He watched the wagon roll away, the boy and the others disappearing down the trail, before turning to his old mare. He led her to the nearby fence and tied her reins securely, giving her a quiet pat before letting her rest.

  Then he moved around the back of the farmhouse, where the sunlight struggled to reach and the air grew still. The creak of old timbers echoed faintly from somewhere nearby, and a distant rustle in the undergrowth made him pause, fingers twitching instinctively toward his belt, eyes scanning for what he knew had to be there. Come on... this is a farm. There’s bound to be one. Sure enough, after a bit of searching, he found a shovel and an old, rusted pickaxe leaning beside a shed door.

  Alec returned to the front of the house, surveying the ground. He didn’t want them buried too close to the carnage, but not so far off they’d be forgotten. Just off the path, beneath a small tree with spreading branches, seemed right. It reminded Alec of the old hill behind his childhood home, where his mother had planted a rowan and told him it would keep the bad spirits away. Maybe it was nonsense. But maybe not.

  He cut away the turf with the shovel, then set to work with the pick. The soil was stubborn—rocks, roots, and heavy clumps—but he pressed on. An hour passed, his arms aching and sweat dripping from his brow, before he finally struck clay. He pushed through it, digging another foot deeper until the grave came up to his waist.

  “That’ll do,” he muttered, breath heavy.

  He climbed out, wiped the sweat from his face, and made his way into the house. The air was thick with the stench of blood and death. He found two worn linen sheets in a chest near the hearth and brought them outside.

  He laid one on the ground. The other he carried back to where the woman lay sprawled across the table.

  She was mostly intact.

  He wrapped her carefully, tightly, taking his time. Then he lifted her into his arms—her body light, far too light—and carried her to the grave, placing her gently inside.

  Next was the man.

  He wasn’t whole. Alec gathered every piece he could find, every torn limb, every bloodied scrap of cloth. He did it carefully, quietly, giving the man what dignity he could in death. He kept his gaze steady, avoiding the worst of the wounds, jaw clenched to hold back the bitter taste rising in his throat.

  When it was done, he filled the grave, pressing the soil back down, patting it into place with the shovel until it sat level once more.

  He retrieved the wood axe the man had carried—now blood-stained and cracked—and drove it headfirst into the earth at the foot of the grave. A marker. A sign that someone had stood vigil.

  Then Alec bowed his head.

  He didn’t speak aloud. No gods, no rituals—just a silent prayer in the language of the weary. A wish for peace. A promise that they hadn’t been left behind.

  As Alec stood in silence, head bowed before the grave, he had no idea that curious eyes were watching him from the trees.

  Once the silent prayer was said, Alec mounted his mare and rode off. He glanced back once, eyes lingering on the axe jutting from the earth, then turned away, the weight of silence pressing at his shoulders. in the direction the wagon had taken. The tracks weren’t hard to follow—deep and clear in the soft earth. He followed them for half an hour, the silence of the woods settling heavy around him.

  Then, up ahead, he spotted a thin column of smoke rising through the treeline. The scent of burning wood drifted toward him, faint but sharp, curling in the back of his throat. The air grew warmer, tinged with ash, and a hush seemed to fall over the woods as if the trees themselves were holding their breath. As he drew closer, he saw the wagon tucked into a clearing, the horses already picketed and three tents

  set up in a loose circle. Siv crouched near the fire, stirring a pot with slow, methodical movements. For once, it actually smelled... decent.

  “How’s it, big man?” Siv called as Alec dismounted.

  Alec grunted, then removed the saddle from his mare and led her into the makeshift pen, her warm breath puffing in the cool air as mist clung low to the ground, giving her a brief rub along the neck before making his way to the fire.

  “How’s the boy?” he asked.

  “Still sleeping,” Siv replied. “Should be awake soon—hence the rabbit stew. Figured he’ll need something warm.”

  “And Albos?”

  “In the tent with him. Keeping an eye.”

  Alec nodded, lowering himself onto a fallen log near the fire. The heat was welcome, cutting through the damp that clung to his bones.

