Smoke billowed in the distance—a vast plume clawing its way into the sky. Even from afar, daylight dimmed beneath its weight, the horizon stained black and ash-gray. As Edmund and his battalion thundered closer, the sound reached them first:

  Screams. Screeches. Shrill, inhuman cries cutting through villagers’ panicked wails and the terrified braying of animals.

  “Faster!” Edmund shouted. “We need to reach the village!”

  His men spurred their steeds harder, hooves pounding as the battalion surged forward. The distance closed, and the full horror revealed itself.

  Villagers scattered in desperate disarray, clutching pitchforks, axes, anything they could wield. Their efforts were hopeless. Monsters tore through them with brutal ease. Some victims were dragged screaming into the air, limbs flailing as winged shapes carried them skyward alongside stolen livestock. Others vanished beneath clawed bodies in the streets.

  Homes burned openly now. Roofs collapsed in showers of sparks. Thick smoke rolled low through the village, stinging the eyes and choking the air with the smell of scorched wood and flesh.

  “Fire!” Edmund ordered.

  One of the mages raised his staff, chanting sharply. A roaring fireball tore free from his grasp and hurtled into the fray, exploding against a monster mid-leap. Flames engulfed it. Its shriek cut off as it fell burning into the dirt.

  The creatures turned as one, red eyes fixing on the charging battalion. With snarls and piercing screeches, they abandoned their prey the moment they spotted the riders. Attention snapped toward the new threat with savage clarity. They surged forward, wings beating, claws flexing, fanged maws opening in furious cries.

  Edmund rode straight at them.

  One broke ahead of the pack and lunged for him.

  He leaned back in the saddle as it struck, its claws slashing through empty air inches from his face. In the same motion, Edmund twisted and drove his blade upward in a brutal arc. The sword split the creature from hip to chest. Black ichor burst across his armor in a hot, foul spray. The monster shrieked once before collapsing.

  “Hold!” he shouted.

  The command rippled through the ranks. The cavalry spread just enough to give the mages and archers room, riders reining in rather than pressing blindly forward.

  “Limited volleys!” Edmund ordered. “Do not push toward the homes! Keep your distance!”

  Arrows flew in controlled bursts. Bolts of magic followed. Precise, measured strikes meant to draw attention, not level buildings. Fire struck monsters mid-charge, forcing the rest to turn fully toward the battalion and away from the village.

  Once the creatures were committed, Edmund raised his sword high.

  “Now!” he commanded. “Pull back!”

  The riders wheeled, turning sharply. Hooves thundered as they retreated deliberately, drawing the monsters after them and dragging the fight away from the helpless villagers and their homes. Behind them, enraged screeches split the air as the creatures took the bait.

  Edmund led them into open ground beyond the village.

  Within moments, the air erupted in fire and light.

  Dozens of fireballs tore through the sky from behind the lines, slamming into the charging monsters. Arrows, some steel-tipped, others glowing with enchantment, hissed past in relentless volleys. Monsters fell from the sky or collapsed mid-charge, consumed by flame or skewered through wing and chest. Some crashed into the earth in twitching heaps. Others were reduced to smoldering husks before they reached the line.

  But not all of them fell.

  Several ducked low, folding their wings tight as they dove beneath the rain of arrows and magic. They wove through the smoke with terrifying agility, claws scraping the ground as they closed the distance in bounding leaps.

  “Infantry! Dismount!” Edmund ordered.

  The command snapped through the ranks. Riders swung down in practiced motions, forming up with disciplined speed. Shields rose as one, locking into a solid wall of iron and wood.

  The first wave struck.

  Claws slammed against shields with bone-rattling force. Fangs scraped across steel. The impact drove several men back a step, boots skidding through churned earth, but the line held. Shields buckled, yet did not break.

  Behind them, bowmen and mages adjusted their aim, firing over the defenders’ heads with deadly precision. Arrows punched into exposed flanks. Lightning speared through clustered bodies. Fire roared past the shield wall, engulfing monsters trapped in the press of combat.

  The infantry braced, muscles burning, shields grinding under the relentless assault, holding firm while killing continued just behind them.

  Still, the monsters kept coming.

  Edmund rode hard along the flank with a handful of men, cutting toward the creatures that had slipped past the outer edge of the formation. He did not wait for them to turn.

  He charged.

  Crimson light poured from him like heat from a forge, bleeding along his armor and down his arms. His sword blazed in his grip, its edge flaring bright as he brought it down again and again, each strike carving through scaled flesh with brutal finality. Monsters fell beneath his charge, bodies splitting and collapsing in sprays of black ichor.

