The air had grown colder. Even the birds seemed to have fled the forest. Aron felt the weight of the land's silence as he led his band eastward, deeper into the ancient woods.
The victory over the flamecasters had lifted spirits for a day. But now, unease gripped the hearts of all.
Lina walked beside Aron, her eyes on the darkening sky. "Something hunts us."
Aron nodded. "I feel it too."
---
They made camp in a hollow between great stone outcrops. Fires were kept low. Guards watched in shifts.
That night, the wind carried strange sounds — soft footfalls where none should be, whispers that chilled the blood.
Mara, the healer, clutched her cloak tight. "The Wraiths," she whispered. "Jaren's shadows. They say no camp survives their coming."
---
The attack came in the darkest hour.
Silent figures slipped between the trees — clad in gray, faces hidden, blades catching moonlight.
Before the first shout could rise, two sentries lay dead.
Then the camp erupted — steel rang against steel, arrows flew in the dark.
Aron fought at the front, blade flashing as he met the Wraiths' cold assault. Their skill was unmatched, their strikes deadly.
Garron bellowed orders, trying to form a line. Lina moved through the chaos, striking fast, saving who she could.
---
But the Wraiths were many. For every one that fell, another seemed to rise.
Aron's arm burned from a deep cut, his breath ragged. But still he stood, refusing to yield.
"We fight together!" he cried. "Drive them back!"
---
The tide turned slowly. The rebels, desperate and fierce, used the land itself — forcing the Wraiths into narrow ways, striking from above, from the shadows.
At last, as dawn's first light touched the treetops, the Wraiths melted into the mist, leaving the ground littered with their dead — and the dead of the prince's band.
---
When it was over, the survivors gathered, weary and bloodied.
Aron stood at the center, sword in hand, his body aching but unbroken.
"They sent shadows to end us," he said. "And we stood in the light."
A cheer rose — faint, but real. Hope's ember glowed once more.
---
Far away, Jaren listened to the news. His hand clenched tight upon his silver mask.
"So the boy lives again," he said softly. "Good. Let him cling to hope. The harder he holds it, the sweeter it will be when it's torn away."
He moved his final token on the board — toward the prince's mark.
The storm begins.