The cavalry reaches the outskirts of the village within minutes, hooves slowing as the formation tightens and the riders pull their mounts to a controlled halt.
From the outside, the village looks deceptively normal.
The wooden fence stands intact, the gate closed, the houses quiet, and the farmlands beyond lie undisturbed under moonlight.
Only the pillar of light rising from within the village betrays that something is terribly wrong.
Elodie sits tall in the saddle, her white hair flowing down her back like frost under the moon, her blue eyes fixed on the silent settlement.
She feels it immediately.
Danger.
Not vague unease, not instinctive caution, but a tangible pressure pressing against her senses from within the village.
Elodie is the commander of the Black Knights, an elite unit formed by the Royal Griffon Kingdom to confront threats that defy common law and reason.
They are not here by accident.
They are hunting a serial killer who is also a cultist, a being that moves between murder and ritual with terrifying precision.
The light beam confirms what her senses already scream.
No ordinary priest ritual produces such a phenomenon.
No peaceful village stands this quiet when something holy or profane awakens within it.
Tom, her deputy commander, urges his horse forward until he rides beside her.
"Commander," he asks, voice low, "shall we enter the village?"
Elodie does not answer immediately.
Her gaze never leaves the village.
Entering blindly risks ambush.
Staying outside risks allowing the cultist to escape or complete whatever ritual is unfolding.
The silence troubles her the most.
No shouts.
No cries.
No chaos.
A village under threat should be alive with fear.
This one feels held in its breath.
The light beam piercing the clouds is both a beacon and a warning.
She weighs the options in seconds.
They must capture or kill the cultist.
That requires engagement.
But whatever sleeps inside the village is already active.
She pulls gently on the reins, and her horse steps forward.
The decision is made.
Elodie closes her eyes briefly and begins circulating her fighting energy through her body.
It flows from her limbs inward, spiralling into her dantian with practised precision.
She calls upon her family's imperial weapon.
In the Royal Griffon Kingdom, knights who advance to the Sky Knight realm forge imperial weapons using their blood and fighting energy.
Those weapons become bound not only to the knight but to their bloodline.
The weapon's essence flows to descendants, allowing them to borrow its power even before reaching true mastery.
Compatibility determines how much power one can draw.
Elodie's compatibility is high.
Inside her dantian, a virtual image begins to sharpen.
A sword takes shape.
Its edge glows faint blue.
Its presence presses outward, demanding form.
Above her, the air trembles.
A runic circle manifests in the sky, vast and intricate, composed of layered sigils that rotate slowly.
The knights around her are tense but do not interfere.
They know this sign.
Elodie raises her hand slightly.
The runic circle responds, tilting toward the village as if guided by her will.
The glow intensifies.
At the centre of the circle, blue energy gathers, condensing into a brilliant core.
She is invoking the Ice Beam of her family's imperial weapon, Frostmourne.
At her current cultivation, official knight realm, she can cast this ability only once.
There will be no second attempt.
She takes her time.
She steadies her breathing.
She does not aim at the pillar of light.
Instead, she aligns the runic circle with the heart of the village.
Where danger feels thickest.
Where the cultist most likely hides.
The blue energy stabilises.
The runes lock into place.
Elodie opens her eyes.
"Release," she whispers.
The ice beam erupts from the runic circle in a thunderous surge of blue-white light.
It screams through the air toward the village, freezing moisture in its path, leaving crystalline trails behind it.
Before it can reach the fence, black mist surges outward from within the village.
The mist is dense, alive, and unnatural.
It collides with the ice beam head-on.
The impact shakes the ground.
Blue and black energies grind against each other, locked in violent opposition.
The air warps.
Frost spreads along the mist's edges while darkness eats at the beam's core.
Elodie grits her teeth.
The strain hits her immediately.
Her fighting energy drains rapidly, pulled into maintaining the beam.
Her hands tremble.
Her breath grows shallow.
The mist pushes back.
The cultist is resisting.
She forces more energy through her meridians, ignoring the pain as her reserves dip dangerously low.
Veins of blue light crawl up her arms.
Her horse stamps nervously beneath her.
The knights behind her brace, shields raised against the pressure radiating from the clash.
Elodie knows she cannot sustain this much longer.
With a sharp cry, she changes the flow.
Instead of maintaining the beam, she collapses it inward.
The point of collision flashes.
Then it explodes.
A massive detonation of blue ice mist erupts above the village, swallowing rooftops and streets in freezing fog.
Ice spreads outward in a shockwave.
The fence crystallises instantly.
The gate locks shut under layers of frost.
The dirt path freezes solid.
The cold races toward the cavalry.
Horses rear and step back, breath fogging as ice creeps across the ground toward their hooves.
Elodie pulls her horse back, chest heaving.
The beam is gone.
Her fighting energy is nearly exhausted.
The village is encased in ice and mist.
Silence follows.
Elodie does not waste a breath.
She raises her sword and swings it in a clean, horizontal arc toward the frozen gate.
A crescent-shaped blade of fighting energy tears free from the edge, screaming through the cold air.
It collides with the ice-encased gate and detonates.
The gate shatters into hundreds of frozen fragments that explode outward, clattering across the ground like shattered glass.
"Charge," Elodie shouts.
The Black Knights surge forward at once.
They thunder past her position as her horse holds steady in the centre of the path, steam rising from its nostrils.
The knights split as they enter the village, riding separate lanes, checking homes and alleys with practised efficiency.
Doors are broken open.
Windows are smashed.
Lanterns swing.
Inside houses, they find nothing.
No living villagers.
No corpses.
Beds are made.
Meals are left unfinished.
Cradles sit empty.
The silence is absolute.
When the last knight enters the village, Elodie urges her horse forward.
She rides straight toward the village centre.
As she approaches, her eyes lock onto a familiar symbol carved into stone and wood.
The Lady of the Lake.
The church.
"The light beam came from the church," she murmurs to herself.
Her horse responds to her will and carries her toward it.
The church stands frozen, its doors sealed under thick layers of ice.
Elodie begins to draw her sword again, preparing to blast the gate open.
A sharp whistle cuts through the air.
Elodie snaps her head toward the sound.
It comes from the back of the village.
Another whistle follows, urgent and precise.
A signal.
One of the knights has found something.
She pivots her horse at once.
Other knights do the same, converging toward the signal.
They ride hard, frost cracking beneath hooves as they move.
They reach the edge of a small field just beyond the last row of houses.
The knights slow and stop.
Elodie rides to the front.
Her breath catches.
The villagers stand gathered in the field.
All of them.
Men.
Women.
Children.
Babies cradled in arms.
Dogs.
Livestock.
They stand upright and unmoving, arranged as if placed deliberately placed.
Their eyes are open.
Empty.
Hollow.
Not even the animals stir.
They look like statues carved from flesh.
A voice rises from within the mass.
Calm.
Mocking.
"Commander Elodie," it says, "let me go, or I will kill all the villagers."
Every knight turns their gaze toward Elodie.
No one speaks.
No one moves.
The weight of command settles on her shoulders.
Elodie studies the villagers carefully.
Black marks lace their skin, crawling up necks, across temples, around eyes.
The signs are unmistakable.
They are infected.
Touched by the power of an evil god.
She knows the doctrine.
She knows the truth.
There is no purification.
No cleansing ritual.
Even if they survive tonight, the power sleeping inside them can awaken at any time.
They would become threats.
To themselves.
To others.
To entire towns.
Saving them now would only delay the catastrophe.
Her jaw tightens.
She lifts her sword slightly.