Warning: Violent scenes are not for the faint of heart...nor the strong of heart.
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"Mad, I told you so."
Rami paid no heed to Marco's grumbling; he was in no mood for trading blame after the shock of Stefano's screams. His true concern was the woodcutter himself, staggering as far from Labi as his strength allowed, yet clinging to the group like a shadow, breathing heavily and swaying like a drunkard. His resounding cries had stripped him of voice and strength.
After that bout of panic, the band regrouped in heavy silence, while Matteo had stepped forward to speak with Labi, attempting to calm the situation. Rami's eyes, however, remained fixed on Stefano, tracking his trembling and the gaze pinned to the hunter's neck as he conversed with Matteo. Something strange lingered with Rami—an vague fear that refused to subside despite the relative calm that followed the storm.
"And now you act as if you didn't hear me."
Marco's features were etched with discontent, his tense eyes scouring Rami for a response.
Rami cast a fleeting glance at him, then stole a look at the rest of the team standing in silence; faces universally troubled, unlike their varied stances that morning.
"No… I'm just thinking."
Their gazes locked for a moment before Marco waved a hand in surrender. "Forget it. What do we do now?"
Rami replied, his eyes steady on Matteo and Labi, "I'll discuss it with Sir Matteo." He added quickly, wary of further grumbling, "I'll talk to him about ending the mission."
It was tempting to toss a jest to lighten the heavy air—perhaps about the man's madness being kinder to them than his sanity—but he restrained himself. He couldn't afford to weaken their already fragile vigilance. Not yet, at least.
Rami wasted no time; the deeper the night grew, the darker it became. He approached Matteo, who was engrossed in a low conversation with the hunter. When Rami called out, announcing his arrival, their talk halted abruptly. Rami drew near and greeted Labi, who turned to him hesitantly.
The hunter's light blonde hair caught his attention, but he dismissed it, attributing it perhaps to origins beyond the kingdom. He directed his focus to Matteo. "What do we do now?"
Matteo glanced briefly at the men standing behind, then said, "I see no merit in camping out here in the open."
"No." Rami exhaled slowly before continuing, "I don't wish to worsen things with them, but I doubt they'd want to spend the night without walls to shield them."
Labi interjected, "Sir Matteo, I may not be able to host you in my home—it's barely a single room fit for one more—but there's a house that belonged to a well-off family of five. I reckon it could hold most of you."
Matteo nodded in thanks, unsurprised. Knowing his ways, Rami suspected Matteo had let Labi overhear them precisely to prompt this offer.
"God reward you," Matteo said. "You may lead us."
But before they moved, Rami posed a question. "What about Stefano?"
For a moment, hesitation flickered in Labi's eyes as he glanced at the swaying woodcutter from afar, then answered in a guarded tone, "His home? Smaller than mine… barely fits him alone."
"I see. You may go."
Rami ordered his men to move swiftly.
"Why did you ask about him?"
Rami turned to Matteo, his brows knitting briefly before he replied candidly, "I hoped to speak more with him in the safety of his home."
"Why are you still fixated on him?" Rami caught a hint of frustration in Matteo's voice. He pointed skyward, explaining, "No harm in being certain. We're here anyway. Didn't you say the smallest oversights could weave the greatest calamities?"
Matteo checked himself quickly. "I did, but I didn't mean clinging to suspicions too long. The man who claimed to be dead stands before us now, denying any harm to him or the village… Still, you're right. Caution does no harm."
Rami swapped his pointing finger for a thumb, flashing a teasing smile, but before he could utter another word, Andrea's voice rang out, calling him. He turned swiftly to see Andrea gesturing awkwardly at Marco, who was arguing heatedly with Stefano, while Girolamo tried in vain to separate them. From their raised hands and tense faces, the dispute seemed moments from erupting into a brawl.
Rami grasped at once, from their voices, that the conflict stemmed from Stefano's refusal to enter the village. Andrea approached for instructions, and Matteo answered with stern finality, "Tell them to stop this farce. If the woodcutter wants to spend his night in the open, let him."
Rami raised no objection; however cautious he was, he saw no point in expending more effort to persuade Stefano without good reason.
