The lead wolf stepped into the firelight.
Its coat was dark as shadows, with streaks of silver scars gleaming faintly. Taller than the rest. Smarter, too. Its eyes locked on Fabale—not with rage, but the calm certainty of a predator that already smelled victory.
Fabale stood between the pack and the sleeping Octavio. His legs ached, lungs burned, and blood from his thigh ran down into his boot.
He couldn't run.
So he stood.
The first wolf lunged.
Fabale's sword slashed upward—a shallow cut. Not enough. The others spread out, circling. He turned with them, sword raised, movements slowing.
Another attack—
He blocked it, barely.
Pain exploded through his side. A bite. Deep.
He cried out but didn't fall. His sword was slippery in his grip.
Behind him, Octavio let out a soft moan.
No. Not now. Not when he can't defend himself.
Then—
Thwip.
A sharp whistle through the air.
CRACK.
An arrow struck the lead wolf clean through the neck.
The creature collapsed mid-growl. Dead before it hit the ground.
The pack froze. Then yelped and scattered into the shadows—leaderless, confused, unwilling to risk more.
Fabale stood shaking, sword raised, breath sharp. His eyes darted to the direction the arrow had come from.
At the edge of the trees, half-shadowed by moonlight—
A figure stood.
Cloaked. Still. Watching.
Then he stepped forward, just enough for the firelight to kiss his face.
Golden eyes.
Fabale's breath caught.
The man didn't raise his bow again. Instead, he knelt beside the fallen wolf, checked the arrow, and stood.
"You're lucky they weren't hungrier," he said quietly. "Or faster."
Fabale didn't lower his sword. "Who are you?"
The golden-eyed stranger tilted his head.
"Just a traveler," he said. "Same as you. But maybe walking a darker path."
He turned toward the trees again. "Keep your fire burning tonight."
"Wait!" Fabale called. "Why did you help us?"
The man paused.
Then, without turning back, answered:
"Who knows... I just don't like being in debt."
And vanished into the dark.
—---
The flames crackled louder in the sudden silence. Only the moaning wind remained.
Fabale stood still, sword in hand, the golden-eyed stranger's final words echoing in his head:
"Who knows... I just don't like being in debt."
He finally lowered his blade—slowly, like waking from a trance.
His knees buckled. He dropped to the ground beside Octavio.
"Still breathing," Fabale murmured, checking the bandages.
His fingers were trembling now—not from fear, but from everything else. Pain. Relief. Confusion.
He glanced toward the trees.
The golden-eyed man was gone. No footprints. No lingering presence.
Almost like he'd never been there.
Almost.
---
Elsewhere, deeper in the forest…
Commander Vireon of the Wind Guard stood on a branch high above the ground, eyes scanning the terrain below.
His team moved like shadows between the trees, silent and unseen.
Then—
A whistle.
A signal.
One of his scouts emerged from the darkness, bow slung across her shoulder.
"My lord," she said in a hushed voice, "a report just came in. The wolves descended on the princes' camp."
"And?"
"They survived. One wolf killed with a perfect shot—arrow through the neck."
Vireon's brows furrowed.
"That wasn't one of ours," he said.
"No, sir," she confirmed. "None of our arrows match the type. The shaft was blackwood. Fletching—golden eagle feathers."
"…Golden eagle." Vireon's voice was cold. "Then it's him."
The scout stiffened. "Sir, should we—"
"No." He raised a hand. "Not yet. He's not with the assassins. But he's not one of us either."
He looked toward the direction of the hidden camp.
"Watch the golden-eyed one," Vireon ordered. "From now on, no one moves without my word."
"Yes, Commander."
She vanished into the trees like a whisper.
Vireon turned his gaze upward, where the stars blinked coldly through the canopy.
"Too many shadows in this forest," he muttered. "And not all of them loyal."
—---
Back at the cave
The first rays of sunlight pierced through the thinning canopy, warm gold slicing into the cold of night.
A shaft of light fell across Octavio's face.
He stirred.
Groaned.
Eyes fluttered open, bleary with exhaustion and pain. His body screamed in protest—every limb stiff, bruised, aching.
A thought crossed his sluggish mind:
"Am I still alive?"
He blinked slowly. The fire was now just warm ash. Smoke trailed upward in lazy spirals.
Then he turned his head.
And froze.
Fabale was still sitting where he'd stood guard—slumped in a semi-flexed posture, back against a tree, sword gripped tightly in his bloodstained hand.
But his tunic was soaked through with crimson.
Octavio's heart thundered.
No. No no no—
He tried to speak his name, but his voice caught, cracked.
Nothing came out.
With a groan, Octavio pushed himself up—every movement screaming in protest. He dragged his limbs forward, crawling across pine needles and dried blood, inch by inch, whispering hoarsely:
"Fabale… please… say something…"
No response.
He reached him, hands trembling as he grabbed his wrist.
A beat.
Then another.
Weak.
But there.
Octavio's chest collapsed in relief. He gasped in a sob he didn't know he was holding. "You're alive," he whispered. "You idiot, you're alive…"
Fabale's sword—held so tightly through the night—finally slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground with a dull thud.
Octavio kept calling Fabale's name, over and over. His voice cracked, weak but relentless.
"Fabale… hey—Fabale! Wake up, come on…"
There was no response. Just the rustling of wind in the trees and the dull hiss of fading embers.
Octavio crawled closer, his hands trembling as they gripped Fabale's shoulders, gently shaking. "Please… please…"
Somewhere deep inside the fog of pain and darkness, Fabale heard a voice.
Calling him. Familiar. Urgent.
He wanted to open his eyes. To understand. To move.
But his body… refused. It was like dragging a mountain with his mind.
His eyelids fluttered.
Just barely, they opened half a slit.
And in that narrow blur of sight, he saw a face—panicked, dirt-smudged, eyes wide with fear.
Octavio.
The boy was trying everything to wake him, refusing to give up.
The light of dawn spilled over Octavio's shoulder, soft gold through the trees.
A quiet thought rose in Fabale's fogged mind:
Oh. Morning.
A slow breath escaped his lips.
Then, barely a whisper, cracked and faint—
"Long night… has passed."
Octavio froze. "Fabale?!"
But Fabale didn't answer.
His expression softened. Shoulders eased. That lingering tension bled away from his body, like he had finally been given permission to rest.
And then—
He slipped into deep sleep.
Not unconsciousness.
Not death.
Sleep.
The kind warriors earn only when they know—for now—they've done enough.