The fourth day of travel had been the hardest.
Rylan had lost count of how many times they had had to dismount and lead the horses along trails so narrow that one false step meant a thirty-meter drop into ravines filled with sharp rocks. His legs burned from the constant effort of climbing, his hands were covered in scratches from clinging to branches and stones, and every muscle in his body protested with a dull ache that had become as familiar as his own breath.
But he had endured. He hadn't complained. And the veterans had noticed.
Now, on what he estimated was the fifth day, the landscape had changed drastically.
The Edge Mountains were a massive, ancient forest, stretching over the mountainous elevations like a dark green mantle that seemed endless.
The trees here were giants. Pines that must have been hundreds of years old, with trunks so wide that three men could not circle them with outstretched arms. Their branches intertwined high above, creating a canopy so dense that sunlight barely penetrated, turning the forest into a place of perpetual shadows and unsettling silences.
The ground was covered by a thick layer of pine needles, damp moss, and twisted roots that emerged from the earth like petrified snakes. The air smelled of dampness, rotting wood, pine resin, and that indefinable scent of a place that rarely saw human visitors.
The column had been advancing in combat formation for hours. Everyone had their weapons drawn or ready to be used in a second. The silence was absolute, broken only by the occasional crunch of branches under the horses' hooves and the constant rustling of the wind through the treetops.
Zella and another veteran scouted five hundred meters ahead, moving through the trees like shadows.
Garron, Vek, and Tor covered the rear, staying far enough back to detect any threat attempting to follow them.
Rylan rode in the center of the formation, with Torin and Aldwen flanking him. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and his eyes constantly scanned the surrounding forest, looking for movement, shapes that didn't fit, any sign of danger.
He had learned to look at the forest as the veterans had taught him: not looking for specific details, but letting his vision become diffuse, allowing movement to jump to his attention.
It was Torin who saw it first.
The Master abruptly raised his hand in the signal that meant immediate halt.
The column instantly froze.
Torin said nothing. He just pointed forward, to the left, between the massive pine trunks.
Rylan followed the direction of his finger and then he saw it.
A human figure emerged between the trees, running desperately. He was young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, dressed in torn, blood-stained peasant clothes. His face was pale, covered in dirt and sweat, and his breathing was so labored that they could hear it even from a distance.
He had a deep wound on his left side that was actively bleeding, staining his shirt with a bright, fresh red. Another wound on his right shoulder had soaked the sleeve, and his arm hung at an odd angle.
But what caught Rylan's attention was the way the young man moved.
Despite the evident exhaustion, despite the blood and pain, the boy leaped over exposed roots with precision, dodged low branches without looking, and slipped between narrow trunks fluidly.
And then the pursuers appeared.
Three men emerged from the trees, following the young man. They didn't run in a disorganized mass. They moved coordinated: one in front pressuring directly, and two flanking on the sides, cutting off possible escape routes.
They were armed. Rusty swords, long knives on leather belts. One of them carried a woodsman's axe. Their clothes were an uneven mix: pieces of leather armor over torn shirts, military boots next to peasant trousers.
Torin made a series of quick hand signals.
Zella, who had silently returned upon detecting the movement, nodded and disappeared into the trees to the right, seeking an elevated position.
Another veteran slipped to the left to flank.
Aldwen and two more veterans separated to cut off a possible retreat.
Garron emerged from the forest and positioned himself in the front, his massive axe resting on his shoulder, his eyes completely focused.
All of this happened in less than thirty seconds without a single word.
Rylan remained in his position next to Torin and three other veterans, forming the reserve.
The pursued young man ran past less than twenty meters from their position, so focused on escaping that he didn't see them among the shadows. His breathing was a desperate gasp, his eyes wide with terror, and the blood left a clear trail on the moss.
The three pursuers entered the ambush zone ten seconds later.
Torin slightly lowered his hand.
And the forest exploded in violence.
