The first whiff of perfume coming from the human settlements was a relief to Silas.
Unfortunately, behind him, a small horde of creatures followed tirelessly.
The wolves were even about to catch up with him, their fangs releasing streams of poisonous saliva that blew away in the wind — and struck an unfortunate salamander nearby, whose flank immediately dissolved...
Soon, a gaping hole appeared in the poor creature's abdomen, and it died as cruelly as it was accidentally.
The young man, still frightened — and rightly so — tried to redouble his efforts and poured more of his desperate energy into his legs, which carried him at breakneck speed. He screamed at the top of his lungs like a madman, calling for help with the energy of a last hope.
His short, and until then, very uneventful life depended on it after all.
Torches were quickly alight, and cries of alarm rang out — awakened by the commotion caused by Silas. The villagers, armed with sticks and pitchforks, rushed out to confront the intruder who — they quickly realised — was bringing an invasion with him.
Silas fell to his knees on the village floor, panting. He had narrowly escaped his pursuers, for the moment, but he knew deep down that Mireille was not yet out of this nightmare.
The forest, black and dense, remained the domain of his enemies. And those same enemies would tirelessly appear before the villagers, leaping out of the darkness.
Moreover, somewhere in the heart of that very darkness, Mireille continued to strike, to protect, to hold on... ready to do anything to keep Silas alive. Until her last breath.
Behind him, however, the sharp crack of branches under the footsteps of his pursuers grew closer, more insistent.
Two poisonous wolves emerged from the nocturnal darkness, their fangs dripping with acid venom that hissed through the air as they bit the first villager, who was unable to defend himself quickly enough.
The victim's howl of pain echoed through the night and was then brutally followed by silence, before another scream pierced the chaos.
The orcs and Mist Hunters, sinister and silent, advanced with deadly coordination, overturning carts, breaking down doors and knocking over torches.
The panicked inhabitants tried to fight back with sticks, pitchforks, and a few makeshift weapons.
But fear distorted their movements.
Arrows missed their targets, and sword blows fell on allies by mistake. Some villagers screamed in horror as their neighbours collapsed, and others fled, slipping in the mud and rubble.
Blood and dust mingled, the air was thick with smoke, screams and a disgusting metallic smell that stuck in the throat.
Silas, still running, stumbled over a corpse, letting out a cold, sickened groan. His heart was beating so loudly that he felt as if the whole world could hear it.
He shouted again, louder, to attract the attention of survivors and, above all, to desperately try to draw Mireille's attention, hoping she would come before everything fell apart.
But nothing.
All he saw was the abominable theatre of death and carnage unfolding before his eyes.
'W-What... What have I done?' the young boy asked himself, horribly, as he narrowly escaped the claw of a wolf, which struck a far less fortunate young girl standing next to him.
The girl, who appeared to be around the same age as Silas, did not immediately understand what was happening to her until part of her skull and shoulder detached from the rest of her body.
Unfortunately, before she could even scream, another wolf came and bit her entire abdomen, which emitted a smell of decay as soon as the flesh came into contact with the poisonous fangs.
The young lady's stomach and part of her chest were disgustingly torn off from the rest of her body.
The only meagre and cursed consolation in this situation was that the victim was already dead. That much was now certain.
Seeing this, Silas, who continued to flee and try to find refuge, felt tears escape from his eyelids. But he clenched his teeth.
'My weakness... These people... My weakness killed them. They're dying because of me.' He could only say inwardly.
An expression of utter disgust had appeared on his face. But this disgust was not directed at anything in particular.
But at himself.
Suddenly, a high-pitched scream — most likely that of a child — made him turn around. At the same moment, an orc struck Silas with the back of his massive fist.
The blow sent Silas flying several metres away, leaving him on the verge of unconsciousness.
'Ah... I see. So this is how I'm going to die. By being... weak.'
Suddenly, the pendant around his neck glowed with a greenish light that illuminated the area, and before he knew what was happening, he was back on his feet. At the same time, his late mother's sceptre — which he had been clutching tightly in his fists — lit up and a kind of blue flame burst forth from nowhere and struck the face of the hideous dirty green monster.
The vile creature immediately burst into flames, letting out a scream of horror as it was consumed by the mysterious fire.
It all happened too fast for Silas.
And just before he could understand what was happening, a venomous wolf's claw almost ripped open his back, were it not for the almost miraculous intervention of a man who plunged his old, rusty sword into the beast's eye.
The young boy fell headfirst into the mud that had formed from the blood of the surrounding victims and struggled to get up. A Mist Hunter appeared before him, transforming the air around him into an icy fog that made the young nobleman's breath visible with every exhalation.
Silas, realising that there would be no third miracle that evening, simply clutched the magic staff to his chest. There was only one thought in his mind.
A thought that he uttered aloud.
"Mimi."
But it was pointless to think about it, because—
The creature collapsed.
All Silas could see was that it had been struck by a blade that had appeared out of nowhere.
As if emerging from a nightmare more real than anything he could have imagined, Mireille appeared. Her movements were precise, mechanical, almost inhuman.
She struck, parried, and swept, but each movement carried the weight of horrors already experienced. Each orc she struck down seemed to leave behind a trail of darkness that rose into the air like a warning.
The other Mist Hunters screamed, struck down by her rapid attacks, but others continued to advance, relentlessly.
The ground was covered with blood, mud, and broken bodies. The flickering light of the torches created moving shadows that made the scene even more nightmarish.
A villager, torn and pale, clutched his farm stick with trembling hands and struck an orc who outmatched him in strength, while another tried to drag a wounded man out of reach.
Silas looked at his servant and protector, paralysed by both horror and admiration. She was a storm in the midst of chaos, the only one who seemed capable of containing the assault.
But he knew this lull would not last. The enemies were retreating, but there were still enough of them to plunge the village into a new wave of carnage if they let their guard down.
Finally, Mireille reached him, panting but relentless. Her eyes shone with a cold, determined light.