As the sun struggled to rise above the distant hills, its pale light pierced the tangled canopy of the Grey Woods, throwing long, skeletal shadows across the frozen ground. The snow lay thick and untouched, a shroud of white silence broken only by the slow, heavy steps of a lone knight.
Ser Garred trudged through the drifts, his breath curling like smoke in the bitter air. His golden armor, once a shining symbol of honor, caught the weak light and flared with a fleeting brilliance—an unwelcome gleam in a place where the sun was but a ghost. Upon his chestplate, etched deep into the metal, was the snarling face of a wolf wrought in gold: the proud sigil of House Valareth, rulers of the empire of Vaeloria.
A sigil he could no longer bear to wear.
With a ragged curse, Garred tore the chestplate from his body and hurled it into the snow. It landed with a dull, final thud, sinking beneath the powder like a corpse lowered into a grave. He kicked it once for good measure, sending a spray of white into the air, before standing over it, chest heaving.
Anger twisted his face—an anger born not of a single betrayal, but of the slow, rotting realization that everything he had once believed in was a lie.
He had dreamed of this life since he was a boy: of riding through the gates of Wolf Shore, of pledging his sword to the king, of serving with honor and glory in the Royal Guard. He had dreamt of loyalty, brotherhood, and duty.
Instead, he had found the court dripping with poison. The crown was the rot that ate through the heart of Vaeloria; the lords and ladies were nothing more than bloated maggots feeding off the decay.
And the people—his people—were the ones left to wither and die, forgotten beneath the festering weight of their rulers' greed.
Garred clenched his fists until his knuckles cracked beneath his gauntlets. Somewhere deep within the forest, a crow cawed once—a harsh, broken sound—and then silence returned.
He was no longer Ser Garred of the Royal Guard.
He was no longer a knight. He had stripped himself of that title as easily as he had torn away the golden wolf.
"Are you fucking mad, Garred?!"
The shout shattered the brittle silence, raw and gruff, as Ser Willis Leed trudged into view behind him. His voice tore through the freezing air like a blade, hoarse and heavy with something more than anger. Garred crushed the last piece of the golden chestplate under his heel, grinding the wolf's snarling face into the snow.
Ser Willis slowed, breathless, glaring at the ruined armor. His hair, once black, had faded to a steel grey—the same color as the blades they carried, already crusted with frost from the bitter journey north. His cloak, marked with the same crest Garred had just forsaken, clung to his broad shoulders like a shroud.
But Garred saw past the bluster and the curses.
He saw the wound buried deeper than cold or fatigue—the hollow place where pride had once lived, now torn open and bleeding.
Willis Leed was a seasoned knight, a man who had survived a hundred battles, countless betrayals. But this... abandoning his post, fleeing the very crown he had once sworn to protect? This had wounded him in ways no sword ever could.
Only Garred understood. Only he could read the pain etched behind the older knight's storm-gray eyes. Because he felt it too.
"I couldn't bear to wear that shit anymore, Commander," Garred said, his voice rough with his own bitterness.
Willis's anger faltered. His shoulders sagged as he approached, his breath misting in the air between them. "I know," he muttered, softer now, a man deflated.
The rage had burned out of him, leaving only ashes. "I hate wearing it too," he added, almost to himself. His gloved hand brushed the worn crest on his cloak, a half-hearted, unconscious gesture. "But you needed it... for the cold."
The last words hung in the air, carrying a weight Garred could not ignore. Pride might have been stripped from them—but winter had no mercy for wounded men, and the Grey Woods were not known for forgiveness.
Garred shrugged off the concern with a grim smile. "We'll be out of this forest soon enough," he said.
He tried to sound confident, but the words rang hollow even to his own ears.
The trees around them stood like frozen sentinels, tall and bare, their blackened limbs clawing at the bleak sky. The snow muffled every step, every breath, every heartbeat. The Grey Woods stretched for leagues in every direction, and somewhere beyond the next ridge—if the old maps could be trusted—lay the mountains that shielded Castle Cold Rock, the stronghold of the Silent Order.
Garred pulled his furs tighter around him, feeling the bite of the wind gnaw at his exposed chest where the armor had once been. A part of him, the boy who had once dreamed of riding through Wolf Shore in shining mail, whimpered at the cold. But the man he had become—the man who had seen the truth behind the crown's polished lies—welcomed the pain. It sharpened him. It made him real again.
"Finally? You found that crazy fuck?"
Chromar's voice barked out as he emerged from behind a tree, brushing snow from the battered chainmail draped over his broad shoulders. His thick black beard was already frosted at the edges, and his sharp eyes flicked between Garred and the shattered armor with something between amusement and disbelief.
"He crushed his armor," Willis grunted, jerking his thumb toward the mangled heap of golden steel under Garred's boot.