They followed Labi, who slowed slightly to ensure everyone kept pace. Matteo seemed lost in thought, immersed in deep reflection. Rami observed him closely, noting a subtle shift in his usually stern expression—a trace of… sorrow? Regret?
Rami wanted to exchange a few words about their next steps, especially their fate upon returning. But seeing the strange, unfamiliar expression on Matteo's face, he decided to abandon the idea for now. Perhaps Matteo needed a moment of silence with himself.
Instead, Rami quickened his pace to break the silence, drawing near Labi until he reached him. The hunter met him with probing glances, and Rami responded with a short question, "Do you always return from hunting at this hour?"
"Not really. I started late today, against my habit."
Then Rami recalled Stefano's claim about the hunter—that he died for warning him. Could his supposed death be why he was late today? No… that seemed too absurd to entertain.
Rami shook off the strange obsession creeping into his mind, trying to regain focus. Instead of indulging those troubling thoughts, he asked another question that piqued his curiosity, "What happened to the family whose house we'll stay in?"
Labi's features faltered, and despite the night's darkness, Rami didn't miss the tension in his face. "Some time ago, a fire broke out in the house at night while they slept. We didn't notice until the flames had consumed its corners. Our efforts to save them failed. None survived…" His voice grew hoarse. "Except Octavia, the grandmother. But she too passed months later, bitten by a venomous spider."
Labi's voice faded with his last words, a cloud of heavy grief settling over his features. Rami hastened to offer condolences, "May God reward your loss."
Labi muttered something vague and fell silent. Rami didn't press him, leaving him be. After a moment, the hunter quietly pointed to a house on the right of the path and whispered, "That's my home."
They had entered the village with cautious steps, maintaining silence to avoid waking the sleeping. They stopped before his house, where the weary band gathered. Labi drew the group's attention and asked, "Shall I host any of you?"
Matteo stepped forward from his horse and dismounted, holding the reins with a practiced hand. "I'll stay with you tonight," he said, handing the reins to Rami, then added, "Guide the others to the house you mentioned."
Their eyes met briefly. Rami didn't ask why; he didn't need to. He knew Matteo and his tactics well. He wouldn't place the leaders under one roof, preferring to spread the risks.
But that wasn't the only reason. Matteo didn't want to sleep under the same roof as men who might witness his disappointment. The village was quiet, with no dangers, no threats. That meant no missing knight, no heroic end—just another failed mission that ended before it began.
Labi swallowed hard, realizing who his guest would be, but he voiced no objection. With a slight gesture, he pointed to another house, a little further on the opposite side. "There, sir."
Despite the night's darkness, Matteo could discern the building's expanse. "Is there room for my horse?" Matteo asked, following the hunter towards his modest home.
Labi replied as he opened the wooden door, "There's Pietro's stable. I'll lead Rami to it." Then, stepping towards his house, he added, "Let me fetch the keys to the other house first. Please, come in, sir."
As Matteo entered the cramped room, a damp air greeted him, carrying scents of salt and aged wood. The cracked clay walls seemed to brush his shoulders as he passed.
Labi said warmly, "Consider this house your own, sir," as he shed his coat. "You can sleep in that room."
Matteo didn't need to turn to see where he pointed; there was but one room in the house. He thanked Labi and withdrew to it. He tried to close the door, but the rusted hinges resisted, so he settled for nudging it slightly for a semblance of privacy.
As he removed his armour piece by piece, with each piece fell the frustration he had suppressed all day. Failure would not tarnish his title. It would not threaten his estates. But it would cost him.
He placed the breastplate on the floor.
The agreement.
Part of Rami's terms was that Matteo use his influence to shield them from the nobles' wrath should the mission fail. A simple promise—mere words in the right ears, costing him nothing. But Rami hadn't settled for that.
He removed the vambraces.
Rami wanted stronger assurance. A personal commitment.
His word.
And Matteo, desperate to assemble a skilled team for his final mission, had agreed.
Agreed to more than he wished.
Since when had he begun bargaining with his word?
