sweat from his face with his sleeve. "My injury was from—wait, you said it happened near here?"
The response caught Rami off guard; he hadn't expected a meaningful reply, given weeks had passed since the event. Is he dodging again? But the man's tone suggested he'd stumbled upon something. Rami answered carefully, "Yes, in the very lands of the fortress you mentioned."
The words seemed to please the woodcutter. "Near the village, then…" he muttered, as if speaking to himself. "Are dragons magical? I mean… do they return as spirits? Or perhaps leave curses when they die?"
Rami faltered for a moment. He'd anticipated evasion, not this sharp turn. Magical dragons? Perhaps—they breathe fire and soar despite their bulk. But he was no sorcerer to know for certain. He'd never heard of a dragon turning into a spirit or cursing like a witch; he couldn't even imagine it. Fortunately, they had neared the band, so Rami decided to end the exchange and leave the questioning to the leader.
He eased the woodcutter's heavy arm, who remained leaning on him half a step, dragging his injured leg through the dirt. The knight gave him a brief moment to collect himself, then spoke clearly, "What is your name, and how are you known?"
"Stefano, my lord…" the woodcutter tried to match the tone, but his voice trembled. "A woodcutter from Vineyard Village."
Matteo nodded, satisfied. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Stefano… Now, tell me, what affliction has befallen you?"
The question, though expected, seemed to unsettle Stefano. His eyes flickered, searching for a fitting response. "I think it's the dragon's curse, my lord. Our village…" His words rushed out. "Something magical is happening, but I fled, so I don't know…" His body shook with exhaustion. "Could it be spirits?"
When he finished his rambling, he looked at Matteo and Rami, pleading for confirmation, as if they could make sense of his broken words…
Rami cast a sidelong glance at Matteo, suggesting that the knight's noble words had borne little fruit. Though Matteo showed no overt irritation, his drooping eyelids betrayed his waning patience. Yet he swiftly masked them, leaping from his saddle and grasping Stefano's shoulder, who flinched back a step.
"You seem burdened by weakness," Matteo said. "Rest until your strength returns, then we shall speak at leisure." He turned to one of his men. "Girolamo, can you tend to him?"
The band's physician stepped forward, waving a hand. "Here, I'll see what I can do." He moved between Rami and Stefano, taking the woodcutter's arm to aid his steps, coaxing him with a question: "Come now, when were you injured…?"
The two watched as Girolamo led him away, then Matteo turned to face the plains, exhaling heavily. "You may mock now."
Rami pivoted in the same direction, a smile untinged by shame spreading across his face. "Perish the thought, Your Grace."
Matteo let out a dry laugh. "This 'Grace' demands counsel—and what you've gleaned from him."
"Like you, not much…" Rami's smile dimmed. "Only that his village lies near Fort Vila, that he's unaware of the dragon's demise, and that he believes its death caused the affliction that's befallen him. If I were to guess, I'd say it's a blight upon the entire village."
He added cautiously, "And he's suspicious, too."
This caught Matteo's attention. "How so?"
"He's more on edge than suits a man so weary, meeting someone clearly not a brigand," Rami explained. "He stared long at my dagger, ready to fight despite his weakness. He doesn't seem like a woodcutter barely clinging to life."
Matteo fell silent, giving Rami space to offer a stronger reason.
"He was trying to appear as one fleeing something relentless, exhausted beyond measure," Rami continued, emphasising 'trying' for Matteo to catch. "He had time to tear his cloth and bind his wound, yet behind him stretch only open plains, hiding no ambush or danger. Still, he ran with that injury as if his life hung by a single step, feigning distress greater than it was. But what baffles me…" He paused, then added, "How did he spot us before we spotted him?"
They were a scouting band on a hill, their position elevated. Even with their focus on the task, they should have noticed him first.
The silence lingered until Matteo broke it curtly: "So, he's lying."
"And hiding something."
Matteo clenched his jaw tightly, a reaction so exaggerated it unsettled Rami. "Will this pose a problem for us?"
