The large old trees of the forest lood like silent guards against the pale winter sky, their gnarled branches reaching toward the heavens like the arthritic fingers of forgotten gods.
Snow had fallen thick and heavy through the night, blanketing the forest floor in a pristine white shroud that muffled all sound save for the rhythmic crunch of boots breaking through the frozen crust.
Darian Blakmantle, Knight of the Bryngar High, moved through the skeletal undergrowth with the asured gait of one accustod to long marches and longer vigils. His iron-shod boots, forged in the fires of Mount Caradu and blessed by the warrior-priests of his order, left deep impressions in the snow.
The weight of his armour—blackened steel plates that had turned aside more blades than he cared to count—settled familiarly across his broad shoulders.
The wolf-fur cloak that marked his rank as a Knight of the highest order stirred slightly in the bitter wind, revealing glimpses of the rune-carved blade that hung at his hip.
Munshard, they called it – a weapon that had tasted the blood of demons and would taste it again before this day was through, if his instincts proved true.
Several paces ahead, Morgana Arkwright moved with the smooth grace of a hunting cat, her burgundy gown—practical wool reinforced with leather at stress points—swirling around her ankles as she navigated the treacherous terrain.
Where Darian’s passage spoke of martial discipline and raw power, hers whispered of secrets and hidden knowledge.
The silver circlet that crowned her midnight hair caught what little light filtered through the canopy, its central sapphire pulsing with an inner radiance that spoke of the Power that flowed through her veins.
The leather boots she wore—crafted by the finest cobbler in Central City and warded against cold and damp—carried her through the knee-deep snow with enviable ease.
Unlike Darian’s heavy tread, her footsteps barely disturbed the white blanket, as if she walked upon the surface rather than through it.
The night had brought her visions.
In her dreams, she had seen shadows moving where no light existed to cast them, felt the touch of sothing ancient and malevolent stirring in the depths of the forest.
She had sensed the wrongness settling over these woods like a plague, a corruption that made her skin crawl and her grip tighten on the Origin power.
"The very air tastes of shadow," she murmured, her breath forming crystalline clouds in the frigid air.
The words carried easily to Darian’s ears, though she had not raised her voice.
Sound travelled strangely in these woods, as if the trees themselves listened and chose what to amplify.
Darian grunted his agreent, his weathered face set in its customary scowl.
At forty-three, he had seen enough of the world’s darkness to recognize its many faces. The scar that ran from his left temple to his jaw pulled tight as he frowned. His grey eyes, hard as winter steel, swept the surrounding forest with practised vigilance.
"Sothing watches us," he said, his voice a low rumble that seed to erge from the depths of his chest.
The words were not spoken in fear but in the calm assessnt of a professional soldier who had learned to trust his instincts above all else.
"Can you feel it?"
Morgana paused.
Through the enhanced senses of her Origin Power, she could perceive the world in ways that no ordinary person could comprehend.
"Yes," she breathed, her voice barely audible above the whisper of wind through bare branches. "It is old, whatever it is. Old and hungry and patient beyond mortal understanding."
They pressed deeper into the forest, following a ga trail that wound between old oaks and towering pines.
The snow here was unmarked by any passage save their own, yet both felt the weight of unseen eyes upon them.
The silence was profound, oppressive—no bird song, no rustle of small creatures in the underbrush. Even the wind seed muted, as if the very air feared to disturb whatever slumbered in these depths.
It was Darian who first caught the scent.
The knight’s nostrils flared as he drew in a deep breath, his expression shifting from wariness to grim recognition.
The sll was tallic, sweet, and utterly unmistakable to one who had walked countless battlefields.
Blood.
Fresh blood, but underneath it lurked sothing else—sothing that made his stomach clench with revulsion.
"Blood," he said simply, his hand moving instinctively to Munshard’s hilt. "Recent. But there’s sothing else... sothing wrong with it."
Morgana turned to face him, her blue eyes reflecting the pale light that filtered through the canopy.
She had caught the scent as well, and her face had gone pale beneath her olive complexion. "Corruption," she whispered. "The blood reeks of the black power."
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