"Fuckin' hell," Chromar muttered, half-laughing, half-cursing.
Garred gritted his teeth as he tried to lift his foot, but the crushed plate had twisted around the sole of his boot like a trap. He yanked harder, and the only reward was the shrill shriek of bent metal and the rough scrape of frustration in his throat.
Chromar smirked and shook his head. "We should get back to the fire," he said, nodding toward the thicket of trees behind him. "There's a rabbit waitin' to be skinned. If the wolves don't get to it first."
Garred looked over at Willis, whose only answer was a long, ragged sigh—a breath so heavy it was almost a whisper in the frozen air. Wordlessly, the old knight turned and trudged back through the trees, Chromar falling in behind him with easy, heavy steps. Garred lingered for a moment, staring down at the twisted gold at his feet.
The crushed sigil—the snarling golden wolf—stared back at him from the ruin of what had once been his pride, his purpose. Now it was just broken metal sinking slowly into the snow.
With one last, sharp breath, Garred turned away.
He pushed through the trees, the branches clawing at his cloak and hair, until the fire's glow came into view—a small, flickering thing barely holding back the grey tide of the forest. He crossed the clearing in a few steps and sat heavily by the flames without a word.
For a long while, none of them spoke.
The fire crackled and spat, throwing thin fingers of smoke into the sky. The only sounds were the slow, deliberate strokes of Chromar's knife as he worked the skin off the rabbit, the blade whispering against flesh and bone, and the occasional pop of a burning log.
The ghost-quiet woods pressed in from all sides, as if the trees themselves leaned closer to listen.
Each man became a world unto himself, staring into the flames, lost to his own regrets, his own ghosts.
Garred sat stiffly, hands resting on his knees, staring into the blaze but seeing none of it.
He couldn't feel the warmth against his skin. He couldn't smell the fat of the roasting meat or hear the crackle of the wood.
The fire, the food, the cold—they belonged to another world entirely, a world from which he had been quietly, almost mercifully, exiled.
All he could feel was the weight in his chest—the dull, carving ache of unease that had taken root the moment he crushed his armor. A sickness he couldn't name, couldn't fight. It whispered through his blood like a warning, though no danger yet showed itself.
They had abandoned their king, their vows, their very names. But in the heart of the Grey Woods, in a land that even the gods seemed to have forsaken, Garred began to wonder if they had not simply run away from one master to kneel at the feet of something far worse.
"Did you hear that?" Garred said, his voice low, almost lost in the crackle of the fire.
Chromar glanced up from the rabbit, annoyed. "What?"
"That... that sound," Garred insisted, straining his ears against the hush of the woods.
Willis Leed stirred from where he leaned against a tree, the rough fabric of his cloak whispering as it scraped the bark. His eyes, hard and tired, locked onto Garred's.
"You're just paranoid, boy," Willis said, though there was no humor in his voice. "After what happened with the armor, I would be too."
Garred opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, a sound rolled over the forest—the long, mournful howl of a wolf. Then another. And another.
The noise rose like a storm from the belly of the woods, a sound older than steel and colder than the grave. It wasn't one wolf. It was a pack. And they were close.
Garred was on his feet in an instant, steel rasping free from its sheath. He pivoted toward the trees, sword at the ready, his body tense as a bowstring. The firelight flickered off his blade, casting quick, shivering reflections into the dark.
He could hear them now—shadows moving, bodies leaping between the trees, shapes too fast to follow. They left trails in the snow, phantom blurs that seemed half-real, half-nightmare.
Chromar dropped the half-skinned rabbit and rose, spinning the knife in his hand until he gripped it backwards, ready to strike. His face was grim, set.
Willis cursed under his breath, old instincts snapping awake as he unsheathed his own sword. The edge gleamed, but in that bleak grey morning, even steel looked dull.
The birds, hidden high in the trees, began to shriek—a sharp, discordant sound that stabbed through the clearing like a knife. It was the kind of sound men heard before a battle they knew they wouldn't survive.
The three knights turned, backs to each other, swords lifted.
And then the wolves came.
Four dire wolves burst through the underbrush, fur bristling, fangs bared. They were enormous—shoulder-high to a man—with eyes like burning coals and breath steaming from their mouths in great, ragged plumes.
It was not natural, Garred thought as they charged. Wolves did not hunt men by day. Wolves did not hunt together without reason.
Was it fear that drove them?
Or something worse?
Garred had no more time to think.
One of the beasts lunged for him, jaws snapping. He met it with a wild swing of his sword, the blade glancing off its skull with a harsh crack. The wolf stumbled sideways, but only for a heartbeat.
It shook itself and snarled, its teeth dripping foam and blood.
