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 paths so narrow that a false step meant a thirty-meter fall into ravines full of sharp rocks. His legs burned from the constant effort of climbing, his hands were covered in scratches from holding onto branches and stones, and every muscle in his body protested with a dull ache that had become as familiar as his own breathing.
But he had endured. He had not 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 cloak that seemed to have no end.
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, rotten wood, pine resin, and that undefinable 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 beneath the horses' hooves and the constant whisper of the wind through the treetops.
Zella and another veteran scouted five hundred meters ahead, moving among the trees like shadows.
Garron, Vek, and Tor covered the rear guard, staying far enough back to detect any threat trying 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 only 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 years old, dressed in torn peasant clothes stained with dark blood. His face was pale, covered in dirt and sweat, and his breathing was so labored they could hear it even at 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 his 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 the pain, the boy jumped over exposed roots with precision, dodged low branches without looking, slid between narrow trunks with fluidity.
And then the pursuers appeared.
Three men emerged between the trees, following the young man. They were not running in a disorganized mass. They moved coordinated: one in front pressing 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 woodcutter's axe. Their clothes were a mismatched mix: pieces of leather armor over ragged shirts, military boots alongside peasant trousers.
Torin made a series of quick hand signals.
Zella, who had returned silently upon detecting the movement, nodded and disappeared between the trees to the right, seeking 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 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 youth ran past less than twenty meters from their position, so focused on escaping that he did not see them in 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 into violence.
An arrow appeared from nowhere, piercing the neck of the first pursuer with a almost musical whistle. The man stopped dead, his hands rising to his throat as blood spurted between his fingers. He tried to scream but only a wet gurgle escaped. He fell to his knees, then face down, and stopped moving.
The other two pursuers froze, spinning frantically to identify the threat.
Aldwen and his veterans emerged from the woods behind them, blocking the retreat. Their swords drawn, their experienced warrior stances, and the Drayvar emblem on their chests shining faintly in the filtered light.
Garron emerged from the front, his massive figure blocking the escape route.
The two pursuers were surrounded.
The one carrying the axe, a man around thirty with a neglected beard, looked around with eyes that shifted from fear to desperate fury.
"Damn it!" he spat, raising his axe.
He lunged at Garron with a cry that seemed more like desperation than strategy.
Garron waited for him.
When the axe descended in a wide arc, Garron took a side step. The axe hit the air, leaving the attacker exposed.
Garron moved his own axe with brutal efficiency.
The blade struck the outstretched arm just below the elbow. There was a horrible crunch of bone breaking, and the forearm detached from the rest, falling to the ground.
The man screamed, high-pitched and animal.
Garron did not stop.
His boot slammed into the man's knee, shattering it. The pursuer fell, still screaming, clinging to the bleeding stump.
Garron raised his axe and brought it down onto the man's chest.
The axe went through everything, sinking into the earth beneath.
The screams 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, clinging to the 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.
"Freeze," 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.
His expression changed. 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 pointing at him, seeing the bodies of his companions.
"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 was not 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 a way that formed an irregular point.
The man lunged towards it.
He moved so fast the veterans barely had time to react.
One tried to grab him but the man had already propelled himself onto the branch.
The wooden point entered 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 went still, hanging from the branch.
Absolute silence.
No one moved for several seconds.
Vek spoke first, his voice filled 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 next to 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 lunged with purpose. He knew he would die. And he still did it without hesitation."
"Perhaps he was more afraid of something worse than death," suggested one of the veterans.
"Or of someone," added Garron, pulling his axe from the other dead man's chest and cleaning it with a rag.
He knelt next to the body and began to examine it more closely.
"Look at the weapons. They look neglected at first glance, but observe the edges."
Another veteran picked up the fallen sword and inspected it.
"Maintained. Recently sharpened. And the hilts have 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 carefully."
Aldwen stood up, crossing his arms.
"These scars aren't from tavern brawls or occasional robberies. They're 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 preferred 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 found something new to be loyal to," Aldwen suggested.
"Or someone who controls 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 is clear."
It was then they remembered the young man they had saved.
