The Blackwood loomed ahead, a wall of gnarled trees that swallowed the dawn's light. My horse's hooves thudded against the uneven path, each step carrying me further from the fortress and deeper into a mission that felt like a death sentence. The scroll tucked inside my cloak seemed to pulse with a life of its own: Retrieve the Blade of Dusk. Trust no one. Lord Valthorne's words echoed in my mind, sharp and unyielding, but it was the wrongness of it all that gnawed at me. This wasn't in the book. The Ruined Chapel, the Blade of Dusk—they belonged to a later chapter, a different act. Or maybe they didn't belong at all.
I gripped the reins tighter, Lira's muscle memory guiding my hands even as my thoughts spiraled. The novel, The Fall of Kingdoms, was slipping through my fingers like sand. I'd read it cover to cover, memorized the hero's triumphs, Valthorne's betrayals, but this mission? It was a blank page, and I was riding straight into it.
The air grew colder as I entered the Blackwood, the trees closing in like silent sentinels. Their branches twisted into unnatural shapes, clawing at the sky. The path narrowed, roots snaking across it, forcing me to slow the mare. Elara's warning rang in my ears: The Blackwood is unkind to travelers. The stablemaster had said the same, his gruff voice laced with something like pity. I scanned the shadows, half-expecting monsters from the novel—wraiths or shadowbeasts—to lunge from the undergrowth. But the forest was silent, save for the creak of branches and the distant cry of some unseen creature.
I wasn't alone, though. I felt it—a prickle on the back of my neck, like eyes boring into me. I glanced over my shoulder, but the path was empty, the fortress long out of sight. Still, the feeling persisted, heavy and unshakable. Someone was watching. Valthorne's orders had been clear: Trust no one. Was this a test? Had he sent someone to ensure I didn't run? Or was it something worse—someone who knew I wasn't the real Lira?
I urged the mare forward, my heart pounding. The Blackwood seemed to tighten around me, the air thick with the scent of moss and decay. Lira's memories flickered in my mind—training with a dagger, navigating these woods in the dark, her body moving with a confidence I didn't feel. I clung to those fragments, letting them guide my posture, my grip on the reins. If I was going to survive, I had to be Lira, at least on the outside.
Hours passed, the sun climbing higher but barely piercing the canopy. The path twisted, leading me deeper into the forest. My pack, slung across the mare's saddle, held enough food for a day, maybe two. A dagger was strapped to my thigh—Lira's, not mine, its weight unfamiliar but reassuring. I didn't know how to use it, not really, but Lira's instincts might. I hoped.
A rustle broke the silence, sharp and deliberate. I pulled the mare to a stop, my breath catching. The sound came again, from the left, then the right—too coordinated to be an animal. I scanned the trees, my hand drifting to the dagger. Shadows moved, just beyond the edge of sight. Not wraiths. Not beasts. Men.
"Show yourselves!" I called, my voice steadier than I felt. Lira's voice, sharp and commanding, carried through the stillness.
A figure stepped onto the path, then another, and another—five in total, clad in patched leather and cloaks that blended with the forest. Mercenaries. Their weapons gleamed in the dim light—swords, axes, a crossbow aimed at my chest. The leader, a broad man with a scar splitting his lip, grinned, his teeth yellowed and uneven.
"Well, well," he said, his voice a low rasp. "Valthorne's little apprentice, all alone. Didn't expect you so soon."
My blood ran cold. So soon. These men weren't random bandits. They knew who I was—or who Lira was. And they weren't supposed to be here. In the novel, mercenaries ambushed Lira later, during a raid on a supply caravan, not on her first mission. This was wrong, another thread of the story unraveling.
"What do you want?" I demanded, my hand resting on the dagger's hilt. Lira's instincts screamed to draw it, but my own fear kept my fingers still. Five against one. I didn't like those odds.
The leader's grin widened. "The Blade of Dusk. Hand it over, and you might walk away."
My heart skipped. They knew about the blade? How? I hadn't even reached the Ruined Chapel yet. "I don't have it," I said, keeping my voice even. "You're wasting your time."
He laughed, a harsh bark that echoed through the trees. "Oh, we'll see about that. Valthorne's not the only one with plans for that blade."
The crossbowman shifted, his finger twitching on the trigger. My pulse roared in my ears. I didn't know how to fight, not like Lira could. But running wasn't an option—the path was too narrow, the mare too exposed. I had to stall, to think, to survive.
"Who sent you?" I asked, hoping to buy time. "You're not working alone."
The leader's eyes narrowed, but before he could answer, a twig snapped behind me. Another figure? No, the mercenaries didn't react—they hadn't heard it. But I had. That same prickle returned, stronger now. The shadowy watcher was still out there, hidden, waiting.
The leader raised a hand, signaling his men to advance. "Enough talk. Take her."
I tightened my grip on the reins, my mind racing. The story was breaking, the danger was real, and I was out of time.