  “Take them down!” Edmund shouted, his voice raw above the din. “Take them all down!”

  The men surged with him, emboldened by the sight of their prince at the front, steel and magic flashing in tight, lethal rhythm.

  Then something struck his horse.

  Claws raked across its flank, deep and sudden. The beast screamed, rearing violently before collapsing sideways. Edmund was thrown from the saddle, hurled through the air as the horse crashed behind him.

  He landed hard but rose just as fast. Boots skidded in churned dirt, but he didn’t falter. His sword came up in the same motion, crimson light flaring brighter as he turned to face the oncoming monsters.

  They were already closing in. Wings snapped open, claws bared, red eyes fixed on him with predatory hunger.

  Edmund bared his teeth.

  “Come, then!” he shouted, rage burning through every word.

  He charged with inhuman speed. Distance collapsed beneath his feet as though the ground itself bent to his will. Each movement was faster, sharper, driven by something beyond training or instinct alone. His strength followed: every strike landed with bone-splitting force, cleaving through scaled bodies as if they were cloth.

  Even in the chaos, his men noticed.

  They saw it in the way he moved, how wounds that should have slowed him did nothing at all.

  Claws raked across his armor, biting through gaps in steel. Talons sliced skin. Whipping tails struck his ribs hard enough to crack the breath from his lungs. Blood spilled, but Edmund did not falter. He did not even slow; pain and blood soaked into his armor, ignored.

  Each swing carved a burning crimson arc through the air, leaving afterimages of light in its wake. Each arc ended in a scream: a monster split open, cut down, or thrown aside in ruin. Shriek after shriek joined the din until the sound blurred into something almost rhythmic. The monsters pressed him from all sides.

  One by one, they fell. At last, the remaining creatures broke, retreating in scattered flight or collapsing where they stood, their numbers finally spent. With a final scream, Edmund split the last approaching monster in half. It collapsed at his feet.

  The battlefield went still.

  They had prevailed.

  Edmund remained where he stood, chest heaving. Sweat and blood ran together beneath his armor, steam curling faintly from his skin. Even at a distance, his men could feel the heat radiating from him as though he stood at the heart of a forge.

  Crimson light still clung to his body and blade, pulsing faintly with each breath. It flickered along the edge of his sword, reluctant to fade.

  A soldier approached cautiously, boots crunching against scorched earth.

  “Prince—” the man called.

  Edmund turned too fast. His sword snapped up into guard. The glow flared brighter, his stance tense and predatory.

  The soldier froze, heart in his throat, then quickly raised both hands. “Your Highness, it’s us,” he said, voice unsteady. “The battle is over.”

  For a long moment, Edmund didn’t move.

  The screams were gone. Only the crackle of burning homes and the distant cries of the wounded remained.

  Edmund looked around, eyes still burning with the last embers of rage. His gaze swept the battlefield: his men bloodied but alive, the wounded helped to their feet, fallen monsters sprawled across scorched earth in twisted heaps. He stood there another moment, breathing hard. Then slowly, the tension bled from his shoulders. The crimson light dimmed, receding inch by inch until only steel remained. He lowered the blade at last, breath still ragged, eyes unfocused as the reality of silence settled around him.

  Then he closed his eyes. The glow vanished fully. His grip loosened, and the sword dipped toward the ground.

  “I’m sorry,” Edmund said quietly to the soldier.

  The man shook his head at once. “There’s nothing to forgive, Your Highness.”

  Another voice came from behind. “What are your orders, Prince?”

  Edmund drew a deep breath and straightened, the weight of command settling back onto his shoulders.

  “Scout the area,” he said, voice steady now. “Make certain the monsters have been driven off completely. Check every road, every field.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” the soldiers replied in unison.

  Some remounted, others formed ranks on foot, weapons raised and eyes sharp once more. Edmund moved among the villagers in silence, boots crunching softly over scorched earth and broken timber. Smoke still clung to the air. Here and there, embers hissed as buckets of water were thrown over what remained of collapsed roofs.

  Some villagers knelt beside still forms covered in cloaks, sobs low and raw, as though grief itself had exhausted them. Others wandered the ruins of their homes in numb disbelief, sifting through debris with trembling hands. A few, those who had lost nothing but time and terror, clutched one another tightly and whispered prayers of thanks simply for being alive.

  When they saw him, word spread quickly.