Rami was now the commander of his own unit, no longer a subordinate who obeyed without question. Matteo lay on the quilt, staring at the dark ceiling.
He had been ready to face any threat they could handle, despite his promise to limit themselves to scouting. Ready to bend his own vow, hoping, wagering, yearning for Stefano's tale to hold truth. To find something—anything.
A peril worthy of facing. An end befitting a knight.
But the village was quiet.
He was lying to himself.
He closed his eyes in frustration.
He should thank God. Wasn't this what he wanted? Retirement. Rest.
Yet a storied career ending in a failed mission… the shame would haunt him long.
Sleep would not come easily tonight. But come it would, for a weary body left no choice.
Still, part of him resisted sleep. Resisted dreaming tonight.
But the darkness was heavier than his will, heavier than his fears. He took a deep breath, unawares. Then another. And after that… he thought of nothing.
Far from him, before the burnt house across the road, Labi pushed open the heavy wooden door, revealing the interior to weary faces. He stepped aside to let them enter, then leaned slightly and whispered to Rami, "The stable's not far. Will you follow me?"
The two walked through the dark, narrow alleys, leaving the others to stream inside. The stable was a low structure, reeking of mouldy straw and damp wood. As Rami tethered the horse in a crumbling stall, he noticed the animals' eyes in the stable following them in silence.
No movement. No sound. Just steady gazes in the dark.
Something about this place unsettled him.
But he said nothing.
When they returned, they exchanged a glance of understanding before parting. Labi continued to his home, while Rami entered the house assigned to them.
No sooner had he stepped inside than his nose met an earthy scent laced with something burnt. Old, yet distinct. Under the moonlight threading through the open window, he noticed black burn marks scattered across the yellowed clay walls—faded, cracked, sprawling in every direction.
as if they had spread from within, not from a single source.
The place was nearly empty; sparse furniture that didn't rouse suspicion in itself, save for a few pieces that remained, including a chair placed near the wall. Giovanni sat astride it, chest against the backrest, his eyes on Rami. When their gazes met, he said, "I'll take first watch."
Rami gave him a thumbs-up, his eyes tracing the black burn marks on the clay walls. Beyond the chair Giovanni occupied, the room held only a few others and a table. Beside it, a rolled red rug leaned against a door leading to the kitchen.
"Did you manage to speak with Matteo?" Giovanni asked.
Rami shook his head, inspecting the wooden dolls on the table. "I meant to." He picked up a doll, its face roughly carved with hollow eyes. "But the chance didn't come."
"Didn't come?" Giovanni pursed his lips, surprised. "You were beside him the whole time."
"Aye, but he seemed lost in thought. I felt he was avoiding me." Rami set the doll back carefully. "Don't worry, I'll talk to him tomorrow."
"So… is the mission truly over?"
Rami turned to him, eyebrow raised. "Why ask? Aren't you eager to return?"
Giovanni let out a muffled laugh. "I'm not Marco. I've nothing to return to… at least not enough to ignore the scorn we'll face from the 'silk lords' for our failed mission."
"No matter," Rami replied calmly. "I settled it with Matteo beforehand. I'm certain he won't go back on his word." He paused, then added, "But I need you to keep him in check a bit."
"Marco?" Giovanni muttered slowly. "He's a tough one."
"That's why I need you." Rami turned to him. "He listens to you. Sometimes more than to me."
"That's because I don't ask anything of him."
"And now I'm asking."
A long silence.
Then Giovanni sighed, "Alright, I'll try."
"Just try." Rami smiled wearily. "We gain nothing by antagonising the only noble on our side. We should…"
"Appease him?" Giovanni cut in, his tone dry. "You've made that clear enough."
Despite the seriousness in his voice, Rami caught the subtle sarcasm. He smiled and replied lightly, "The sacrifices a commander makes for his ungrateful men."
Rami stepped away from the table and looked around again. The burn marks were old but clear. The table's placement was odd, precisely in the room's centre. The small dolls were neglected but not broken. As if someone had left in haste. Or…
He stopped at the first step.
As if someone had arranged the place deliberately. Or left it so for a reason.
Giovanni asked, "Notice anything?"