An arrow appeared from nowhere, piercing the neck of the first pursuer with an almost musical hiss. The man stopped dead in his tracks, his hands rising to his throat as blood gushed between his fingers. He tried to scream but only a wet gurgle came out. He fell to his knees, then face down, and stopped moving.
The other two pursuers froze, turning frantically to identify the threat.
Aldwen and his veterans emerged from the forest behind them, blocking the retreat. Their swords were drawn, their postures those of experienced warriors, and the Drayvar emblem on their chests shone faintly in the filtered light.
Garron emerged from the front, his massive figure blocking the escape path.
The two pursuers were surrounded.
The one carrying the axe, a man around thirty with an unkempt beard, looked around with eyes that transitioned from fear to desperate fury.
"Damn it!" he spat, raising his axe.
He lunged at Garron with a scream that seemed more desperation than strategy.
Garron waited for him.
When the axe descended in a wide arc, Garron took a side step. The axe struck air, leaving the attacker exposed.
Garron swung his own axe with brutal efficiency.
The edge struck the outstretched arm just below the elbow. There was a horrible, crunching sound of bone breaking, and the forearm separated from the rest, falling to the ground.
The man screamed, sharp and animalistic.
Garron did not stop.
His boot smashed into the man's knee, shattering it. The pursuer fell, still screaming, clutching the bleeding stump.
Garron raised his axe and brought it down on the man's chest.
The axe went straight through, sinking into the earth beneath.
The screaming stopped.
Rylan watched without blinking. He had seen Garron train. He had seen his strength. But this was different.
This was killing.
The third pursuer had tried to run when he saw his companion fall.
But one of the veterans reached him, his sword cleanly slicing the back of the left leg. The man fell, screaming, his sword flying from his hand.
He rolled on the ground, clutching his wounded leg, his face contorted with pain and terror. He tried to crawl backward, leaving a trail of blood on the moss, but Aldwen and two more veterans quickly surrounded him.
"Stay still," Aldwen ordered in a cold voice.
The man stopped, gasping. He turned to look at his captors and his eyes fixed on the Drayvar emblems.
The black spear piercing the storm of silver lightning bolts.
His expression changed. The terror deepened, mixing with something that might have been desperation.
"House Drayvar," he murmured in a broken voice. He looked around frantically, seeing the swords pointed at him, seeing the bodies of his comrades. "No, you can't, I can't..."
Aldwen frowned, approaching cautiously.
"We're going to ask you some questions. About your camp, about your numbers. If you cooperate, maybe..."
But the man wasn't listening. His eyes moved frantically, searching for something.
Rylan saw the exact moment the man made his decision.
His eyes fixed on something a few meters away: a fallen log with a broken branch sticking out, snapped in such a way that it formed an irregular point.
The man lunged toward it.
He moved so fast that the veterans barely had time to react.
One tried to grab him but the man had already impelled himself onto the branch.
The wooden point entered through his open mouth.
There was a horrible, wet, crunching sound.
The point went through and emerged from the back of his neck.
The body shook violently, then became still, hanging from the branch.
Absolute silence.
No one moved for several seconds.
Vek spoke first, his voice charged with surprise.
"He killed himself before we could interrogate him."
Torin approached the body, observing it with a thoughtful expression.
"He didn't want to be questioned."
Aldwen stood beside him, frowning.
"That's a lot of determination for a simple bandit. Most would have tried to negotiate, or beg, or at least try to escape again."
Zella descended from her position, landing with a soft crunch of pine needles. She approached and examined the body for a moment.
"I've seen suicides before. Many. But there's something strange about this." She pointed out how the body was positioned. "He threw himself with purpose. He knew he would die. And yet he did it without hesitation."
"Maybe he was more afraid of something worse than death," suggested one of the veterans.
"Or someone," Garron added, ripping his axe from the chest of the other dead man and cleaning it with a rag.
He knelt beside the body and began to examine it more closely.
