The spears slammed into the earth with terrifying force, burying themselves deep into the mud and obliterating every ancient tree that dared to stand in their path. The forest exploded into splinters and wet earth.
Norvin moved on pure instinct. He dodged, weaved, and threw himself into the muck, rolling beneath the gnarled roots to escape the lethal rain. But he wasn't fast enough. The shockwaves alone sent him tumbling, and the grazing metal tore through his clothes and flesh alike. Deep gashes opened on his arms and legs, spraying blood into the swamp water.
Before he could even attempt to stand, a shadow eclipsed the moonlight.
Cahir Merlin descended from the night sky as if he had kicked off the surface of the moon itself. He landed not on the ground, but directly on Norvin's chest, pinning the boy into the suffocating mud with the weight of a mountain.
There was no time to scream. With a casual, almost bored flick of his wrist, Cahir grabbed Norvin by the collar and hurled him.
The force was cataclysmic. Norvin flew backward, a ragdoll tossed by a titan. He smashed through the dense undergrowth, his body colliding with branch after branch.
Crack.
He felt his ribs give way, a sharp, white-hot agony blossoming in his side. He tumbled through the air for hundreds of feet, momentum carrying him until he finally crashed onto hard, dry dirt. He rolled to a stop, coughing up bile and blood, his vision swimming.
He was out. He was outside the Marsh Forest.
'He... he can use Awen,' Norvin thought, his mind hazy with shock. 'Whatever affinity that is... the speed... the strength... I can't do anything.'
Thump.
A soft, heavy landing shook the ground beside him.
Cahir stood there, not a speck of mud on his boots, looking down at the broken boy with a pitiful smile.
"See, boy?" Cahir said, tilting his head. "I took you out of the forest, just as I promised."
He reached down, his grip like an iron pincer, and hoisted Norvin into the air by his throat. Norvin's feet kicked uselessly at the empty air. His windpipe was getting crushed; no breath could enter, no plea could escape.
"But..." Cahir's eyes went cold, void of all humanity. "You shouldn't have seen me in there. My duty requires silence. I cannot have a witness telling the world where the Wind-Walker's disciple walks."
Norvin clawed at the hand crushing his neck, but it was as unyielding as stone. His lungs burned. Black spots danced in his vision, growing larger, consuming the world. The edges of his consciousness began to fray. He was dying.
Suddenly, a voice resonated directly inside his skull—clear, sharp, and commanding.
"I can help you."
Norvin's eyes rolled back slightly. 'Huh... who... who said that?'
"It is me," the voice echoed, vibrating through his very bones. "Quickly. Give me your permission."
'Red Ghost... you left me again,' Norvin thought, his mind sluggish, fading into the dark. 'Why have you come back? What permission... do you need?'
"Do you want to die, child?!" The Ghost's voice snapped, losing its gentle facade. "Stop asking stupid questions! Let me take over your body, or your story ends here in the dirt!"
'Take... over?'
"Say yes!"
Norvin didn't have the breath to speak, but in the deepest recess of his survival instinct, he screamed the consent.
"Yes."
In that fraction of a second, the strangulation became the least of his worries. A pain far harsher than broken ribs or torn flesh erupted from the core of his being. It felt as if molten lead was being poured into his veins. His mind went blank, a blinding white static drowning out the sound of the wind and Cahir's breathing.
He felt his soul, his very essence, being shoved violently aside, displaced by something ancient, cold, and immensely powerful. It was an invasion, a violation of his self. The pain was absolute, eclipsing everything.
Norvin's consciousness shattered. Unable to handle the agony of his soul being usurped, his mind collapsed into darkness, and he knew no more.
He fainted.
The interior of Captain Thane Caldron's command tent was a sanctuary of decadent warmth, a jarring contrast to the mud and misery that plagued the rest of the encampment. Thick, crimson rugs covered the damp earth, and the luxurious furniture, carved with the intricate history of the Roric Kingdom, gleamed under the soft, golden light of oil lamps. The flames danced inside their glass prisons, casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to bow before the room's occupant.
Thane stood near the window flap, his back to the warmth. He was still fully clad in his armour, the black steel plate absorbing the light rather than reflecting it. He stared out into the weeping night, his expression unreadable.
He let out a deep, resigned sigh—not of sadness, but of calculated disappointment.
"It seems the gambit has failed," he murmured to the empty room, his voice devoid of emotion. "The boy has not reported in. The window of opportunity has closed. The hopes for a swift victory are lost."
He turned sharply, his cape swirling around him, and strode toward the entrance.
As he stepped out of the tent, the change in the atmosphere was immediate. The guards stationed outside, who had been shivering in the cold drizzle, snapped into a rigid stance. Their armour clattered in unison, a display of perfect, terrified discipline.