  “The prince…”

  “He came himself…”

  “We would have died if not for him…”

  They bowed, gratitude spilling out in broken voices and tear-filled eyes. Edmund felt the weight of every gaze settle on his shoulders.

  “It was thanks to the men,” he said gently, lowering his head in return. “They did most of the work. They’re the ones who held the line.”

  Damien, standing just behind him, spoke without raising his voice, but his words carried. “And that work was accomplished thanks to your leadership, sire,” the knight said. “They followed because you stood at the front. Please do not dismiss yourself.”

  Edmund didn’t answer at first. His eyes drifted back to the ruins, the smoke, the tears, the lives forever altered.

  “What are your orders, Highness?” Damien asked.

  Edmund did not hesitate.

  “Evacuate the villagers,” he said, voice firm, harder than Damien was used to hearing. “Escort them to the capital. Have them gather what they can carry, but keep it light. We move quickly.”

  Damien inclined his head at once. “As you command, sire.”

  As the soldiers spread out to relay the orders and the villagers began hurried preparations, Edmund found himself drifting away from the village center. His steps carried him toward the edge where the land sloped gently toward the forest. He stopped a few paces from the treeline, eyes fixed on the shadows between trunks where the creatures had retreated.

  Smoke curled behind him, but here the air felt colder and heavier. His thoughts slipped backward. He remembered the hunt, the sound of steel being sharpened, the smell of oil and leather, the way his men had joked and boasted, eager to face the great boar together. He remembered their laughter. Back then, danger had felt distant.

  The celebration that followed, his coming of age, had been a brief illusion of peace, a moment where the weight of duty lifted, if only slightly.

  Then Nicolas. The truth of his family’s history. The shame that unraveled everything far too quickly. His jaw tightened.

  He remembered the assassins after. The clash of steel. The fear in his men’s eyes, the moment resolve turned into desperation.

  And after that—

  The Draemhyr.

  That creature.

  Edmund’s breath caught. A wolf’s head and… bat-like wings…

  The image rose with sudden, terrible clarity. His eyes widened. Recognition slammed into him. The same shape, the same wrongness. Just as Edmund turned to run back toward Damien, a rustling sounded behind him.

  He froze. His hand went to his sword without thought. Steel slid free in one smooth motion as he turned on his heel. He advanced a step, then another, slow, measured, never lowering his guard. Every sense drew tight.

  The forest answered with another stir. Leaves shifted. Branches trembled.

  Edmund’s breath grew shallow. His grip tightened until his knuckles burned. Crimson did not rise, not yet, but his body was ready, coiled like a drawn bow.

  Then he saw it.

  A silhouette moved between the trees, low at first, half-hidden by brush. It straightened gradually, rising from the undergrowth.

  Edmund’s heart skipped.

  No horns.

  No wings.

  No claws.

  That should have eased his fear.

  It didn’t.

  It was the shape. Human—unmistakably so. The figure didn’t move, and neither did Edmund.

  “Who—who’s there?” he called, his voice unsteady.

  The figure stepped closer, and its armor caught the light, just enough for Edmund to recognize its colors. Hope crept in despite him.

  It was Aurelith’s. More than that, the same kind his retainers had worn on the day they were ambushed. The same pattern etched into leather. The same light mail, scuffed and dented, familiar in a way that made his chest constrict.

  He didn’t realize he was stepping forward, one step, then another. His sword remained raised, yet his grip loosened slightly. Fear was still there, but so was the fragile, irrational hope that not everyone had died. That somehow, in the chaos and blood and screaming, someone had lived. That perhaps fate had been kinder than he believed.

  As it moved closer, Edmund’s breath caught. His chest tightened painfully. “No…” he whispered. “This—this can’t be…”

  The armor was unmistakable now. Torn at the seams, darkened by old, dried blood. The same damage—the gaping hole through the torso.

  Above it, the face came into view. Smeared and shadowed, one eye swollen shut, dried blood tracing cheek and mouth. The features were unmistakable despite the ruin.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Fulk?” he said, the name barely leaving his lips.

  He remembered it too clearly. Fulk shouting his warning, moving before Edmund could. The sickening impact as the Draemhyr’s blow meant for him landed instead on another man’s body. Edmund had watched him fall. Watched the light leave his eyes. This thing standing before him should not exist.

  And as if it could hear that thought—

  it smiled.

  The grin stretched far too wide, lips peeling back until it nearly reached its ears. Teeth caught the dim light between the trees.

  “I have returned, Prince Edmund,” Fulk whispered, if it was him.