Rami hesitated. Something was wrong, but he couldn't pinpoint what. He lied, "No."
He waved to Giovanni and continued up the broken stairs. Fatigue weighed on his shoulders, and sleep called louder than it should. He didn't usually sleep easily, but tonight felt different. He would rest at last.
He climbed the first step, then the second, each heavier than the last. He paused halfway up. What was he thinking about? Oh, yes. Details. He wanted to inspect the place further. But… why?
The village was quiet, the woodcutter mad. No cause for concern.
He shook his head. First, the hunter's late because he died, and now someone arranged a ruined house to toy with them. Fatigue was truly clouding his mind.
He continued climbing. On the second floor, he found an empty corner with an old quilt—likely prepared by Girolamo, he'd wager. He lay on it without removing his armour. A bad habit he didn't know why he kept. But tonight… it didn't matter.
He closed his eyes.
Why did sleep overcome him so easily?
The question dissolved before it found an answer.
Beyond the village, where the heavy, cloying air did not reach, Stefano stood alone in the open. He remained upright, his back to the trees, eyes fixed on the village gates. He neither entered nor retreated. He only… watched.
The quiet granted him time to regain clarity of mind. And that was not a good thing. For with clarity came the stark realisation of his solitude. Weak and wounded, powerless to flee from any danger that might assail him.
Whatever emerged from the trees behind, he could not escape.
Whatever came from the village ahead, he could not fight.
Trapped between two choices.
He glanced right and left—nothing illuminated the place save the moon and the silent trees encircling him. Yet he had seen what came from them hours ago: breathing corpses, bodies moving without reason.
He would believe nothing else.
And those fools who followed him? They entered the village as if it were safe. They would die tonight. Or in the morning… it made no difference.
But he would not be among them. He would stay here.
He tightened his grip on the axe's handle. The hard earth beneath him, the cold air around him. Every branch that stirred, every shadow that neared—he noticed.
He thought of fire. If he lit one, it might push back the darkness, might quell the beasts, as the old tales promised. Corpses, ghosts, dragons—monsters all.
No. Fire would draw their attention, and their attention brought death. He banished the thought.
He was not mad, whatever they called him.
Far off, the village houses glimmered quietly. Familiar. He had lived among them for six years. The village had never attacked him, even when he saw what he saw.
It only struck when he tried to flee.
So… if he didn't run, would they not pursue him? Whatever they were.
A foolish thought, but…
He shifted his wound nervously, the pain still sharp. An unknown fate awaited him here in the open. Suicide, if he tried to light a fire. A gamble, if he entered the village. He might die. He might not.
But he would lose his freedom.
He clenched his teeth. Prison. The word left a bitter taste on his tongue. Not the first time. He had survived it. Escaped it. If he must… he would do it again.
He looked at the village once more. His life for his freedom.
Not a good wager, but the only one available.
He pushed himself forward. Each step towards the gate heavier than the last. Not from the wound.
He stopped at the gate, hands trembling. Just one night.
That's what he whispered to himself. Survive tonight, think of escape tomorrow.
A foolish plan. But a plan.
He entered. He walked among the silent houses with caution. No one in the streets, no sound, no movement. Only him and his shadow, and a cold moon watching from above.
He stopped before his house, eyeing the door, slightly ajar, as he had left it when he fled. He entered slowly. It was as he knew it—dark and cold. But safe. Relatively.
He closed the door behind him and sat in the corner, back against the wall, eyes on the door. He gripped the axe until his knuckles ached.
He would not sleep. At least… he would not try.
Tomorrow. He would escape tomorrow.
A lie he had told himself hundreds of times before. But it helped.
It always helped.
In the morning, Matteo awoke weighed down. He did not try to rise quickly, but lay still, eyes half-closed, waiting for sensation to return to his heavy limbs. The previous day's fatigue had overcome him, and it seemed one night would not suffice to restore his strength.
His gaze settled on a corner of the ceiling where a spider's web hung, and he passed the time tracing its maker's path. A hunter caught unawares by another in his own lair, above his very bed! He abandoned the inner jest when he realised he would not find the creature, shook off the lethargy of sleep, and began donning his gear piece by piece before leaving the room.
