The forest loomed dark and silent beyond the village walls, its skeletal branches scratching against the cold gray sky. The wind whispered warnings through the bare trees, carrying the faint scent of frost and pine resin. Kael tightened his cloak against the chill, staring out toward the cursed woods where the men would soon venture to harvest the timber they so desperately needed.
Despite the early hour, the village was already stirring, villagers gathering tools, horses harnessed and saddled, and murmurs of uneasy determination buzzing through the frosty air. They were getting ready to harvest trees and bring them to the village.
Kael stood nearby, watching the villagers as they readied themselves for the task ahead. This was the first time he truly felt the weight of being in charge and the people's lives on his shoulders.
His fingers clenched tightly around the hilt of the sword strapped to his hip. He found it in his room, the previous... the previous baron's room.
He didn't know much about swords, and this was his first time holding one, but he wanted a backup, something to rely on when his mana ran dry.
The sword was beautiful. Slightly longer than a typical blade, but not quite enough to be called a longsword. At least, that's what Sir Lucas had told him.
The hilt was forged from black metal, cold and smooth beneath his fingers. Intricate carvings etched along the blade caught the light, giving the sword a quiet, haunting beauty. Its scabbard was similarly decorated with matching engravings, worn but well-maintained. The guard was shaped like a perfect circle, embossed with the previous baron's emblem, a faded emblem of a silver wolf howling against a midnight sky. From the rounded pommel hung a slender cyan cord, its silky threads shimmering faintly, as if carrying a faint pulse of magic.
Kael traced the hilt with his thumb, feeling the cold weight settle in his palm. It was a strange comfort; he found it appealing.
This is a bit too much.
He sighed softly, the weight of responsibility pressing down harder than the cold. Adjusting his grip on the sword's hilt, he started walking toward where the guards were preparing, his mind already racing through what needed to be done next.
As he approached, the men stopped their work and bowed deeply in unison. Kael nodded in acknowledgment, trying to mask the uneasy flutter in his chest. There were too many things on his mind—the oath, the upcoming operation, the looming monster attacks, so he barely registered the soldiers' bows. Still, he hated the formality; he didn't feel different than them.
He had never been comfortable with bows. Maybe it was because, not so long ago, he'd been just another orphan in a crumbling home, sharing stale bread and threadbare blankets.
Everything changed the day he swore the Oath. They'd taken him from the orphanage straight to the Count's mansion, where he'd spent the next year studying what it meant to honor it—how to act, how to speak, how to carry himself like someone important.
But every Oath was different. In the mansion, they'd drilled him on the general ways people upheld their oaths, examples, and etiquette—but none of it truly helped. When it came down to it, an Oath was personal. No handbook could tell him how to keep his.
A sharp whistle cut through his thoughts, and Kael blinked back to the present. Lucas was striding toward him, barking orders for the men to form up. Horses snorted in the cold, their breath misting in the air, and the creak of leather harnesses mingled with the sound of boots crunching on frost.
"Lord, we are almost prepared. In ten minutes we begin," Lucas said, his eyes darting to the sword on Kael's hip.
Kael gave a small nod, his fingers brushing the hilt.
The plan was simple—at least on paper. The woods were barely two hundred meters from the village walls, but that short stretch was no safety. Four archers would remain in the watchtowers to keep any monsters from slipping too close, while five mounted guards would stay with the pack horses to haul the wood back.
The villagers would work in a guarded cluster, ringed by spearmen. Meanwhile, three separate parties would push deeper into the forest to keep the shadowfangs occupied. Kael would take one of them, Lucas another, and Captain Rhys the third—each group with an archer and seven spearmen.
It sounded neat when laid out like that. Neat plans didn't often survive the wilds.
...
Kael's boots crunched over the frost-hardened earth as he led his party into the woods, the treeline swallowing them in a hush of pine and shadow.
Seven guards followed close behind, five seasoned enough to keep their grips steady, and two volunteers who had never faced more than a winter storm.