  The voice was wrong. It was too thin, too raspy. Each syllable pressed carefully into Edmund’s ears. The figure took a step forward.

  Edmund staggered back, heart hammering. Sweat broke across his brow, his breath came in sharp pulls. His boots scraped dirt as he retreated, unable to tear his eyes away.

  “Stay—stay back,” he breathed, though his voice barely carried. “I said stay back!”

  The thing kept advancing. Before it could fully emerge from the treeline—

  A hand touched Edmund’s shoulder.

  He screamed. Steel flashed as instinct took over. He spun, swinging his sword in a blind, panicked arc.

  “Highness!”

  Damien caught his wrist just in time, iron fingers locking around Edmund’s forearm and forcing the blade harmlessly aside.

  “Easy!” the knight barked. “It’s me!”

  Edmund stood shaking, breath tearing in and out, vision swimming. His eyes darted wildly, unfocused and trembling as if they couldn’t decide what was real.

  “Highness!” Damien said again, louder. “What happened?!”

  Edmund couldn’t answer. When he looked back, the forest stood empty.

  The figure was gone.

  Only still trees and drifting smoke remained. Edmund glanced left and right, then back to Damien. His breathing slowed, his shoulders eased. Only then did Damien release his wrist.

  “What is it, Highness?” the knight asked, gentler now.

  Edmund kept his gaze on the place where something had stood, smiled, and spoken his name. “It was… nothing,” he said after a moment. “I just thought… I saw someone.”

  Damien followed his line of sight. “Exhaustion, most likely. After a battle like that, the mind can play tricks.” He paused, then looked at Edmund. “Please rest for a moment while we finish preparations.”

  Edmund swallowed. “Yes,” he murmured.

  He didn’t look back as Damien stepped away.

  Edmund returned to the village and leaned against a stack of crates, one hand braced on rough wood as he forced himself to breathe evenly. The battle was over, but his mind refused to follow. Every rustle, every raised voice, set his nerves on edge.

  Before long, the villagers finished their preparations. Edmund pushed himself upright and moved among the soldiers once more.

  “We’ll use the horses to carry the heavily injured,” he ordered, voice steady but frayed at the edges. “The rest of us will proceed on foot.”

  Damien stepped closer. “Please take a horse, sire. You’ve pushed yourself far enough.”

  Edmund hesitated. Pride flickered, then faded. He nodded quietly, lacking the strength to argue.

  The march back was long. They passed other villages along the road, freshly scarred by the same violence. Smoke still lingered in the air. More survivors joined the procession with hollow eyes and whatever they could carry.

  By the time the capital gates came into view, night had fully fallen. Torches burned along the walls, and soldiers were already guiding villagers toward temporary shelters prepared in haste.

  “We’ll take it from here, Highness,” one of the guards said with a bow. “Please, go and rest.”

  Edmund dismounted stiffly, legs trembling as his boots met stone. Damien caught him subtly by the arm and guided him toward the palace.

  Just inside the gates, Aristide stood with several soldiers, giving instructions.

  “Brother!” Aristide said, hurrying forward. His eyes swept over Edmund at once. “You’re hurt.”

  Edmund didn’t answer. His gaze remained fixed on the ground as though the stone beneath his feet required all his attention.

  Aristide’s expression tightened. “You’re exhausted. You should lie down immediately.”

  Edmund finally lifted his head, ready to speak—

  “Ed!”

  Nadja’s voice cut through the courtyard before he could. She rushed toward him from the palace steps, skirts gathered in her hands. The moment she reached him, her eyes caught the blood, the torn armor, the way he leaned ever so slightly to one side.

  “Nadja,” Edmund breathed. “You’re here too?”

  “Their village was attacked as well,” Aristide said.

  “We need a healer,” Nadja said urgently, gripping Edmund’s arm. “Now.”

  “They’re preoccupied,” Edmund replied weakly. “The soldiers… the villagers… they need them… more than I—”

  His words faltered. His legs gave out. Nadja caught him just in time, arms locking around his shoulders as his weight sagged into her.

  “Brother!” Aristide shouted, darting forward.

  “I’m… fine,” Edmund whispered, still conscious, though his voice barely carried. “Just… a bit tired.”

  His eyes fluttered.

  “Let’s get him to his room,” Nadja said, voice steady despite the tension in her jaw.

  “Yes,” Aristide replied at once.

