The stench of blood was old, but thick.
Ryliegh crested a rise in the deadwood, shield slung over his back, sword drawn. The ground leveled out below him — a clearing choked in ash and corpses. The trees had pulled back, as if unwilling to witness what had happened here.
He'd found the red company.
Or what was left of it.
Dozens of bodies lay scattered like broken armor racks. Most were red knights, twisted in the shapes they died in — some with blades still in their hands, some torn open, some half-consumed. Their armor, once a proud red .was painted black with dried gore.
But not all the bodies were human.
He stepped closer. The corpses of the enemy stood out — nine feet tall, even in death. Their skin was scaled, thick like armor, studded with small, gnarled horns from head to toe. Two larger horns curled back from their foreheads like war crowns. Their faces were wrong — stretched reptilian maws, gaping and lipless, filled with rows of jagged teeth.
No eyes. No nose.
Just mouths and muscle.
Their swords were rusted but enormous — longer than most greatswords, meant to be swung with crushing force. Five fingers, claws long and sharp, were frozen in rigor around their weapons.
Ryliegh crouched near one, studying the wounds. Deep gouges. Precision strikes. Not chaotic. This wasn't a slaughter. This had been a battle.
And someone had fought like hell.
He stood.
Then heard it.
A slow scrape — not threatening. Just… effort.
On the far side of the clearing, half-covered in ash and slumped against the trunk of a scorched tree, a figure shifted.
Crimson armor. Gold accents dulled with blood and time.
A flamberge lay across his lap, blackened but intact. A short sword rested in the dirt beside his leg, untouched.
His helmet was still on.
Ryliegh approached, slow but direct.
The knight didn't move until he was within a few paces. Then — with the kind of effort that spoke of wounds and exhaustion — the knight tilted his head up.
"You're late," he rasped, voice cracked, dry.
Ryliegh stopped. Looked him over. "You're not dead."
The knight gave a soft, joyless chuckle. "Not for lack of trying."
Ryliegh gestured at the battlefield. "You do this?"
The knight looked out at the ruin, then nodded once. "I had help. They're all gone now."
Ryliegh stepped closer, still watching him. "How long?"
"Lost count. Days. Maybe a week." He exhaled. "They hunted us. We held them here. Some of the red fell back... I don't know if they made it. Probably not."
"What's your name?"
A pause.
Then: "Haven't said it in days. Not sure it matters."
"It does."
The knight turned his helmet slightly toward him. "You first."
"Ryliegh Fieldweaver. Black Knight. Sent to confirm the company's fate."
"Consider it confirmed." The red knight leaned back against the tree, his breath shallow. "I'm the last."
Ryliegh watched him for a moment longer.
"…Name?"
"…Phoenix Solto."
Ryliegh nodded once. "Can you walk?"
Phoenix chuckled again — weaker this time. "Define walk."
Ryliegh knelt, slung Phoenix's arm over his shoulder, and hauled him up with the efficiency of someone who's done this too many times before.
Phoenix groaned. "You're stronger than you look."
"You're lighter than you sound."
Together, they stood amidst the silence.
The bodies didn't move.
But the trees were listening.
And far off, deeper in the forest, something howled like it remembered.