Their spears wavered slightly with each step, arms trembling despite their attempts to look unshakable. Still, their eyes burned with the stubborn fire of men who had already decided they weren't going to run.
Kael wasn't sure if that was courage or stupidity. Probably both.
They were close to their assigned post now, no more than a hundred and fifty meters ahead of the laborers. The formation was the three parties fanning out like a living shield: Kael's group holding the center, Lucas's men sweeping the left flank, and Captain Rhys's party moving along the right.
The sound of axes and saws in the distance was faint but steady, a reminder of what they were here to protect. Every creak of a branch and rustle of pine needles set Kael's teeth on edge. Out here, the silence didn't feel like peace.
One of the younger men at Kael's side shifted his grip on the spear. One of the guards who was sent by the Count.
"Do… do they usually attack this close to the village, my lord?"
Kael kept his eyes forward. "If we're lucky, they won't attack at all."
The other volunteer gave a nervous laugh. "And if we're not lucky?"
Kael's mouth tightened. "Then you keep your spear up, aim for the chest, and don't think about anything else."
Kael's hand never left the hilt of his sword, gripping it tightly, not out of readiness, but to keep it from shaking.
Now I'm even going into the woods looking for a fight. Must be great to be a mage. Couldn't ask for anything else.
Even taking young boys to their death, probably. They're not younger than me, but still, he smirked bitterly to himself. I'm a mighty mage.
The archer slid half the arrows from his quiver and planted them in the bark of a nearby tree for quick reach. The rest of the men formed a loose semi-circle, eyes scanning every shadow between the trees, their posture tense and ready.
No sound reached them except the distant, rhythmic thud of axes biting into wood behind them and the faint rustle of the guards' cloaks as the wind worried at the fabric.
Kael's hand clenched the hilt tighter, his fingers so tight they would've looked white, if not for the gray gloves covering them.
And so, five tense minutes passed in silence before a scream shattered the stillness from the left side. Instantly, the guards tensed, clutching their spears tightly. The archer moved with practiced speed, drawing an arrow from his quiver and placing it on his bow, eyes sharp and alert.
Left flank, Lucas's group. It's already starting, just as he said it would.
"Get ready, men," Kael shouted.
Then, there, just beyond the edge of the trees, shadows began to stir. Dark shapes slithered and shifted among the twisted trunks, barely visible against the dim light filtering through the bare branches. The guards froze, breath caught in their throats, eyes darting to every flicker of movement.
Kael's heart hammered in his chest as he tightened his grip on the sword's hilt. He took a deep breath, and his hand left the hilt, still shaking. He needed it free for casting spells.
He called his mana, and there was a slight glow in his hand, cyan.
His sight didn't leave the trees, always searching for anything that moved. Every shadow, every rustle, felt like a threat. The forest seemed alive with unseen eyes, watching, waiting. The cold bit through his cloak, but Kael barely noticed; his focus was sharp, heart pounding beneath the weight of responsibility.
Beside him, the volunteers stiffened, gripping their spears like lifelines. Their unease was almost contagious, but Kael forced himself to stay steady. They're counting on me, he reminded himself. I can't afford to falter.
A chill breeze swept through the forest, stirring loose leaves and carrying a faint scent of ice. Kael blinked as something soft and cold landed on his cheek, a single snowflake, fragile and fleeting.
Then another. And another.
The first flakes of the season drifted slowly down, almost lazily, catching on the edges of branches and dusting the ground in white. The gentle snowfall softened the forest's hard edges, muffling sounds and turning the twisted shadows into ghostly shapes.
The cold deepened. Winter was creeping in.
Then, faint at first, barely more than a whisper under the wind, came a low, guttural growl, distant, yet unmistakably predatory.
Kael's breath caught. The guards stiffened, eyes widening in the dim light.
The growls deepened and multiplied, echoing softly through the trees like a chorus of hungry wolves circling their prey. It wasn't just one creature; it was a pack.
The forest seemed to hold its breath.