  They each took one of Edmund’s arms and guided him forward. His weight leaned unevenly between them, each step slow and labored. When servants hurried over to offer assistance, Nadja shook her head gently.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “There are others who need you more.”

  Aristide echoed the sentiment with a brief nod, and the servants reluctantly withdrew, already turning back toward the courtyard where wounded villagers continued to arrive.

  The walk to Edmund’s chamber felt far longer than it should have. By the time they reached it, Edmund’s breathing had grown shallow, his steps dragging despite his effort to remain upright.

  They laid him carefully onto the bed. Aristide moved at once, fetching a basin and washcloth, while Nadja crossed the room to gather tinctures and clean bandages from a cabinet near the hearth.

  “I’ll take care of him, Prince Aristide,” Nadja said quietly as she returned. “I know you’re needed with the council and the villagers…”

  Aristide paused, gaze lingering on Edmund’s pale face. Then he straightened and nodded, firm and resolute.

  “You’re in good hands, brother,” he said softly. “Thank you, Lady Montclair.” He bowed to Nadja.

  He turned and left, closing the door behind him.

  Once they were alone, Nadja worked carefully to unfasten Edmund’s armor. Buckle by buckle, she eased the battered plates away and set them aside. When she finally removed his shirt, her breath caught.

  Bruises darkened his skin in mottled shades of purple and blue. Cuts lined his arms and torso, some shallow, others deeper than she would have liked. The armor had hidden far more than it revealed.

  She swallowed, steadying herself. “You really pushed yourself hard this time,” she whispered as she cleaned his wounds.

  For the next hour, Nadja worked in silence. She washed blood and grime from his skin with gentle hands, applied salves where needed, and wrapped each wound with careful precision. When she finished, she dressed him in clean garments and drew a blanket over his chest.

  The room was quiet except for the crackle of the hearth and Edmund’s slow, uneven breathing. Even Nadja, usually so bright, so quick with words, said nothing.

  She remained at his bedside, lingering, refusing to leave. She brushed a few stray strands of Edmund’s red hair from his forehead, her touch gentle, grounding. For a moment, she simply watched him breathe, as if committing it to memory. Then she offered a faint, tired smile and stood.

  “Rest well, Ed.”

  “Thank you, Nadja,” Edmund replied softly as she walked to the door. He was still awake, but his voice was calmer now—emptied of command, emptied of fire.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

  The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the room wrapped in quiet.

  Edmund lay still, listening to the palace settle for the night: muffled steps of guards, distant voices, the chirp of crickets outside. Gradually, even those sounds faded.

  At last, his eyes slipped shut.

  Sleep came swiftly.

  Too swiftly.

  Beads of sweat formed along his temple. His brow furrowed. His body shifted restlessly against the sheets. His breath grew uneven and shallow.

  “No… Fulk… Simon…” he murmured through clenched teeth. “We have—we have to get out…”

  His hands twitched as if grasping for something unseen.

  “NO!”

  He jolted upright with a hoarse scream, breath tearing in and out of his lungs. One hand slammed against his chest as if to steady his heart; the other clutched the sheets beneath him.

  Darkness pressed in from every corner.

  “It was just a dream,” he whispered, forcing the words through trembling breath. He squeezed his eyes shut, counting each inhale and exhale, trying to will the images away.

  Slowly, his heartbeat eased, until—

  “Aurelien.”

  The voice cut through the room like a blade. Edmund’s eyes flew open. His body locked every muscle seized. His breath caught painfully in his throat.

  He knew that voice.

  “Over here, Aurelien.”

  It came again, closer this time.

  Shaking, Edmund turned toward the sound.

  The window.

  Moonlight spilled through it, pale and cold. The curtains stirred, though there was no wind.

  And there, crouched upon the open sill like something that did not belong to the world outside, sat a figure dressed entirely in white, its clothes pressed tightly around its body. It was hunched, inhumanly still. No face could be seen where it should have been.

  Only the eyes.

  Twin circles of crimson light stared back at him, unblinking, burning.

  Edmund’s lips parted, but no sound came.

  This is a nightmare, he told himself. I’m still dreaming. I have to be.

  “I’m afraid not, Aurelien,” the being replied calmly, almost kindly. “You are, most certainly, fully awake.”

  The words settled into him like ice. After saying awake, the figure shifted.

  It didn’t walk. It crawled, its movements unnatural, fluid, as though gravity were a suggestion rather than a rule. Shadow bled and reshaped around it as it drew closer.

  Edmund’s breath hitched.