Outside, Labi was preparing the table. Matteo glanced through the window; the sun had risen long ago, and he marvelled at his prolonged slumber. He was unaccustomed to such tardiness, nor was slight fatigue an excuse he accepted.
But he shook off his misgivings and approached Labi, who greeted him, "Good morning, Sir Matteo. I hope you found rest?"
Matteo replied courteously, "I slept in bliss, thanks to you."
His words brought a smile to the host's face. "That's all I could wish for," Labi said, beaming.
Matteo glanced at the table. "Breakfast?"
Labi nodded. "Just some wild berries and sparrows." He placed the final piece on the plate. "I wasn't expecting a guest, so forgive the humble fare."
Matteo replied swiftly, pulling a chair, "On the contrary, it piques my curiosity. I've never tasted sparrows or wild berries." He said it, ignoring the charred edges.
"Then I hope it pleases you."
Matteo tasted a berry and found it delightful. The flavour reminded him of grapes, though sharper with a slight tartness. Emboldened, he tore a piece of sparrow meat and was surprised by its texture—reminiscent of young chicken, but tougher, with a stronger savour. The idea charmed him; he fancied he might try hunting upon his return. He was certain his wife and child would delight in a new dish at their table.
A smile curved his lips, then faltered as he noticed Labi still standing beside him. He considered inviting him to eat but held back, reminding himself the man was not one of his soldiers, nor was he Labi's commander. Two worlds that rarely met. Here he was, missing his rank before he had even relinquished it.
He sighed, finished his meal hastily as his appetite waned, then thanked Labi for his hospitality and departed, leaving the hunter to sate his hunger and rest in the solitude of his home.
At the door, Matteo paused, casting a scrutinising glance at the muddy ground. Had it rained last night? Even the roar of rain hadn't woken him.
He was truly ageing.
He saw the house where Rami and the others had spent the night, standing a few buildings to his right. The path between stretched wide and straight from the village entrance, lined with scattered houses separated by open spaces. This evenness of the road made it easy for him to discern the buildings aligned along it, before they dissolved into the chaos of construction—structures overlapping, their outlines blurring into indistinct shapes.
He had always thought villagers were more attuned to the expanse of space.
The walls of the house he watched suggested solidity, though built of clay and wood. Its single window, glimpsed last night, was narrow as a wary eye, ill-suited to the building's grandeur, yet common in villages. But what truly troubled him was that he saw none of his men.
Could the entire group have overslept?
He scanned the place, seeking a shadow of a comrade or a trace of his company, heedless of the villagers' stares or the whispers swirling around him. His scrutiny yielded no familiar faces.
Then a familiar voice reached his ears. He turned towards its source and saw the woodcutter seated on a doorstep, a ring of children gathered around him. A vague unease pricked his heart, as if something in this scene was amiss, though he couldn't place it.
Suspicion gripped him. He approached slowly, wary of the slick ground, his eyes fixed on the group. He passed a young couple sitting silently before their door, until he neared the cluster around the woodcutter. There, he heard Stefano speak: "In a world where daylight stretches an age and night falls but a little shorter, where seeking the moon's mercy is folly and chasing the sun in the darkness of night is suicide, there they dwell… a people without names, unbound by form, unmoored by memory of the past or hope for the future. They are children of the moment, blessed with oblivion, denied repetition. As for other creatures, they whisper to the world in its tongue, and it listens with its ears, answering with its breezes. But the forgotten ones—it neither hears nor knows them, though they call out, nor heeds them, though they speak its language. They became mirages, robbed of the grace of whispers, wandering as ghosts beseeching the wind…"
Matteo stopped listening to the tale. He had heard it hundreds of times in his youth, and he doubted anyone hadn't. Not wishing to interrupt Stefano or spoil the children's delight, he turned back the way he came. As he passed the elderly couple…
Something halted him mid-step.
He adjusted his stance and approached the couple, who abruptly ceased their conversation, watching him with veiled caution. He stopped at a respectful distance. "Good day, sir… madam."