"Lord Captain!" they exclaimed, their voices tight with respect and fear.
"Lord Captain, the men are ready. The vanguards have been waiting in the mud for hours. They are eager for the signal."
"Should we mobilize them, sir?" another asked, his hand hovering over his sword hilt.
Thane looked at them with eyes that looked dead, bored by their enthusiasm. He waved a hand dismissively, as if swatting away a fly.
"No," he replied, his tone chillingly nonchalant. "Call them back. The siege is aborted. The plan is cancelled."
The order struck the soldiers like a physical blow.
The order was relayed down the line, and the disciplined formation began to fracture into a chaotic commotion.
"Cancelled?" a knight whispered, his eyes wide. "Lord Captain has said to stand down? What is he thinking?"
"First, he orders us to stand ready to bleed, to die for this ground," another hissed through his teeth, gripping his spear until his knuckles turned white. "And now, on a whim, he wants us to retreat? What about the preparations? What about the supply lines we burned?"
"Ahhh... Lord Captain..." a soldier groaned, keeping his head low. "Have we just sacrificed our precious sleep, for nothing more than his amusement?"
Of course, their voices were low—hushed whispers lost in the wind. They made certain their complaints did not reach the ears of the Rustle of the Demonic Axe. To speak treason aloud was to invite death.
But the confusion was palpable. The army was a coiled spring that had been denied its release.
Moments later, the sound of hurried footsteps splashed through the mud. Mat, Remus, and the Chief rushed forward, breathless and alarmed by the sudden recall order. They tore through the crowd of confused soldiers and burst toward the Captain, desperate for an explanation.
Mat, along with Chief Varic and Senior Knight Remus, tore through the mud, splashing black sludge onto their greaves as they sprinted toward the golden glow of the Captain's quarters.
The order had defied all logic. 'Cancel the siege? After three days of sleepless preparation? After burning the supply lines to the south?'
Mat pushed aside the heavy velvet flap, the warmth of the interior hitting him like a physical wall. The scent of lavender oil and roasted venison was suffocating, a sickening contrast to the stench of wet dog and iron that permeated the soldier's camp outside.
Thane Caldaron stood by a table, his back to them. He was pouring a glass of dark red wine with a steady hand. He had removed his helmet, revealing sharp, aristocratically pale features and eyes that looked like shattered glass—cold, sharp, and utterly devoid of empathy.
"Lord Captain!" Chief was the first to speak, his voice breathless, cracking with a mixture of confusion and suppressed rage. "We received the order to stand down. Surely there has been a mistake? The men are at the vanguard. If we strike now—"
"There is no mistake, Chief Varic," Thane interrupted, his voice smooth and low, barely rising above the sound of the rain. He didn't turn around. He swirled the wine in his goblet, watching the liquid coat the glass. "The operation is cancelled. Send the men back to their tents. Let them sleep."
"Sleep?" Remus took a step forward, forgetting his place. Mat instinctively reached out to grab his mentor's arm, but Remus shook him off. "You sent a boy—a child with no training—into the Marsh Forest to pave the way for this attack! You sent Norvin. If we cancel the attack now... then what was the point? What was the point of risking his life?"
Thane finally turned. The movement was slow, deliberate, and terrifying. The air in the tent seemed to drop ten degrees. This was the man known across the continent not merely as a Captain, but by a title whispered in fear by kings and warlords alike: The Rustle of the Demonic Axe. It was said that he moved so fast and struck with such overwhelming force that the sound of his axe moving through the air was the last thing a soul heard before the afterlife.
"The point," Thane said, "was a gamble. A calculated risk. The boy was a pawn, pushed forward to test the enemy's response time and the density of the Marsh's magical defences. He has not reported back. The signal flare has not been lit."
Thane walked over to the map table, tracing the green expanse of the forest with a gloved finger.
"This implies one of two things. One, the boy is dead, eaten by the flora or the fauna. Two, he was captured, and the enemy is now aware of our intent. In either scenario, the element of surprise is lost. attacking a fortified position like Ruxwax through a metamorphosis-stage Marsh Forest without the advantage of surprise is not strategy, Remus. It is waste. And I do not tolerate waste."
"He might still be alive!" Remus roared, the veins in his neck bulging. "He might be hiding! He might be pinned down! If we mobilize a rescue squad—a small unit, just you and me—we could find him. We could pull him out before the enemy closes in!"
Thane stared at Remus for a long, uncomfortable silence. Then, a small, humourless smile touched his lips.
"A rescue squad?" Thane chuckled softly. "You want me, the captain of the elite squad of the knights, The serpent's Maw to retrieve a courier? A boy who cannot even manifest Numen? You speak of him as if he is a soldier, Remus. He is not. He is a resource. And he is a well-spent resource."