Before Garred could raise his sword again, another wolf closed the distance. It clamped its jaws around his leg—his unarmored calf.
Pain exploded up his body. He hit the snow hard, the air leaving his lungs in a grunt. The wolf shook its head violently, trying to tear the flesh from bone.
Garred kicked at it, his free leg thrashing, but it clung stubbornly, growling low.
Through the haze of pain, he could hear Chromar roaring, could hear Willis barking orders like the old commander he was. Steel sang, wolves yelped, the fire hissed as snow was kicked up into it.
But Garred's world narrowed down to teeth, blood, and the cold creeping into his skin.
He would die here, he realized distantly—devoured like a rabbit in the dirt, forgotten by history, lost to the silence of the Grey Woods.
Unless he fought.
It was only when a sudden rustle stirred the high branches that the wolves stopped.
They froze mid-movement, as if the snow itself had climbed up their legs and hardened them into statues. Their hackles flattened. Their lips dropped over their teeth. They were no longer predators—they were prey.
Garred, panting and bloodied, propped himself up on one elbow, ignoring the stab of pain that shot through his torn leg. His gaze flickered from the nearest wolf to the line of dark trees beyond.
He saw it in their eyes. Not rage. Not hunger.
Fear.
The real kind. The kind that could break a beast's will.
And for the first time, he understood: the wolves hadn't attacked because they were driven by terror. No—they had attacked because something worse had driven them into madness. Now, that something was here.
From the woods emerged a figure—silent, deliberate, and utterly alien to the world around her.
She wore a heavy cloak with the hood drawn low over her brow, but the curves beneath it made it clear she was a woman. A brown war-stallion, powerful and battle-scarred, walked calmly at her side, held by a simple leather lead.
The wolves did not snarl or growl. They did not leap or flee. Instead, they glanced at one another—a silent conversation of terror—before turning away in unison and slinking back into the woods, their tails low, their heads bowed.
It was as if the very air bent around the woman, and all wild things obeyed.
Chromar was the first to move. He crossed the distance quickly, gripping Garred under the arms and half-dragging, half-carrying him to the base of a tree, easing him down with rough, soldierly care.
Willis stood a few paces away, sword lowered but not sheathed, his breath still coming in ragged, broken bursts. His old heart seemed to struggle between awe and suspicion.
Garred, shivering despite the fire at his side, forced himself to look up at the woman.
She was closer now, standing just outside the reach of the fire's light. For a moment, all he could see was the silhouette of her cloak, the horse's steady breathing, the frost steaming up around them.
And then, slowly, she pulled back her hood.
She was beautiful in a way that didn't belong in the Grey Woods—beautiful in a way that almost hurt to look at. Her hair was a dark purplish-black, falling in loose, heavy waves around her shoulders. Her skin was a color lighter than that of wheat, kissed now by the fire's wavering glow.
But it was her eyes that stopped Garred's breath in his throat.
They were blue—bluer than any sky he had ever seen, deeper than any sea. A color so vivid it seemed unnatural, like a shard of some forgotten magic stitched into mortal flesh.
She looked at him without pity. Without warmth. Without even much interest.
"My name is Lady Lyrielle," she said, her voice sharp and cold as the wind that whipped past the clearing. "And you will die if you do not let me help you."
The way she said it was not a question. It was not a plea. It was a fact—as simple, and as cruel, as death itself.
Garred, still bleeding, still dazed, tried to speak, but only a ragged cough came out.
The fire popped sharply behind her, casting shadows that seemed to dance and crawl along her cloak. The warhorse stamped once, sending a thump through the frozen ground.
Garred closed his eyes for a moment against the pain—and against the knowledge sinking into his bones like icewater.
Whatever Lady Lyrielle was, whatever power she carried with her...
She was no ordinary woman.
Lyrielle.
A name he had never heard before—a name as delicate and dangerous as the woman herself.
It lingered in the air like perfume, like a whisper from another life. He could not place it, but somehow... it felt familiar. More familiar than the faces of his own blood.
Garred shuddered against the rough bark of the tree, the cold gnawing at his wound, his mind thick with pain. He blinked heavily and looked up at her again, as if trying to summon a memory that was not there.
"Thank you, my lady," Chromar said stiffly, his knife still gripped tight in a calloused hand. His stance was guarded, feet planted wide. He spoke the words, but his posture screamed a different truth: he did not trust her.
Garred's gaze darted from Chromar to Willis, whose sword had not yet lowered. The commander's jaw was tight, his weathered face unreadable. He hadn't said a word since the wolves fled, but the silence around him felt louder than any battle-cry.
What the hell just happened? Garred thought. The wolves—feral, monstrous things—had melted away at her mere presence. No normal woman could make a dire wolf tremble like that. No normal human could command the wilderness itself.