Tension and fear seized the couple for a silent moment before the husband rose, his wife partially hiding behind him. His voice was polite but laced with evident unease. "Good sir, how may we honour your presence?"
Matteo smiled at the man's courtesy, ignoring his tension, and gestured to the half-woven fabric in the woman's hands. "Pardon me, I wished to ask about this."
The couple's eyes darted to the fabric, then exchanged a fleeting glance. A look of understanding, one he had shared with his wife many times.
The wife spoke, her voice softer than a whisper. "It's a decoration we're preparing for the festival, sir."
Matteo knew what festival decorations looked like. That wasn't his question. "I mean… why now? Hasn't the festival long passed?"
Another glance between them, deeper this time, brimming with hidden understanding, before the husband replied slowly, "It's the fifth of Dihoras, sir… the festival is eleven days hence."
No. Impossible.
He had seen the moon last night with his own eyes, every night of their journey. They were on the twenty-second, not the fifth. More than that, he had celebrated the festival with his family mere days ago.
Since waking, he had felt something awry, twisted, out of place. He had tried to dismiss it. hoping it was mere illusion.
He could no longer.
Strange. Hadn't he wished, hours ago, to find something unnatural here? And now, faced with strange signs, he tried to ignore them?
His head. No time for this.
He bid farewell to the rattled couple, their minds preoccupied, and strode towards the large house, his steps quicker than befitted him. He knocked once, twice, thrice—no answer. He pounded harder, his fist striking the wood until he thought his voice would reach every corner of the small village.
Silence.
Impossible that this hadn't roused them.
He struck the door one final, violent time. Then he moved to the small window left of the entrance. He pushed the wooden frame—it didn't budge. He struck it with his palm—it wouldn't open, as if fused to the wall, part of the stone itself.
He pressed his eye to a narrow slit meant for air. The interior was dark, save for a candle in a holder between the window and door, casting a corner of light in a sea of shadow. Why light a candle in the morning when sunlight flooded outside? Why not open the shutters?
He forced his eyes to adjust to the gloom, searching for any sign of life within. Any movement.
Then, at the far right, beyond the door and candle, his gaze fell on a wooden staircase without a railing, hugging the right wall, ascending to the second floor. And upon it, in near-darkness, two shadows.
The first was tall, thin, gaunt—taller than any man in his team—sitting on a step, back straight as a pillar, head tilted. The second was shorter, smaller, a boy not yet a man, standing on a lower step. The distance between them made the first seem a giant, the second a dwarf.
Neither moved.
"You men!" he shouted, his fist pounding the window. "Open the door! Do you hear me?"
The shadows didn't flinch, didn't turn their heads, didn't show the slightest sign they heard him. As if they were statues.
As if they were…
No. He wouldn't think it.
He could no longer bear this unsettling mystery. He was about to strike the window harder, perhaps shatter it, when the air erupted… then froze.
Screams. Multiple, horrific screams tore through the air from the left.
He turned and saw a human head swaying in the air, spinning once, twice, then falling, striking the ground like wood on gravel. The knight froze, staring at the woodcutter standing, axe gleaming with fresh blood not there a moment ago, and in his other hand, a small, headless body.
Motionless.
The other children scattered in all directions, their screams piercing his skull. Matteo's muscles tightened, all at once. His pupils widened instinctively.
A man of average build.
A woodcutter's axe.
No armour.
Holding a child's corpse.
The other children, dispersed, united only by fear, driven only by the hope of survival.
The knight reached for his sword, its blade trembling from its scabbard in one familiar motion. He felt its weight in his palm before his fingers closed tightly, whitening his knuckles.
Isolate the killer.
No blind rush. He took a semi-circular path around the woodcutter, cutting the way between him and the nearest group of children, balancing his weight to avoid slipping on the mud.
Organise the victims.
"Behind me! Now!" he shouted. Some turned, some hesitated, most lost their way in the fog of panic.
Block the escape.
Two steps. Three. He measured the distance cautiously. He would tighten the circle, corner him, force a confrontation, or…
The woodcutter saw him coming, dropped the body onto the mud with a wet thud, and lunged.