  Siv glanced at him sideways, then sat down beside him. “So... you gonna tell me what the fuck’s going on?”

  Alec stared into the flames for a long moment. A flicker of doubt stirred in his chest—what if the boy had nothing useful to say? What if they'd come all this way only to learn nothing at all? “I’ll explain,” he said at last, his voice low. “But not until the boy tells us what happened. I want to hear it from him first.”

  Siv held up both hands. “Alright, alright,” he muttered. “We’ll wait.”

  It was nearly an hour later when Albos came running from the tent, eyes wide.

  “He’s awake! He’s awake!”

  “I heard you the first time, ya daft bastard,” Siv grumbled, rising to his feet with a wince.

  Alec heard the sharp pop of Siv’s knees as he stood. He smirked.

  “Time’s a bastard. Comes for us all,” he said.

  “You’re not far behind me, lad,” Siv replied, shooting him a look.

  He made his way toward the tent, where a small, terrified, grime-smudged face peeked out through the flap. Siv crouched slightly, a softness creeping into his weathered features, and a catch in his voice betrayed the ache beneath his gruff exterior. Siv crouched slightly and softened his voice.

  “It’s alright, lad. We’ve got some stew on if you’re hungry.”

  He turned back toward the fire and ladled a portion into a wooden bowl. As he did, the dog came bursting out of the tent like a missile, its ears flapping wildly and a high-pitched bark tearing through the air, running full tilt straight at him.

  “Whoa—ya furry bastard!” Siv yelped, nearly dropping the bowl.

  “She’s just hungry,” the boy mumbled from the tent.

  Siv huffed and placed the bowl on the ground. The dog dove in, tail wagging furiously as she licked it clean, snorting softly between gulps and filling the air with the sharp tang of meat and broth.

  “How about you, lad?” Siv asked, softer now. “You hungry too? Come sit with us.”

  Albos had already settled next to Alec at the fire, where the flames crackled over a modest stack of kindling, casting flickering light across the ring of stones and the worn boots of the men gathered around and, with a grin, produced a small bundle from his coat.

  “We have honey cakes,” he said cheerfully, unwrapping one and holding it up like a prize.

  Alec gave him a side glance. “Knew you were holding out.”

  The boy’s eyes lit up at the sight of the treat. Still wrapped in Alec’s cloak, he crept out of the tent—hesitant, but drawn forward all the same.

  As the boy stepped forward, Siv took a slow step back—gentle, like he was luring a timid deer. The lad kept moving, drawn by the warmth of the fire and the smell of food.

  “Take a seat, lad,” Siv said softly.

  The boy nodded and settled on the log furthest from Alec and Albos, his eyes flicking cautiously between the men, shoulders hunched as if expecting to be shouted at or sent away, still wrapped tightly in the cloak. Once he was seated, Siv crouched beside him and held out the bowl of stew.

  Alec, without a word, passed over some bread. Siv tore it in half, handing the larger piece to the boy, who took it carefully—like it might vanish if he wasn’t gentle.

  Siv bit into his half with a grunt. “Not the best you’ll ever eat,” he said, chewing, “but it’ll do the job.”

  He slowly rose and backed away from the boy, each movement calm and deliberate, giving the lad space. He rejoined Alec and Albos near the fire and sat down.

  Alec and Albos, still as statues, just watched.

  Siv shot them a sharp whisper: “Eat, ya silly twats. He’s nervous.”

  They both blinked, then picked up their bowls and began eating, careful not to stare.

  John—his name finally coming into view, spoken softly by Siv after asking for it—watched them for a long moment, eyes shifting between bites and faces. Then, finally, he dipped his spoon into the stew. A slow, tentative taste.

  The first bite was cautious. The second, quicker.

  By the third, he was tearing into it like a starving wolf.

  John finished the last of his stew in quick, greedy mouthfuls, licking the edge of the bowl clean. Then he let out a quiet sigh, glanced up at the firelight dancing across their faces, and pulled Alec’s cloak a little tighter around his shoulders—just a touch more at ease.