Lyrielle began walking toward him, each step unhurried, each movement fluid and certain.
The firelight caught her features—high cheekbones, pale lips, the shimmer of her dark hair—casting long shadows across the snow. Garred shifted his weight, wincing, and glanced quickly at Willis. The old commander gave the slightest shake of his head—a signal as old as war itself: Hold. Wait. Watch.
Lyrielle's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. "You're afraid," she said, and though her voice was soft, it carried through the frozen clearing like a blade through silk.
There was no accusation in her tone.
No cruelty. Only certainty. As if fear itself were as natural to her as breathing.
Willis lifted his sword higher, the steel catching the flames' reflection like a sliver of the sun. "Don't move another step," he warned.
Lyrielle stopped, tilting her head slightly, the way one might regard a wounded animal snarling in its death throes.
"You shouldn't be scared," she murmured. Her voice was tender, coaxing, almost motherly. "It only hurts in the beginning. After that..." She smiled again—a smile so strange and tragic that Garred felt his stomach tighten. "After that, it's like swimming in a river of wine. Warm... endless... sweet."
The words washed over him, thick and heavy. He felt drowsy, his vision blurring slightly at the edges. Was it blood loss? Or something worse?
Garred forced himself to focus, clutching the bark at his side as if it might anchor him to the world. His throat was dry, but he managed to croak out, "What the hell are you talking about, lady?!"
His voice cracked mid-sentence—shaky, exhausted, terrified.
Lyrielle's eyes softened, almost with pity. She crouched slowly, graceful as falling snow, and placed one hand on the earth before her, steadying herself as she leaned forward slightly—close enough that Garred could see the fine lines of silver around her irises, like the rings of a dying star.
"I'm talking about death," she whispered.
Behind her, the fire sputtered violently, a sudden gust sending sparks high into the blackened sky. Willis' eyes narrowed sharply, his gaze snapping to Garred like a dagger thrown in the dark. Garred caught it—felt it, even, a warning flashing behind the commander's stare.
And then he felt something strange—a warmth sliding down his upper lip. He touched his nose with trembling fingers, pulled them away—and stared. Blood. Deep red against the white of his skin.
His breath caught, a shallow gasp in the stillness.
A sudden thud beside him jolted him. Chromar collapsed, the life torn from him, blood leaking in thin, steady streams from his eyes, his nose, his ears. The snow hungrily drank it, turning the ground beneath him to a sickly, melting pink.
Willis staggered back in horror, his sword slipping from numbing fingers. He stumbled, one foot catching on a hidden rock slick with frost. His head struck the stone with a sickening crack, blood blooming beneath him like a dying flower. Still alive, but barely—shaking, twitching, fear pouring off him in waves.
Garred watched all of it unfold around him, powerless to move, to speak, to even cry out.
His limbs were heavy, cold, alien. His vision tunneled, the edges of the world darkening into a narrow corridor.
And then she came.
Lyrielle.
She walked toward him with the slow grace of a queen approaching a throne, each step deliberate, silent, inevitable. The fire behind her dimmed, as if bowing its head in her presence. She lowered herself onto the ground beside him, her cloak sweeping out behind her like wings of shadow. Gently, almost tenderly, she pulled him into her arms, cradled him against her chest.
"Poor thing," she whispered, her voice thick with a sorrow he could not understand.
"It's taking its time with you."
Her fingers, impossibly warm, brushed the matted hair from his forehead. She rocked him slowly, back and forth, back and forth, like might soothe a dying child.
Garred could not speak. Could barely breathe. The pain that had gripped his body with iron fists now melted away, replaced by something else—something golden, intoxicating, soft.
Just as she said. It only hurt in the beginning.
He felt her lips press against his brow, feather-light. A kiss. A farewell.
The kiss of death.
And even as his soul slipped from him, even as the blood drained and the cold swallowed him whole, he thought: She is beautiful. She is the end.
Lyrielle stood, brushing the snow from her furs in one slow, graceful motion. She pulled the black hood of her cloak over her head, casting her face into shadow once more. Then she mounted the brown battle-stallion, its breath steaming in the frozen air. She looked back once. Just once. Her blue eyes found Garred's fading gaze through the falling snow. And then she turned, guiding the horse into the thick woods, vanishing into the dark and the cold, as if she had never been there at all.
Garred lay motionless, his body growing heavier by the second, his vision flickering like a dying flame. He could no longer feel the wound in his leg. Could no longer feel the cold. Could no longer hear the wolves. Only the soft, distant sound of his heart, beating slower... slower... until it beat no more. And as the final breath left him, a single tear slipped from the corner of his eye, cutting a clean line through the blood and snow on his cheek.
Garred faded.
And the forest, once more, was silent.