Not fleeing the sword.
but towards the children escaping behind the knight—beyond the blade's reach, safe from steel, close enough to blood.
Human shields… the madman.
"To the houses!"
His voice drowned in the chaos of screams, dissolving amid wails and moans.
He tried to hasten, but the ground slowed him, his feet sinking as if the earth had a life of its own, gripping him, reclaiming him each time he broke free, like a jealous hand of mud refusing to yield its prey. Yet the woodcutter moved over the same surface as if on ground swept by a dry wind, unhindered.
Impossible.
"Scatter!"
A bid to create chaos to impede the woodcutter. But the children either didn't hear, didn't comprehend, or didn't obey.
He saw him catch a child, wonder still fresh in his eyes.
No.
Matteo realised the distance was too great, the mud too heavy, the time too...
The woodcutter seized the child's shoulder. Raised the axe.
"No!"
The axe fell with a precise, lethal strike, like one that severs a tree from its roots. The head parted from the body.
Clean. Swift.
Before Matteo could close the distance by a single step. Before his hand could reach, before he could act.
A scream tore from Matteo's throat, raw, furious… broken. For a moment, he thought the woodcutter would use the child as a hostage, a shield, a bargain. He was wrong.
The woodcutter's intent was never escape. Nor self-preservation.
It was simple, clear, direct.
More bodies.
He wasn't fleeing the knight. He was running to the next tree in his orchard.
Seizing Matteo's stunned paralysis, the woodcutter veered sharply in a swift arc, bypassing him on the right like an obstacle, heading straight for a child who had tried to hide in a narrow alley between two houses.
No.
Matteo spun to intercept, but his foot sank into the mud. His fingers dug deep, he staggered, leaning on his arms. In that chaotic moment, as he struggled to rise, it hit him sharply.
Silence.
All he heard was his own screams and the children's. Nothing else.
He looked up at the villagers—standing, silent, watching. No clamour, no chaos to exploit. Mere spectators destined for this massacre.
Every tactic relying on their reaction… collapsed.
The woodcutter didn't waste time. He slipped like a shadow into the narrow alley after the child. Matteo had no choice but direct pursuit. He spun and plunged after them into the alley, narrower and darker than he'd thought, with wet clothes hanging on crisscrossing lines above.
At its end, he saw the woodcutter seize the boy clinging to a high, unyielding window. No escape remained.
The woodcutter raised his axe slowly, deliberately, balancing as if on solid ground. Matteo surged forward, ignoring the slip, certain he'd reach him in the final moment…
His face and shoulders struck cold, clammy fabric. Long sleeves tangled around his arm, wet trousers hindered his movement. He tried to tear them away, but a drenched garment wrapped around his right forearm, another obscured his vision for a crucial moment. His left foot stepped on a smooth stone hidden by mud, slipped, and he fell to his knees with force.
His balance… gone.
Then he heard the horrific sound. A sound no ear mistakes. The axe cleaving flesh, snapping vertebrae.
The child didn't even scream.
Only the sound of a limp body falling.
The clothes still clung to him.
Matteo remained frozen, unmoving, staring at the sword in his hands.
Why?
Why did no tactic work?
Why did no one obey?
He tore the fabrics off and turned through the curtain of wet clothes to the alley's entrance. There, at the edge, stood the villagers. They neither advanced nor retreated, gazing with eerie neutrality, as if awaiting the end of a play that didn't concern them.
"Why… why don't you move?"
His voice cracked.
Something that hadn't happened in years.
Something he hadn't felt in ages… helplessness.
New screams of terror erupted from beyond the alley. They snapped him from his stupor. He wrenched himself from the ground and raced back to the main street, leaving the child's body behind.
"Stop! You madman!" he shouted towards the street before even spotting the woodcutter, trying to draw his attention or delay him for a moment. A second.
Half a second.
The woodcutter emerged from a house's door, clutching a small girl who had tried to hide inside. How had he exited through the door when he'd vanished through the window?
No time to think.
He was too far. Matteo carved his way through the crowd of villagers standing like statues, shoving their rigid bodies with force. "Move! Get out of the way! Your children are being slaughtered! Are you blind?"