"No…" Matteo rubbed his forehead. "I just wished to complete my final mission without complications."
Final mission!
"Final mission?" Rami whispered, then louder, "Abandoning the war?"
Many had done so—why was he surprised? Yet the thought of the lord of House Parma himself forsaking his sword… that was beyond imagining.
"Yes…" Matteo replied calmly. "I'm nearing forty. and I don't know if I'm a skilled knight or a successful noble. I think it's time to choose one."
Rami hesitated, then ventured, "Why not choose knighthood?" He knew he was treading beyond his understanding but pressed on. "It's not as if you'd lose your lands."
He added lightly, "Besides, your reputation as a knight far outshines your name as a noble."
This time, Matteo was the one to jest. "Because my joints groan…" He stopped himself quickly. "But look at me now, look at my current band." He gestured with his thumb towards the men, some gathered to watch Stefano's treatment and exchange words, others scanning the camp's edges.
"I don't know half the men in my own band anymore. You're the only familiar face left." He rolled his shoulders heavily before continuing. "Most of those I knew either abandoned the sword before me, or I attended their funerals—or worse, I'm searching for them to prepare their funerals."
Rami said nothing. What could he say?
"I don't have another war in me." Matteo's hand went to his left side, where an
old wound always ached in the cold. "Because I'm tired of
new faces. New wars. New funerals."
He looked at the horizon.
"I want to go home. See my wife. Watch my son grow up.
Die in my own bed instead of face-down in mud."
Rami merely scratched his bald head, then crouched silently on the ground, saying nothing. Matteo looked at him for a moment before sitting too, cross-legged in a steadier posture.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Rami nodded slowly. Not agreement. Just... understanding.
"This is my last mission, then."
"Your last."
The silence was broken only by the faint murmurs of conversation behind them. It was a deep quiet, spent watching the same shapeless cloud, until Rami echoed his thoughts: "Stefano may not be a great problem."
"We'll see…" Matteo replied. "I'll leave it to you to uncover what he's about, while I listen from the side."
"Burden me with your work, Your Grace," Rami quipped, standing and stretching his back as Matteo brush
Despite everything, Matteo smiled.
Matteo waved him off lightly, chuckling without turning. Rami headed towards the band, glancing back at the camp. Girolamo had removed the bloodied cloth, replacing it with a damp one, cleaning and exposing the woodcutter's wound. Stefano lay with his legs stretched, propped on his hands, his head tilted back stiffly, his left hand clutching his axe with equal rigidity. Nearby, Marco sprawled on his back, his right hand resting beside that same axe.
As usual, Gabrieli used his hulking frame to stand directly behind Stefano, casting his shadow over him, making it clear that the woodcutter's tension wasn't solely from pain. Of the remaining three, two fixed their eyes on the camp's edges, while Andrea, who had been eavesdropping on their talk, returned to scanning the surroundings when it ended. Rami shot him a sharp look as he passed but didn't reprimand him, certain he'd heard nothing.
Approaching the group, Rami nudged Marco's foot several times until he got the hint. Marco rolled onto his left side, making space for Rami to sit, but Rami leaned on him instead. This drew a disgruntled snort from Marco, though he didn't protest. Rami patted his shoulder mockingly without lifting his arm, and when no further complaints came, he turned his attention to the two men before him.
Stefano glanced at them intermittently, while Girolamo, less concerned, was absorbed in his work. Rami asked, "How is it?"
"Bad."
Girolamo didn't look up.
"How bad?"
"Wrong kind of bad."
He lifted the cloth. The smell hit first—clotted blood, sharp
vinegar, something else underneath. Sweet. Rotten.
Rami leaned closer.
The wound was a line. Too straight. Too thin. Like someone
had drawn it with a needle dipped in red ink.
"No blade does this,"
Girolamo muttered. He pressed the
edges. Stefano hissed. "It's deep. Deeper than it looks.
Goes straight into the muscle."
"Can you treat it?"