  “Would you like another, lad?” Siv asked gently.

  “Yes, please,” John said, nodding.

  Siv stood, ladled another portion into the bowl, and handed it over. He noticed the bread was gone too, so he tore off what was left of his own and passed it down.

  “Here. Can’t have stew without bread.”

  John took it with a quiet, “Thank you.”

  “Would your lovely dog like some more food too?” Albos asked, tipping his head toward Maisie.

  “I think she would,” John said.

  Albos chuckled and set his own half-finished bowl down on the ground. As he did, John glanced up at him, and for a brief moment, their eyes met—Albos offering a small, reassuring nod, which John returned with the faintest ghost of a smile. The dog padded over, sniffed it, then dove in happily.

  “What’s her name?” Albos asked.

  “Maisie,” John replied. “Her name’s Maisie.”

  “Lovely name for a lovely dog,” Albos said with a smile. Then his tone shifted, just a little—gentle, but serious. His smile faded, and he leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, voice lowering as his brow drew together in quiet concern. “What happened to you, mate?”

  John paused, looking down at the stew in his lap. He took a breath.

  “Me, Mum, Dad, and Trina—we were havin’ supper,” he began, voice soft. “I needed to take Maisie out so she could do her business. She saw something in the woods... then I saw it too.”

  He looked up, eyes wide and face pale in the firelight. “Some kind of man. But all shadow. Moved too fast to be a man.”

  Alec sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. Albos gave a slow nod—go on.

  “I told my dad. He went out to have a look. He saw ’em... three of ’em. Coming out of the trees.”

  John’s voice began to shake.

  “He tried to fight ’em. Threw his lantern—burned one good. Tried to keep ’em back with his axe. He was brave.”

  The boy’s lip trembled. “But one of them grabbed his axe... pulled him down. They were on him so fast. He couldn’t stop ’em. He—he couldn’t...”

  Tears welled in his eyes, threatening to spill.

  “Take a breath, lad,” Siv said quietly, placing a steadying hand on John's shoulder, his touch firm but reassuring.

  John nodded and took in a shaky breath, grounding himself.

  Siv gave him a small nod. “Go on.”

  “They killed me dad,” John whispered. “Then they started smashing at the door. Mum—she tried to hold it shut. Told me and Trina to run. We did.”

  He paused again, voice growing quieter with each word.

  “But Trina... she wanted to hide Maisie first—their dog, the one that never left her side. Told me to go. So I did. I ran to the wood shed. Shut the door. Hid.”

  He wiped at his face with a grimy sleeve.

  “I heard them break through the door. Heard me mum scream. Heard Trina scream. I heard her scream as they... as they took her.”

  “Is my mum dead?” John asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Tears welled again as he looked up at Albos.

  Albos froze. His mouth opened, then shut again, and a shallow breath slipped between his teeth.

  He didn’t know how to say it. How do you tell a child they’re an orphan?

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Alec could see the struggle on Albos’ face—the way his lips pressed tight, the flicker of grief in his glassy eyes.

  “She is,” Alec said quietly.

  The words hit like a hammer.

  John broke. The tears he’d been holding back spilled over, silent at first, then shaking sobs.

  Albos fumbled for his handkerchief and sat beside the boy, gently handing it to him without a word.

  Alec stood, took a slow breath, and looked to the trees. The wind stirred the branches with a faint rustle, like whispers moving through the leaves. A crow called in the distance—sharp, sudden, and wrong somehow.

  They’re back.

  He’d hoped—deep down—that this was the work of madmen, some deranged band of killers roaming the wilds. Gods, he wanted it to be that.

  But it wasn’t.

  It was them. The ones from before. From the war.

  Were they ever really gone? he wondered bitterly.

  He turned and walked away, fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tight with helpless rage. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the past had crawled up from the earth to weigh him down again, refusing to let go.

  Siv rose as well, saying nothing. He watched Alec’s every step, eyes narrowed—quiet, calculating. Like he knew what Alec wasn’t saying out loud—something heavy, something Alec carried like a shadow across his shoulders. Siv didn’t know the shape of it yet, but he could smell the rot at the edges.

