The caravan moved steadily through the forest as the sun began its slow descent.
Golden light filtered through the dense canopy, casting long, wavering shadows across the road. Sylas walked in silence near the rear of the formation, his steps light, his senses alert. The forest that had once felt suffocating gradually thinned, the towering trees giving way to sparse vegetation and open ground.
By the time the sun dipped low on the horizon, the landscape changed entirely.
Ahead lay a vast desert, its endless dunes glowing faintly under the dying light. Behind them stretched the forest—dark, tangled, and ominous.
The edge between two worlds.
The captain raised a hand.
"We camp here," he ordered. "The desert is dangerous at night."
The caravan halted.
Knights moved with practiced efficiency, setting up camp in a defensive formation. Tents were erected, fire pits dug, and watch rotations assigned. Weapons were checked and rechecked. Even exhaustion did not dull their discipline.
Sylas watched quietly.
They're experienced, he noted. They've survived long enough to learn caution.
A bowl was placed into his hands.
Food.
Simple, warm stew and a piece of bread.
Sylas stared at it for a moment, surprised.
No one spoke to him. No kindness was shown. Yet no cruelty either.
He ate slowly, carefully, savoring every bite. His body responded immediately, warmth spreading through his limbs. It wasn't much—but it was more food than he had eaten in days.
The princess remained inside the carriage as night fell, while the captain oversaw the final preparations. Guards took their positions, torches illuminating the camp's perimeter.
Darkness settled.
Stars emerged above the desert, sharp and distant, while the forest behind them became a wall of shadow. The crackling of firewood was the only sound that broke the silence.
Sylas sat near the edge of the camp, wrapped in a thin blanket he had been given. His eyes drifted toward the forest.
Something felt wrong.
The darkness between the trees seemed thicker than before—unnaturally still. No insects. No wind.
Then he saw it.
A shadow shifted.
Not cast by firelight.
It moved against the flow of darkness, sliding silently between tree trunks.
Sylas's fingers tightened around the blanket.
Another shape followed.
Then another.
Too tall. Too thin. Not human.
They lingered just beyond the reach of the firelight, watching.
Waiting.
Sylas did not cry out.
He lowered his gaze, hiding the tension in his eyes.
So this is how it begins, he thought calmly.
At the edge of the forest, where light met darkness,
the night slowly grew teeth
The desert ahead was cruel—open, exposed, unforgiving—but honest. There were no hiding monsters, no unseen eyes, no tangled roots to trip him. The desert did not lie.
The forest is dangerous, Sylas thought. The desert only looks dangerous.
He shifted slightly toward the dunes, careful not to draw attention, wrapping the thin blanket around his shoulders. To the knights, he appeared tired and frightened—a small, wounded child seeking distance from the dark.
But every movement he made was calculated.
He noted the placement of the guards, their rotations and posture. The torches flickering along the camp perimeter. Who was tense. Who would react first if chaos erupted.
A young knight near the supply crates drew Sylas's attention. Hands clenched around his spear, gaze flicking repeatedly toward the forest. Near him, a loosely stacked pile of wooden crates and a restless horse shifted on uneven ground. Perfect elements for distraction, if Sylas ever needed one.
He did not move. He did not act. He simply waited.
Because he had already chosen his side.
Not the forest.