"Not here. We'd need to open it, drain it, pack it..."
Girolamo's voice trailed off as he looked at their supplies.
But we don't have enough for that.
"We don't have enough."
Rami chewed his lip. A choice, then. Use what little they
had on a suspicious woodcutter, or save it for themselves.
Easy choice.
Except Stefano was looking at him
with that animal fear—
the kind that knew it was being weighed and measured.
"Give it to him," Rami said.
Girolamo's eyebrows lifted. Just a fraction.
"We'll need him able to walk."
Weak justification. They both knew it.
But Girolamo nodded and stood.
"How were you wounded like this?"
Stefano shifted his foot several times, testing it, then stopped as the pain sharpened. Colour returned to his face, reassured he wouldn't face treatment alone. He answered, "I'm not even sure. I was fleeing something, tripped over something, and fell on my face. I didn't realise I was hurt until I'd run a distance."
Rami gave him a long look, weighing his words before letting them slip. "And what were these 'things'?" Stefano's fingers slid over his axe's handle, gripping it until his knuckles whitened.
"It was… ordinary at first," Stefano said, his voice tense. "I returned from the forest as usual, but the gate guards weren't at their posts."
Rami noted how he clutched the axe tighter. "Is that usual?"
"No, not usually. But not strange either… the strangeness was…" His words quickened. "Everyone was staring at me, despite their tasks. Whether my old neighbour and his wife weaving a cloth, or children playing with sticks… all of them watched me, unrelenting."
Gabrieli broke in suddenly, his voice harsh: "What did you do to provoke them?"
Stefano's voice quavered. "Nothing, I swear! It was just an ordinary day, and I've known them for years."
Gabrieli seized the word from the roof of his mouth. "Years? How many?"
Stefano's lips pressed together for a moment. "Six years… troubles piled up in Rania, so I returned to my hometown."
Rami waved a hand, steering away from that path. "Focus on what happened next. What did you do when you entered your home?"
Stefano caught his breath. "I shut the door and tried to calm myself. But before I could set down my bundle, I saw my neighbour, the hunter, peering… through… my window." His words slowed, his gaze dropping to his lap in stunned silence before he continued, "He whispered for me to run." Rami noticed Marco's back stiffen abruptly. Even Gabrieli paused his probing for a moment.
"I ran," Stefano went on, his words trembling on the edges of his lips. "I abandoned everything that might weigh me down and ran without thinking." He rested his head in his hands, his voice muffled by his palm. "Then I heard a choked scream… When I turned, I saw my neighbour's head rolling on the ground, his body still standing."
Rami gave him a moment to compose himself. "And then?"
"What could I do?" Stefano replied. "I ran faster, shouted, warned, screamed. But no one listened—they only watched. No one stirred, then I heard a tapping sound behind me…" He gestured with his chin towards his injury as he finished. "I turned, but saw no one. I kept running until my foot caught on something, and I fell."
Rami noticed Stefano trembling from exhaustion and pain, so he glanced at Girolamo, who had been observing the exchange from a distance, and signalled him. Girolamo approached, carrying a warm bowl. "Drink this first, Stef."
Stefano took the bowl, bewildered. "What is it?" But Gabrieli had already placed a hand on his shoulder. "That thing you tripped over. What was it?"
"I don't know. I didn't see anything."
"So…" Gabrieli pressed harder on his shoulder with each word. "You didn't see what killed your neighbour, didn't see what chased you, didn't see what wounded you."
Girolamo answered the earlier question, trying to ease the tension. "It's white willow. It'll dull the pain a bit."
Gabrieli prepared to press further, but Rami cut him off. "Enough." Gabrieli's hand lifted from Stefano's shoulder at once.
Stefano rubbed his palm across his chest, then groaned as Girolamo took his foot, threading a piece of twine from a spool in his pocket and wrapping it tightly over the wound to staunch the bleeding.
Marco edged back slightly, satisfied the interrogation was over. He hoped they'd leave the woodcutter and move on. Whether his story was true or false, it wasn't their concern. Their mission was to find a dead knight, and they'd failed four times already. Why add a fifth?