  He moved on instinct. In one motion, he vaulted to the far side of the bed, feet striking the floor hard as his hand found the hilt of his sword. Steel rasped free from the scabbard, sharp and reassuring in the dark. He turned, blade raised, stance wide.

  The window was empty. The night beyond it lay still and indifferent, moonlight spilling across bare stone. Edmund’s heart slammed against his ribs. His eyes darted to the corners of the room, every shadow suddenly alive. He took a cautious step back, never lowering the blade, gaze fixed on the window.

  “You reek of fear, Aurelien.”

  Edmund froze. The voice came from behind him so close it brushed his ear. A hand settled on his shoulder. His breathing turned ragged.

  He did not dare turn. His eyes remained locked forward, as though the act of looking back might shatter him.

  “Afraid, are you?” the being murmured, almost amused. “You should be.”

  It leaned closer. Edmund felt it—its cold and invasive presence.

  “After all the—”

  It paused, followed by a slow, deep inhale. “—sins you committed.”

  The word sins lingered, thick and deliberate, as though the room itself recoiled. The hand tightened, just enough to remind him that running would be pointless.

  Confused and trembling, Edmund forced himself to move. He turned and swung his blade. Steel cut through empty air. There was no one behind him.

  His breath stuttered. His eyes darted wildly across the room, shadows stretching and recoiling with every flicker of light.

  “Over here.”

  The voice came from his right. Edmund spun, sword snapping up.

  There it stood. Hunched and unnaturally still, the creature regarded him with its unblinking crimson eyes, small black irises visible now at close distance. Its form was vaguely human, wrapped head to toe in pale white silk, and it made Edmund’s skin crawl.

  “Who—who are you?” Edmund demanded, voice trembling despite himself. “Wh—what do you want?”

  The being laughed. At first it was low, breathy, almost amused. Then it sharpened into something cruel, a sound that scraped Edmund’s nerves and forced him back a step.

  “Who am I, you ask?” the creature echoed, mockingly thoughtful.

  It lifted a hand to its head. Long fingers slid beneath the edge of its mask, then traced down toward its chin. “Let’s test your memory.”

  It pulled, slowly. The fabric shifted, stretching unnaturally. The surface moved as though it were not cloth at all, but flesh being peeled away with a sickly, wet sound.

  Edmund shook his head violently. “No… no, this isn’t—” His breath hitched. “Fulk?”

  The face was unmistakable.

  Fulk’s eyes, his mouth, his expression—twisted now into a grin that split too wide.

  The creature laughed, loud and delighted. “Is that how you greet a fallen comrade?” it mocked.

  “No…” Edmund whispered, horror choking his voice. “No! You’re—he’s dead! I saw him die!”

  “Is that so?” the creature replied calmly. In an instant, it was on him.

  Edmund barely had time to gasp before its grip closed around his wrist—iron-tight, inhuman. His sword clattered to the floor as the creature wrenched it free, then lifted him effortlessly off his feet.

  Edmund cried out, boots kicking uselessly in the air.

  “Then how about this?” the creature said, almost cheerfully.

  Its free hand rose again to its head. Fingers dug in, peeling away once more.

  Fulk’s face came away like a mask, stretching, tearing, revealing another beneath.

  Edmund screamed.

  The face staring back now belonged to another man. Another retainer. Another fallen friend, burned into his memory.

  The creature’s laughter echoed through the chamber, layered and distorted, as if multiple voices laughed at once.

  It hurled Edmund into the wall.

  The impact drove the air from his lungs, pain flashing white across his vision. He slid down the stone and collapsed to his knees, gasping.

  When he lifted his head, the room was gone.

  Moonlight filtered through bare branches. Cold earth pressed against his palms. The scent of damp leaves and blood filled his nose. The forest. The clearing where it had happened.

  “No—no, this can’t be—” Edmund whispered, voice breaking as his eyes darted around.

  In front of him, they stood.

  Fulk. Simon. The others. Unmoving, silently watching him.

  Tears welled, blurring his sight. “You’re all—you’re all supposed to be—”

  “Dead?” the creature finished smoothly.

  “They are,” it said. “Without question.”

  It stepped forward, pointing at Edmund.

  “Because of you.”

  The words struck harder than any blow.

  “No—no. I didn’t mean to—” Edmund stammered, but the creature cut him off.

  It seized his face, fingers digging into his cheeks, forcing his jaw open, forcing his eyes up. Edmund was still on his knees, powerless as the thing dragged him closer.