"Look at the weapons. They seem neglected at first glance, but observe the edges."
Another veteran picked up the dropped sword and inspected it.
"Maintained. Recently sharpened. And the hilts show wear from frequent use, not abandonment."
Vek examined the body of the man Garron had killed, lifting the torn shirt.
"Scars. Several." He pointed to a pale line crossing the abdomen. "This cut was clean. Healed correctly."
Tor pointed to another on the shoulder.
"Arrow wound. Extracted and treated with care."
Aldwen stood up, crossing his arms.
"These scars are not from tavern fights or occasional robberies. They are from real combat."
Torin nodded slowly, his expression grim.
"Deserters. It has to be. Soldiers who fled and hid in these mountains."
"But that doesn't explain why that man chose to kill himself rather than talk," Zella said. "Common deserters don't have that level of loyalty to anything or anyone. That's why they deserted in the first place."
"Unless they've found something new to be loyal to," Aldwen suggested. "Or someone controlling them with enough fear."
There was a thoughtful silence as everyone processed that possibility.
"Whatever it is," Torin finally said, "they are not common bandits. That's clear."
It was then they remembered the young man they had saved.
Rylan quickly turned, searching. The boy had collapsed about fifty meters ahead, partially hidden behind a massive trunk.
"Go to him," Torin ordered, signaling three veterans. "Treat him. And find out where he comes from and what he knows."
While one group headed toward the injured youth, another began to search the bodies of the dead pursuers, looking for anything that could give them information.
Rylan stayed next to Torin, looking at the body hanging from the branch.
"Master, something isn't right here. This man was willing to die rather than be captured by House Drayvar. What could cause that level of desperation?"
Torin didn't answer immediately. He observed the body for a long moment.
"Fear. Fear of something worse than death. Or fear of betraying something he considers more important than his life." He paused. "Whatever it is, this is becoming more complicated than I thought."
"Do we move forward?" Aldwen asked.
"Of course we move forward," Torin replied. "But with more care. And with the expectation that what we find will not be what we anticipated."
The veterans who had gone after the injured youth returned, guiding him, almost carrying him, toward the main column. The boy could barely stand, his legs were trembling violently, and his face had taken on a grayish tone that spoke of significant blood loss.
One of the veterans helped him sit against a trunk, while another with medical knowledge began to examine his wounds.
"The one on the side is deep but didn't hit anything vital." The veteran gently pressed around the wound. The young man hissed in pain but didn't pull away. "It cut muscle and bled a lot, but he'll survive if we treat it well."
He took bandages from his pack and began to work, first cleaning the wound with water and then applying ointment.
"The one on the shoulder is more superficial. It will heal, though it will hurt."
While the veteran worked, Torin approached and knelt in front of the young man.
"What is your name, boy?"
The young man looked at him with eyes that showed traces of terror but also a flash of relief upon seeing the Drayvar emblems.
"Len. My name is Len."
"Len." Torin nodded. "Where are you from? Why were those men chasing you?"
Len swallowed with difficulty, his breathing still irregular.
"My village. I come from a village less than two hours from here. They attacked last night. They killed people. They took more people. I escaped but they found me in the woods and have been chasing me ever since."
His voice trembled, and tears began to form in his eyes.
"I've been running for almost an entire day. I couldn't stop. If I stopped, they'd catch me. And if they caught me..."
He didn't finish the sentence.
Torin exchanged a quick glance with Aldwen.
"Can you lead us to your village?"
Len nodded immediately.
"Yes. Yes, I know the way. I can guide you. Please, there have to be survivors. There has to be someone who can tell you more about what happened."
"Very well," Torin said, standing up. "Rest for a few minutes while they finish bandaging you. Then you guide us."
He looked at Aldwen.
"Reorganize the formation. The boy rides with one of us. We maintain maximum vigilance. If there are more of these pursuers in the area, I want to know about it before they see us."
"Understood, Master."
