The undead foxes burst forth almost simultaneously, their claws scraping the frozen earth of this late autumn.
One of the non-dead beasts leapt at Silas.
The young nobleman, frightened and unable to think clearly, instinctively drew and raised his short sword just in time, feeling the creature's rotten jaws snap dangerously close to his face.
He struck the animal's muzzle with the flat of his sword and pushed the abominable creature back with a thrust of his guard.
"To your left, young lord!" shouted Mimi.
The servant, Mireille, was already in motion. She drew her single-handed sword, letting out a distinct metallic note, and the blade whistled through the air — severing two legs of a fox that had leapt towards her.
She pivoted without losing her balance, then made a quick movement, almost imperceptible to poor Silas, who was still trying to control his horse.
Mimi's dagger plunged into the whitish, half-rotten eye socket of a second canine.
Just as he finally managed to calm and control his horse, another zombie fox lunged towards the young noble, claws outstretched and jaws already open to devour a meal that was not yet ready.
The young Silas reflexively brandished his mother's sceptre. A brief flash of light burst forth, faint but bright enough to blind the animal — or whatever this creature was.
The fox stopped dead in its tracks and suddenly backed away, squeaking, apparently frightened — or at least distancing itself, wary — by the glow coming from the sceptre. Silas, in a burst of responsiveness that surprised even himself, swiftly threw his short sword in an instinctive gesture.
The blade flew, whistling — tearing through the air — to the beast's neck, piercing its parched throat and coming out brutally on the other side of the already dead animal's skull.
The last fox tried, vainly but slyly, to get around Mireille. The Wrighton family's elite servant feinted, dismounted from her horse with an acrobatic and graceful movement — almost a dance — slid forward, and struck it down with a single clean, fluid, efficient, and almost silent movement.
Then calm returned, heavy — as if the attack had never happened.
Silas leaned against a rock nearby and breathed heavily.
He felt drained, both physically and mentally — the guilt of the attack on the nameless village still gnawing at his insides.
"We... we can't go on like this..."
The teenager swallowed with difficulty. He slumped down and let out a shaky breath.
"That... That's no way to live, running away like this all the time." The young boy finally added, his hands trembling as he struggled to get up.
Mireille quickly glanced around, squinting as she surveyed her surroundings, then allowed herself a sigh.
"...Then let's hurry on. It may not be 'a life' as you say, but it's the only way we can get to Ceniel safely." Replied Silas's companion, picking up and wiping her two blades.
The servant then climbed quietly back onto her horse, swiftly and gracefully — as if the air were gliding beneath her feet.
"There are surely other beasts lurking nearby. We won't get any rest here. Not before dawn, anyway." Mimi finally added.
Disappointed but unable to argue, Silas could only follow her, with an effort that seemed pathetic compared to his companion's fluid movements.
——At the time, I knew this teenager in front of me was exhausted and wouldn't get out of this journey unscathed. But his safety was all that mattered to me, even if I had to be forceful. And reaching Levanfort meant safety… Or so I thought.——
***
Soon enough, the pair of travellers set off again, exhausted.
Silas swayed on his saddle — his thoughts going round in circles, trapped by his feelings of helplessness and the horrible realisation of what his life had become in the span of a few days.
He who had been raised in opulence — moderate, certainly, at least compared to other nobles, due to the principles of his father, the Earl — was overwhelmed and disgusted by the events unfolding before his eyes.
A little too quickly, for his liking, in fact.
Mireille, on the other hand, continued forward out of pure military reflex.
In the small forest they had just reached, the branches creaked in the absence of wind. Blurred silhouettes seemed to glide between the trunks.
Silas, exhausted by almost two days of sleeplessness and confrontation, and above all by travelling without any real breaks, struggled with all his remaining strength not to fall asleep.
"Young master…" Mimi called out.
Her voice was sharp, clear, purely commanding — worthy of the former captain of the 4th Knight Division of the Venelisian army.
"...Keep your reins high. Don't doze off. Not now. It would be suicidal."
The teenager, disappointed, raised his head, ashamed. Then they continued on their way in silence.
Soon, they came to a natural fork in the road. There, they had to make a forced halt, for before them stood a choice to be made.
On one side was a ford where the dark water reflected impossible shapes. On the other, a narrow but passable hunting trail. And finally, a canyon that echoed in an unsettling way.
Which one to take?
That was the question — one that did not need to be asked.
Mireille took a small map out of her bag, which had been provided by the steward Alciel during their pre-departure preparations.
The parchment, on which the region was mapped, looked worn but was frighteningly accurate.
She unfolded the map in the flickering light of a small stone covered with luminescent moss.
"Right. So far, we have been heading west correctly, young master. The problem here is that if we take the canyon, we run the risk of being trapped. The ford is also too risky at night. Which means that the trail…"
She paused.
"…is our only option."
Silas nodded.
Without further ado, they set off along the path, making their way through the tall ferns, the horses treading carefully on the wet stones.
As they went deeper into the forest, it became wilder, the trees more gnarled, the ground more uneven.
Then, at a narrow passage between two rocks, Silas saw something strange.
The mist.
It rose from the small valley on the horizon, white, heavy, almost solid. A mist that swallowed sound and light.
Mireille stopped her horse abruptly.
A brief but violent tension distorted her face and made her hands tremble. A fear she tried to hide.
But Silas sensed it.
"Mireille...?"
She did not answer. Instead, she tightened her grip on the reins.
They were inexorably advancing towards the milky wall.