Rylan quickly turned, looking. The boy had collapsed about fifty meters ahead, partially hidden behind a massive log.
"Go to him," Torin ordered, signaling to three veterans.
"Treat him. And find out where he comes from and what he knows."
While one group headed toward the fallen youth, another began to search the bodies of the dead pursuers, looking for anything that could give them information.
Rylan remained next to Torin, looking at the body hanging from the branch.
"Master, something isn't right here. This man was willing to die before being captured by House Drayvar. What could cause that level of desperation?"
Torin did not reply 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 on?" Aldwen asked.
"Of course we move on," Torin replied.
"But with more caution. And with the expectation that what we find will not be what we anticipated."
The veterans who had gone after the wounded youth returned guiding him, almost carrying him, toward the main column. The boy could barely stand, his legs trembled violently, and his face had acquired a grayish tone that spoke of significant blood loss.
One of the veterans helped him sit against a log, while another with medical knowledge began to examine his wounds.
"The one on the side is deep but didn't touch anything vital." The veteran pressed gently around the wound. The young man hissed in pain but did not pull away.
"It cut muscle and bled a lot, but he will survive if we treat it well."
He pulled bandages from his backpack 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, although it will hurt."
While the veteran worked, Torin approached and knelt in front of the youth.
"What's your name, boy?"
The young man looked at him with eyes that showed traces of terror but also a flicker of relief upon seeing the Drayvar emblems.
"Len. My name is Len."
"Len." Torin nodded.
"Where do you come from? Why were those men chasing you?"
Len swallowed with difficulty, his breathing still ragged.
"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 they've been chasing me ever since."
His voice trembled, and tears began to form in his eyes.
"I've been running for almost a whole day. I couldn't stop. If I stopped, they would catch me. And if they caught me..."
He did not finish the sentence.
Torin exchanged a quick glance with Aldwen.
"Can you take us to your village?"
Len nodded immediately.
"Yes. Yes, I know the way. I can guide you. Please, there must be survivors. There must be someone who can tell you more about what happened."
"Very well," Torin said, rising to his feet.
"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 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 obvious exhaustion, his eyes continued to move, scanning the forest as if expecting more pursuers to appear at any moment.
"How many attacked your village?" Rylan asked.
Len looked at him, surprised that someone as young as him 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 drag 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 will rescue them."
Len looked at him with eyes that shone with something between hope and desperation.
"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 by the stones. Avoid that clearing, the ground is soft.
Despite his injuries, the boy did not hesitate in his directions. He knew this forest.
After an hour and a half of travel, the smell arrived first.
Smoke. Burnt wood. And beneath that, barely perceptible but unmistakable: burnt 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 a hundred and fifty or two hundred souls living in simple wooden buildings with thatched roofs, surrounded by small cultivated fields.
Now it was a smoking ruin.
At least a third of the structures had been completely burned, reduced to piles of black ash and charred beams that still emitted thin columns of gray smoke. Other houses showed partial damage: collapsed walls, fallen roofs, torn-off doors.
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 entered slowly with drawn weapons, all senses on alert.
But the place was not empty.
There were survivors.
They emerged slowly from the habitable houses. Older men with haggard faces. Women with empty eyes and clothing stained with soot. Small children clinging to their mothers' skirts, looking at the soldiers with a mixture of fear and hope.
Everyone moved like ghosts.
When they saw the Drayvar emblem on the armor, some began to cry. Others fell to their knees.
An older man approached. His face was weathered like someone who had worked all his life under the sun, with deep wrinkles around eyes red from crying. His clothes were stained with ash and dried blood, and he walked with a slight limp.
He looked at Torin, then at Rylan, quickly evaluating them.
He bowed respectfully.
"Lords of Drayvar, thank you for coming. But you arrive late."
Torin dismounted, approaching with a serious expression.
"I am Torin, weapons instructor for 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 did not 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. Do not omit any detail, no matter how small."
The blacksmith looked around the devastated village, as if he didn't know where to start. He finally pointed toward the partially burned communal house.
"Let's sit down. This will take time."