  “Do you know,” it said softly, Hubert’s features staring back at Edmund now, familiar and wrong all at once, “that Fulk’s sister weeps to this day?”

  Edmund’s eyes widened, breath catching.

  The grip tightened.

  “Simon’s parents as well,” the creature continued calmly. “All the mothers, fathers, loved ones of every man who died for you in that forest.”

  “Tell me,” it whispered, its fingers pressing deeper. “Why do they still suffer, while you remain alive and well?”

  The question wasn’t asked for an answer. It slammed Edmund to the ground.

  His body struck the earth hard, knocking the breath from his lungs again. He gasped, dragging himself backward on trembling arms as the creature advanced unhurried.

  “Get—get away…” Edmund choked, tears streaking his face.

  The creature reached up once more, peeling its mask off. Skin came free like damp parchment. Beneath it was another face.

  Red hair.

  Blue eyes.

  A face Edmund knew from portraits, from history—from the cursed name he had learned to hate.

  “Henri…” Edmund breathed.

  The creature’s grin widened. “Sin runs in your blood, Aurelien. It always has.”

  It leaned closer, cruel satisfaction swelling “That is who you are. Your blood is a blight upon this land. Wherever it flows, suffering follows.”

  Behind it, the figures began to move. Their boots did not crunch leaves or disturb earth, yet they advanced all the same, slowly closing the distance inch by inch.

  “Go on,” the creature laughed, spreading its arms wide. “Feast on his self-loathing!”

  Edmund squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable.

  This creature is right, he thought. I bring nothing but misery wherever I go.

  Faces flooded his mind. His men’s—the ones who had laughed with him, argued with him, followed him. The ones who never returned. He saw the forest again, the blood, the fear—

  and then Fulk’s last words.

  Highness. Run. Live.

  Edmund’s eyes snapped open.

  He… asked me to…live

  The realization struck harder than any accusation. They didn’t want him to die with them, or to drown in guilt beside them. Fulk, Simon, all his retainers, they wanted him to live. His breath steadied. He lifted his gaze to the figures advancing.

  It is our pride to see you alive. Conrad’s words echoed, no longer distant, but anchors. This is the crown’s burden—to keep going, to keep leading, despite everything you lose.

  The figures faltered. One by one, they slowed. Their advance stalled. The creature stiffened, glancing back at them in confusion.

  “What’s wrong?” it snapped. “Why are you stopping?”

  This thing doesn’t want truth, Edmund realized. It wants surrender. It wants me to hate myself.

  He forced himself upright. His legs trembled, but they held. Only then did he realize his sword was in his hand, as though it had never left him. He raised it, point leveled at the creature.

  The being turned fully toward him, head tilting in irritation. “And you,” it hissed, “how are you standing? Why aren’t you cowering like a wet dog?”

  “Because that’s what you want,” Edmund said, voice steady despite the fear still burning in his chest.

  “But them—” He gestured toward the fallen men, finally seeing it clearly. “That’s not what they want.”

  He looked at their faces and saw no anger—only sorrow and quiet resolve.

  “They want me to stand,” Edmund continued. “Despite everything I’ve lost. Despite losing myself. They want me to keep going. Until the end.”

  Grenier’s words surfaced, steady and unyielding.

  You must not carry guilt for acts you did not commit.

  Then Aristide’s voice followed, quieter, but no less firm.

  I wouldn’t be here now if not for that history. It cannot be changed. None of us can change it.

  Edmund drew a slow breath.

  “That history brought me here,” he said aloud, no longer trembling. “I can’t erase it. I can’t pretend it never happened.”

  He lifted his sword slightly, its edge catching pale light. “But what comes after it… that is still mine.”

  Determination burned behind his eyes.

  “So all that is left,” Aristide had said, “is to live well in spite of it.”

  Edmund tightened his grip. His voice rang clear. “And even if sin does run in my blood, I won’t let it decide who I am. I decide who I will be!”

  The blade steadied—unwavering.

  “And I will not fall for your trickery. Not anymore.”

  The creature stared at him, its eyes twitched.

  “NOOO!!!”

  Its scream tore through the clearing, raw and unrestrained. “I waited for centuries to break an Aurelien! Centuries! And this is what I get?!”

  It pointed at Edmund, arm shaking, movements no longer controlled, but frantic.

  “YOU!” it shrieked. “Hate yourself! Blame yourself!”

  “WEEP!”

  “GROVEL!”

  “BEG!”

  Its voice fractured, overlapping, echoing with too many throats at once.

