Ten riders moved through the dawn mist, their horses picking careful steps along the packed dirt road that wound between ancient oaks. Nine Wardens sat mounted, their armour catching weak sunlight that filtered through the branches. The tenth walked behind them, connected to Brother Marcus's saddle by a chain that clinked with each shuffling step.
Garren Vorath kept his eyes forward, but they drifted back to the Hound anyway. The thing shuffling behind Marcus's horse barely looked human. Torn rags hung from its skeletal frame, revealing ribs pressing against grey skin.
Where eyes should have been, only dirty bandages remained, brown with crusted blood that looked like rust. An iron collar encircled its throat, the metal rusted tight enough that the skin beneath wept clear fluid. It moved with the jerky uncertainty of the blind, one hand outstretched and trembling, the other clutching uselessly at its chain.
Garren adjusted his sword belt. The greatsword's weight pulled at his shoulders, familiar but heavier than it had been yesterday. He'd carried it every day since his trial, practising cuts until his arms screamed. His instructor had finally nodded approval after months of dawn sessions in the yard. Now here he was, riding to his first real mission, and the weapon felt like it understood what was coming before he did.
He'd seen Hounds before. There were always a few at the fortress, shuffling through courtyards or being led out when recruits needed to learn how to identify mages in crowds. The older brothers would use them for exercises. Garren had accepted it without question. This was what happened to mages who couldn't fight back when caught. His instructors called it mercy. At least they serve a purpose.
Commander Valdric rode at the column's front, posture straight despite three days of travel. He was broad-shouldered with a strong jaw and grey threading his temples, though he couldn't have been past forty.
Garren had known him since childhood, since the day Wardens found him alone on a roadside. They'd brought him to Elderoth, given him purpose when he had nothing. Valdric had taught him to hold a sword, to pray, to stand and kill when necessary. The only father Garren remembered clearly.
Valdric must have sensed his tension because he slowed his horse and dropped back. His grey eyes studied Garren, taking in the white-knuckle grip on the reins and the way his gaze kept drifting to the Hound.
"First blood is always hardest," Valdric said. His voice was low, steady. The same voice he'd used teaching Garren to kill that first bound prisoner in the practice yard.
"I'm ready, Commander." Garren tried to sound certain. He wanted Valdric to be proud, wanted to prove those years of dawn training hadn't been wasted.
"I know you are." Valdric's hand rested briefly on his shoulder, solid through leather and mail. "I trained you myself. You wouldn't be here if I doubted you."
Warmth filled Garren despite the morning chill. Valdric didn't praise lightly. Hearing it now, before his first real mission, meant everything. It meant he belonged among these men.
"Remember," Valdric continued, his tone shifting to instruction. "Mages are always dangerous, no matter how harmless they appear. They might look like farmers or children, but when they panic and reach for power, people die. Innocent people. Hesitation gets brothers killed. See a mage, end it. Fast and clean."
"Yes, Commander."
Valdric studied him a moment longer, searching for weakness or doubt. Whatever he saw satisfied him. He nodded once and rode back to the front. Behind them, the Hound gasped for breath, bare feet struggling to keep pace. No one looked back.
The morning warmed as they rode. Mist clung to low places between hills. Garren's thoughts wandered with the horse's rhythm. He thought about the other recruits, wondered where they were now, whether they'd seen missions like this. He thought about stories the older brothers told in the mess hall, tales of hunting rogue mages and protecting villages. He'd wanted to be part of those stories for as long as he could remember.
The village came into view as sun crested the horizon, painting the sky orange and pink. Small, maybe forty buildings clustered around a central square, surrounded by harvested fields now brown and empty. Smoke should have risen from chimneys as families prepared morning meals. Farmers should have been starting work, leading animals to pasture or repairing fences.
Everything was still and quiet. Like the village held its breath.
Garren's instincts prickled. Something felt wrong about the silence, about how no dogs barked and no children ran between buildings. He glanced at Valdric and saw his jaw tighten, hand moving to his sword's hilt. The other Wardens noticed. Casual alertness shifted to something sharper. Hands moved to weapons without conscious thought.
Brother Marcus pulled the Hound closer, wrapping the chain around his saddle horn. The thing's bandaged head turned left and right, sensing something they couldn't see. Its mouth opened in a soundless gasp, revealing the stump of its tongue and brown, broken teeth.
Garren's heart beat faster. His palms sweated inside his gloves. This was it. His first real mission, his chance to prove himself. He thought about lessons drilled at Elderoth, countless hours learning to read battlefields and anticipate threats. Instructors had warned about ambushes, villages too quiet, and desperate measures people took to protect their own.
He wondered if villagers knew they were coming. Word could have spread from the last town, reaching this place ahead of them. Maybe that explained the stillness. Maybe they were preparing, gathering makeshift weapons, steeling themselves.
Or maybe they'd fled, abandoned homes rather than face what Wardens would do when they found apostates hiding among them. Garren had heard of villages that emptied themselves rather than cooperate. The Wardens burned them anyway, left nothing standing that could shelter corruption.
The village waited, empty and silent in morning light.