Heavy, as if rooted to the earth. Under his shouts and shoves, they swayed slightly, then returned to their chilling silence.
He broke through at last. Too late.
He saw the woodcutter grip the girl's shoulder to steady her trembling body, raising the axe with force. One swift strike.
The small head split from the neck.
Blood sprayed in a single burst across walls and stones, the scene like a public slaughter in a market under the indifferent yet eager eyes of villagers awaiting the end.
Matteo shouted at the panicked children still stumbling in the mud, "You fools! To the houses! Don't you hear?" But his voice was lost in the storm of their screams and terror.
When did he call people fools?
He was running now, without a plan, without tactics. Just… running. Shouting meaningless words.
"Stop!"
"I'll kill you."
"Please!"
"Why?"
"Don't stay in the open!"
But the children's gazes turned backward, to the source of their terror, not to him. His voice no longer carried the weight of command.
The fourth child, the fifth, the sixth. He stopped counting.
A voice crept into his mind. If he were lighter… if he were faster…
With trembling hands, he bent and cut the straps of his breastplate with his sword. The metal piece fell into the mud.
His vambraces.
His thigh guards.
His greaves.
He knew they wouldn't help. He knew the armour wasn't the problem. But he needed to do something. Even if futile.
One child remained.
The street had become a stage of bodies and heads, with parents standing motionless. The last child, heart wavering between fear and cunning, seemed to hear Matteo's cries or muster what remained of his wits, darting towards the nearest house. The house where Rami slept.
The woodcutter stayed close behind, following him inside.
Matteo dropped the last piece weighing him down… his sword. It no longer mattered. He would strangle him with his bare hands, certain his comrades inside would surely wake to this chaos.
He charged after them, leaving everything behind. Why hadn't his team stirred despite the immense uproar?
Matteo crossed the threshold, braced to confront the killer, expecting the stench of blood and the gleam of the axe. But the room offered none of that.
His breath caught in his chest.
The woodcutter was not in the room.
Instead, a faint light danced on the walls, shadows intertwining around a table beneath a heavy silence. And there… seated upon it.
A child, legs swinging as if awaiting supper. But in his lap… a head.
His head.
Black hair, matted with dark liquid, dripped from the severed neck.
One drop.
Then another, staining the white shirt with spreading crimson blotches.
And the head was watching him.
With dull, glassy eyes, like Rami's. The same features. The same coldness.
Matteo's eyes widened. He scanned the room… children. Six of them. Each in a corner—slumped on a chair, draped against a wall, sprawled on the floor.
Each cradled their own head in small hands, raising it like a silent offering, their open eyes staring at him. No blink, no whisper.
He knew their faces.
Knew them as he knew Rami's.
His knees trembled, and he collapsed, his back slamming against the wall with a wet thud. He lowered his gaze to find a rippling red pool between his legs, glinting in the slanted light, its choking stench piercing his chest.
He reached out his hands… empty, coated in a cold, sticky red layer.
Where was his sword?
When had he dropped it?
He couldn't recall…
Then another smell reached his nose. The sharp scent of burning, mingling with blood.
His head turned with effort. The candle, once in its holder, had fallen into the pool. Its flame stilled for a moment, then surged, an orange fire crawling, licking the wood, creeping towards him. Its glow intensified, its heat stinging his face.
He looked up at Rami. The child still sat on the table, staring, the flames dancing in his glassy eyes.
Matteo tried to rise, to scream, to warn the children, but the words sank in his throat, his voice dying before it was born.
He stretched a trembling hand towards them.
He opened his mouth to say something. Anything…
His hand fell before it reached them, and with it, the last of his strength. His mouth remained open, voiceless, with words that died in his burning throat.
His head tilted slowly to the right.
In the moment he teetered on the edge of consciousness, he raised his weary gaze to the staircase leading to the upper floor. There, at the peak of the shadows, stood a ninth child.
Whole of body.
His features drenched in tears and smoke, he offered Matteo a gentle, reassuring smile.
Matteo closed his eyes, surrendering to the fire creeping over him, holding that final smile in his memory.