  Edmund did not flinch. At long last, a faint, almost tired smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, not to mock, not to be cruel. He was simply done.

  “If that’s what you want to do,” he said calmly, meeting the creature’s gaze without fear, “I’ll gladly stay here and watch.”

  The creature snarled, then it stopped. Its rage collapsed into stillness so sudden it felt unnatural, as though something had reached inside it and switched it off. The figures around Edmund dissolved one by one until the forest stood empty once more. The creature straightened. Still hunched, arms lowered, it remained motionless.

  It did not speak.

  It did not move.

  Its crimson eyes flicked, not toward Edmund, but over its shoulder.

  Then came the sound.

  Footsteps. Slow, measured, and heavy.

  Edmund’s breath caught as he followed the creature’s gaze. From the darkness beyond the trees, a tall figure emerged. It didn’t hurry. It didn’t announce itself. Each step pressed into the soil with crushing weight. The creature from Edmund’s nightmare shifted and stepped aside without a word, clearing a path.

  For the first time since the nightmare began, Edmund felt something colder than fear settle in his chest. This was not merely another monster.

  It was something vastly different—something even monsters made room for.

  Edmund’s determination did not falter as the second presence revealed itself, but neither did he dismiss the terror rising in his chest.

  The figure towered above the forest floor, its body draped in living bark and bleached bone, fused together as though nature itself had been warped and stitched into obedience. Sickly emerald light seeped through fissures in its wooden flesh, pulsing slowly like a corrupted heartbeat. In its grasp rested a staff grown, its surface knotted and twisted.

  Skulls hung from its waist, bound by roots and sinew. Where its head should have been, the bleached skull of a stag sat. Empty sockets burned with an unnatural amber glow, and from its crown rose antlers that twisted skyward like grasping claws, warping and splintering as though even growth bent to its will.

  The forest recoiled.

  Branches creaked. Leaves shriveled. The earth beneath its steps darkened, pressed flat and lifeless.

  Edmund held his ground. His breathing remained steady, eyes never leaving the being before him.

  The creature born of his nightmare stood unnaturally still. It was silent now. No taunts. No laughter. It waited like a hound for its master’s signal. Slowly, the towering figure lowered its staff and slid the tip beneath Edmund’s chin.

  The prince did not flinch. He did not recoil, nor did his grip tighten in panic. He allowed the staff to lift his head, forcing his gaze upward until his eyes met the hollow glow within the stag skull.

  The being leaned closer, enough that Edmund could feel it—the unnatural cold beneath the scent of sap and rot, the weight of something ancient measuring him.

  “What a fine and intriguing specimen you are, Aurelien,” it said at last.

  Its voice was low, raspy, and measured. It spoke with the slow deliberation of a noble addressing an inferior, each word placed carefully. A chilling contrast to the shrieking thing that had tormented Edmund moments before.

  Edmund’s brows furrowed. He did not break eye contact.

  “If you’ve come to fight,” he said, voice firm despite the staff at his throat, “I won’t back down.”

  Edmund stared into the amber glow, unflinching.

  The being studied him as one might study a blade before deciding whether to temper it… or break it.

  “Worry not, young one,” it said at last. “Fight will come to you soon enough.”

  It withdrew its staff. The pressure beneath Edmund’s chin vanished, but he didn’t relax.

  “But for now,” the figure continued, turning slightly, “you may savor the hour.”

  Edmund’s eyes narrowed. He said nothing.

  The being inclined its skull just enough to suggest acknowledgment, perhaps even amusement, before turning away.

  “Come, Ephialtes,” it called, voice carrying effortlessly through the trees.

  The creature from Edmund’s nightmare finally moved. It turned its head toward Edmund, crimson eyes burning with naked loathing. No words followed, none were needed. The hatred lingered in the air like a stain.

  Edmund did not look away.

  At last, the creature turned and followed its master into the darkness between the trees.

  The forest swallowed them whole. No sound marked their passing. No trace remained, save the weight in Edmund’s chest, and the certainty settling deep in his bones.

  They had not retreated, they had allowed him to remain. As they disappeared, the forest dissolved into shadow. Trees faded, the ground unraveled, and in an instant, Edmund was back in his room.

  He closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. When he opened them again, he took his time, slowly scanning the space as if daring the world to betray him once more.

  His bed, the chandelier, the curtains…everything as it should be.

  Beyond the open window, the first light of dawn crept over the horizon. Edmund watched it in silence, not for reassurance, but for certainty.

  The nightmare was over, and a new day—a new battle—waited.