As the column prepared to move again, Rylan approached where Len was being attended to. The young heir watched the boy for a moment, noticing how, despite the pain and evident exhaustion, his eyes kept moving, scanning the forest as if he expected more pursuers to appear at any moment.
"How many attacked your village?" Rylan asked.
Len looked at him, surprised that someone as young as he was with these warriors.
"Many. I couldn't count them all. Maybe forty or fifty. It was dark and there was a lot of smoke."
"And they took people? Where to?"
"Towards the mountains. To the northeast. I saw them dragging them tied up into the deep woods."
Rylan nodded slowly, processing the information.
"Hold on a little longer, Len. We're going to find out what happened. And if there are people to rescue, we'll rescue them."
Len looked at him with eyes that shone with something between hope and despair.
"Thank you, sir. Thank you."
The journey to the village was tense.
Len, mounted behind one of the veterans and clinging on with his good arm, guided the way with whispered instructions. Turn left at that marked tree. Cross the stream over the stones. Avoid that clearing, the ground is soft.
Despite his injuries, the boy didn't waver in his directions. He knew this forest.
After an hour and a half of travel, the smell arrived first.
Smoke. Burning wood. And beneath that, barely perceptible but unmistakable: burning flesh.
The veterans recognized it immediately. Their expressions hardened.
Rylan smelled it too and felt his stomach churn, but he forced himself to maintain composure.
Five minutes later, they emerged from the dense forest into a clearing.
And there was the village.
Or what was left of it.
The village had been small. Perhaps one hundred fifty to two hundred souls living in simple wooden constructions with thatched roofs, surrounded by small cultivated fields.
Now it was a smoking ruin.
At least a third of the structures had been burned completely, reduced to piles of black ash and charred beams that still emitted thin columns of gray smoke. Other houses showed partial damage: collapsed walls, caved-in roofs, doors ripped off.
There was blood.
On the dirt streets. On the walls. Splattered in patterns that spoke of brutal violence.
And there were mounds of fresh earth, too many, lined up in what seemed to have been the communal garden. Someone had buried the dead.
Len made a strangled sound when he saw his village.
"No... no..."
The Drayvar column slowly entered with weapons drawn, all senses on alert.
But the place was not empty.
There were survivors.
They slowly emerged from the habitable houses. Older men with haggard faces. Women with empty eyes and soot-stained clothes. Small children clinging to their mothers' skirts, looking at the soldiers with a mix of fear and hope.
Everyone moved like ghosts.
When they saw the Drayvar emblem on the armor, some began to cry. Others dropped to their knees.
An older man approached. He had the weathered face of someone who had worked all his life under the sun, with deep wrinkles around eyes red from weeping. His clothes were stained with ash and dry blood, and he walked with a slight limp.
He looked at Torin, then at Rylan, quickly assessing.
He bowed respectfully.
"Lords of Drayvar, thank you for coming. But you are late."
Torin dismounted, approaching with a serious expression.
"I am Torin, Master-at-Arms of House Drayvar. This is Rylan Drayvar, Heir to the Grand Duke of the South." He pointed behind him. "And I believe that young man is from here."
The blacksmith turned and saw Len being helped to dismount. His eyes widened.
"Len! By the gods, boy, we thought they had caught you. We thought you were dead or worse."
Len almost collapsed toward the man.
"Master Blacksmith, what happened? Who survived? Did they take...?"
The blacksmith held the boy, his expression devastated.
"They took nineteen, son. All young. All alive when they dragged them toward the mountains. The others you knew... some died fighting. Others are here, broken but alive."
Len trembled, but he didn't cry. His eyes were dry, as if he had no tears left.
Torin approached the blacksmith.
"I need you to tell me what happened. Everything. From the beginning. Don't omit any detail, no matter how small it seems."
The blacksmith looked around the devastated village, as if he didn't know where to start. Finally he pointed toward the partially burned communal house.
"Let's sit down. This will take time."