But he knew from Matteo's distant gaze, listening intently, that this wouldn't happen.
Rami said to Girolamo, "Tend to him. We'll continue later." He pushed himself off Marco and stepped away. The more he listened, the less he hoped this mission would remain routine. Part of him whispered to dismiss the woodcutter as mad, to leave him or at least ignore his tale, riddled with gaps, and carry on as usual. Yet another part insisted on taking his words seriously, not rushing just to fulfil one man's wish.
Rami stopped abruptly, catching the sound of footsteps behind him. He didn't turn but slowed his pace until Marco caught up, standing silently beside him for a moment, glancing sidelong. Then Marco turned his head towards the camp, where the woodcutter sat under Girolamo's care, before looking back at Rami, speaking low. "What do we do with him? Take him with us, or let him return alone?"
Rami replied, his voice flat. "We might verify his story."
Not his true words, nor his personal desire, but what he knew Matteo would soon command. He knew him well, knew that noble mindset. He'd served under him long enough to see the pattern repeat.
"Are you joking?" Marco turned fully towards him, gesturing at the trio behind them. "Verify what? You wouldn't have stopped Gabrieli's usual tactics if the man weren't suspicious. He's from the capital, yet didn't return there when the dragon ravaged every other land, while even village peasants abandoned everything in a desperate bid to reach its gates."
Rami studied Marco's scowl carefully. His words weren't aimed at the woodcutter so much as testing the band's mood. He was tossing a stone into a pond to see how the ripples formed. If Matteo ordered a change in the mission—as he surely would—it was best for Rami to know how his men would digest it, where resistance might lie.
"I know…" Rami lowered Marco's still-pointing hand, then exhaled softly and whispered. "But it's his actions alone that are suspicious. His story, strange as it is, didn't seem fabricated."
Marco leaned closer, nearly touching him, lowering his voice after realising anyone could hear their debate. "With untrustworthy actions, nothing makes his words trustworthy. It's impossible his ordeal was real—he's either a liar or mad."
Rami fixed his eyes on the plains. "We don't need to trust him, but we must confirm. That wound can't be from an ordinary weapon—no blade, however precise, could leave a cut thinner than a needle. Besides, the decision isn't mine."
Marco leaned in, his voice rising but not loud enough for others to hear. "Only because you indulged him. We don't serve under his command, but yours. You know it's a bad idea, same as I do."
"Exactly." Rami grabbed his arm. "And I'm handling it my way, not by challenging my leader before the men." He added calmly, glancing at Matteo watching them, "I may be your friend from childhood, but he isn't. So if you have a reason to turn back now, tell me so I can relay it."
Rami focused on Marco, demanding a reply, even an empty one. But Marco didn't answer, only turned his head back. Then Rami caught the sound of approaching footsteps and looked in the same direction, seeing Girolamo weaving towards them, having left Stefano under Gabrieli's watch. Rami asked, "Have you finished treating him?"
Girolamo shook his head. "He needs time for the willow to work."
"Then why are you here?"
His words came out harsher than intended, but Girolamo, unruffled, merely pointed at the two behind him. "I want to hear the story. Stef won't talk, and you know Gab."
"Madman… thinks he's a victim of spirits," Marco said.
Rami stopped him with a pat on the shoulder. "Enough, man. Just tell him the story. I'll go speak with your madman for a moment."
But Girolamo held up a hand before he could move. "Wait. I'll try to fix his wound soon. Leave the talking until after—he's already tense, and he'll be in pain later."
"Fine." Rami turned towards Matteo. "I'll speak with the leader."
But Girolamo and Marco didn't listen, erupting into an argument.
"You're treating him too gently."
"How's a man in pain supposed to answer… with groans?"
"He'll answer without lies. Give him time, and he'll keep raving."
"Make up your mind—is he mad or a liar? For heaven's sake, how hard is it to question a woodcutter? Now tell me what happened."
Their voices rose, but Rami gave up trying to stop them. He'd long realised they treated it as a hobby, a way to pass the time. He had bigger concerns—like how to convey the inevitable decision ahead. He didn't need to gauge the resistance; he knew his men after years. Marco would grumble but obey. Girolamo would care more about the human cost than tactical risks.
The problem was they didn't know Matteo as he did. They'd never served under him before. They wouldn't follow easily. So he had to present a united front among the leaders, even if it was against them.
He was starting to hate this mission already.
From his position, Matteo watched the scene silently. Gabrieli pressed hard, Girolamo played mediator, and Rami controlled the timing—an old but effective technique. Yet Stefano didn't break. Either he was telling the truth… or he was a masterful liar.
A problem. Masterful liars don't run with a wounded leg towards strange soldiers.
Matteo kept pondering until Rami approached. As he drew near, Matteo said directly, "We need to go there."
Rami dreaded this answer but wasn't surprised. "My men are already weary from a mission that barely existed, but they'll do it under my orders… Changing it mid-course, though…" He paused, rubbing his nose, before adding, "Sorry, but that'll rile them." He gestured towards Marco, defending him. "He grumbles about anything that prolongs the mission, but he never refuses orders."
"I know." Matteo leaned some of his weight on his horse. "I've noticed. But we must do what's needed. There may be victims."
"But he might be lying or hallucinating…"
Matteo looked at him long before answering. "Perhaps, but we can't act on assumptions. That's what's happened all these years—small oversights turned into threats for everyone." He saw Rami wasn't convinced by the change either but was trying not to object openly. "And I believe neither you nor I want our negligence to spark a new threat to the kingdom."
Rami knew it well but sought any excuse, however small, to avoid this and finish the mission. Neither Marco nor Matteo gave him a single chance to back out. ran a hand over his face harder and said, "What do we do? We're a band of scouts and a knight, not soldiers. We couldn't breach a small fort, let alone face whatever magic that woodcutter encountered."
Matteo straightened. "We won't face anything. We'll scout only. Didn't he say it stopped once he left the village's bounds? Confirm that, then we'll decide."
Rami nodded, agreeing to the plan, and asked, "How do we tell them about the new mission?"
"You know them… What are your thoughts?"
Rami seized the moment to propose the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind. "Can we alter our course?"
Matteo considered for a moment before nodding in agreement.
Rami continued, "I think I have an idea. Let's redirect our path towards Vineyard Village. Didn't he say it's near the fallen fortress? We can continue our search, making the village itself our final scouting point."
The plan seemed fitting, so Matteo approved it.
He watched Rami head towards his men to rally them, while Girolamo remained occupied, opening the wound on the woodcutter's foot and inserting a cloth-wrapped piece of wood to keep it from closing again. He ignored the woodcutter's cries, as did the others, and instead retrieved a bundle of papers and a missive from a satchel hanging on his saddle. Sitting down, he spread the papers across his knee, pulled out an ink vial and quill, and began writing a letter to the nearest camp, updating them on the latest developments.
Just as he finished, Rami returned, reporting, "They're still vexed, but it won't be an issue. And Stefano confirmed that whatever was chasing him stopped once he left the houses…" He hesitated before adding, "Which only makes him less trustworthy. Why was he still fleeing if the pursuit had ceased?"
"I don't know, but we'll find out when we get there." Matteo handed him the missive. "Give this to your fastest man to deliver, and pray it reaches its destination before we reach ours."
Rami took the missive, saying, "We'll need to wait a bit until the woodcutter can stand."
Matteo smiled. "Good. I'll have him ride with me so he doesn't slow us down."
This delay would give any reinforcements spurred by the missive more time to catch up.
"Paolo!" Rami called loudly as Matteo returned his writing tools to the satchel. "I need you here."
After sending Paolo with the missive and Stefano's groans subsided, the group prepared themselves. Andrea helped the woodcutter mount the horse, and they set off, scouring every unclear patch of ground for signs of the knight.
Hours passed slowly. The sun climbed, then began tilting towards the horizon. Their boots sank into the mud, sweat dripping beneath their armour. But, as in their previous attempts, they found nothing.
As dusk approached, Vineyard Village finally came into view, after spending the late afternoon on their new course. They were exhausted, yet none dared to rest within the village. Instead, they kept it at the edge of their sight and quickly settled on a nearby hill, gaining a broader view of the settlement.
The village crouched behind walls of mud and straw—cracked,
sagging, as if the earth itself were trying to swallow it back. The scent of cooking fires rose from chimneys. Withered fields stretched within the walls, the dry earth splitting under summer's heat. As sunlight waned, scarcely anyone appeared outside their homes.
Matteo strained to catch anything unusual or noteworthy, but his eyes found only an ordinary village, like countless others.
"Anything catch your attention?" he asked, turning his head.
Rami, beside him, shook his head. "Nothing strange."
Nothing in the village, save the palpable tension and fear on Stefano's face, riding before Matteo. Whatever had afflicted him, the woodcutter clearly believed his own tale—no one could feign the terror etched across his features.
"You can start searching now, before sunset," Matteo said.
Rami nodded, then faced his men. "Marco, I want you to watch from the village gate without entering, alerting us to any obstacles."
Marco flashed a faint smile. At last, a task requiring no effort, just standing and watching. He could manage that—far better than chasing a mad woodcutter or sneaking into a village everyone thought cursed. Everyone, that is, except him and Gabrieli.
"Understood, sir," he replied with rare enthusiasm.
Rami gave him a knowing look before continuing. "Gabrieli, circle the wall and warn us if you see anything significant. Andrea and Girolamo, enter the village but don't approach the houses until we signal. Then you can spy on the homes or question the locals, depending on the situation. Giovanni, with me—we'll position ourselves within range to cover anyone in the village with our bows. Our task is to target any threat to Andrea or Girolamo and secure an escape path, coordinating with Marco. Is everything clear?"
Once he confirmed each man understood his role, he let them prepare. He and the others advanced slightly, finding a suitable spot on the hill, the forest a few metres behind them, the village below within arrow's reach. They waited there. Stefano dismounted with Andrea's help, and the others took their assigned positions.
Marco stopped by the main gate, leaning against the wooden wall, while Gabrieli began circling the perimeter cautiously. Andrea and Girolamo entered the village, moving slowly through the sprawling fields, their eyes scanning for any unnatural movement.
When Rami received no warning signals after minutes of watching, he nodded to Marco. The latter acted at once, tapping lightly on the wooden gate—a signal to proceed. Andrea and Girolamo moved quietly towards the first cluster of houses.
Rami's tension rose as the tapping broke the evening's silence. He reached for his quiver, drawing an arrow, poised for any slight movement. Behind him, he heard a bow being readied, a sign Giovanni was prepared too. Matteo, still on his horse, kept one hand on his sword's hilt, the other gripping the reins tightly, anchoring himself in place.
As the tension began to ease, with Andrea and Girolamo moving slowly among the houses, without stirring a soul—or worse, awakening some demon—a sharp crack shattered the silence from behind. Rami and Matteo maintained discipline, continuing to watch their comrades in the village, leaving Giovanni to check the sound.
But Stefano's scream.
Not pain. Terror.
Pure, animal terror.
shattering the wall of professionalism they'd upheld. Both turned their heads as one towards the source. There, at the edge of the shadows, their eyes fell on a man in a long, mud-patched green coat. His blonde hair gleamed in the fading sunset. The scent of fresh blood from his quarry carried on the evening breeze.
A heavy hunting bow hung loosely over his shoulder.
The man looked as startled as they were.
The woodcutter had collapsed. Scrambling backward on
hands and knees. Clawing at the dirt. His face—
God, his face.
"Labi!"
The name ripped out of him.
"LABI!"
His scream rang through the air like a warning bell, as the night around them grew darker still.
still.