  Siv followed Alec as he walked off, keeping a quiet distance. Once they were just out of earshot from John and Albos, he reached out and grabbed Alec’s arm.

  “Right,” Siv said, his voice low but firm, laced with an edge of wary tension—like he was bracing for something he didn’t want to hear but already suspected. “The lad told his story. Now you tell yours.”

  Alec didn’t speak.

  “What killed that boy’s family?” Siv pressed. “You know what did. You named them. So what the fuck’s going on?”

  Alec turned, fire sparking in his eyes. His fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight, chest rising and falling with restrained fury. A storm of words sat just behind his teeth, but he held them back—for now. For a second, Siv tensed, instinctively taking a step back.

  Then Alec exhaled and forced the anger down.

  “I’ll tell you,” he said, voice hoarse. “But first... you got any booze?”

  Siv dug through his satchel and pulled out a battered wineskin. He handed it over without a word.

  Alec uncorked it and took a long, burning swig.

  He lowered himself onto a nearby log, sighing like a man about to unburden something heavy.

  “Sit down,” he muttered, glancing at Siv with a flicker of warning in his eyes. “You’re gonna want to sit. It’s a long story.”

  Siv eased down beside him, eyes sharp, saying nothing.

  “Where do you want me to start?” Alec asked quietly.

  “Well,” Siv said, “how about with those things that slaughtered that family? What the hell are they?”

  Alec stared into the trees for a moment. The silence between them stretched.

  “They’re called Hurok,” he said at last.

  “Yeah, I know,” Siv replied. “You said that before. But what are they, Alec?”

  Alec took another slow breath, then looked down at the wine in his hand like he wished it were something stronger.

  “They’re evil,” he said. “Evil given form. I saw one rip a man apart in seconds—just reached in and pulled like it was gutting a fish. And the look in its eyes... it wasn't rage. It was hunger. Cold. Measured. Like it enjoyed knowing we understood what was coming and couldn’t stop it.” The kind you can’t reason with. Can’t beg from. Can’t kill easy.”

  Siv just nodded, quiet for a beat. Then, “What does that mean?”

  Alec looked at the fire, then at the treeline beyond. “Long and short of it?” he said. “They’re monsters.”

  He took another sip from the wineskin before continuing.

  “Othmaris has been at war—albeit a slow-burn one—for centuries. Most folk don’t realise it. A quiet war, fought in the shadows—masked by misinformation, buried in forgotten records, and dismissed as old ghost stories told to scare children.”

  “I was part of the Shields—an order whose sole purpose was to stop the Hurok from breaching the Border Valley. If they got through, they'd kill and devour every living soul between there and the Green Sea.”

  Siv gave a low whistle, but didn’t interrupt. Alec’s voice had taken on that hollow tone—like a man not telling a story, but reliving it.

  “Twenty years ago,” Alec said, “we got word they were amassing. Preparing for an assault the likes of which hadn’t been seen in any war before. I’m talking hundreds of thousands.”

  He took another long drink. Siv watched him closely.

  “We petitioned every race and kingdom with a stake in Othmaris for aid. The umer—tall, long-lived folk with skin like bark—and the glakins—clever, stone-skinned tunnel dwellers—along with men, and whoever else would listen. umer, glakins, men, whoever would listen. Some answered. But most didn’t believe us—or at least not enough to send what was needed.”

  Another swig. His voice had roughened now, the words heavier.

  “We told them it would be a battle of extinction. If we didn’t hold them in the valley, they’d wipe out every free-thinking race on the continent. And if they didn’t kill us all outright, they’d farm us—for food.”

  Siv’s face darkened, but he remained quiet.

  “They sent some soldiers. A few battalions here and there. But it was the Shields—the last of us—that made up the bulk of the force. We were the front line for the defence of the light.” To us, that wasn’t just a phrase—it meant standing between civilisation and annihilation, between all that was good and free, and the darkness that sought to consume it. The light was hope, memory, kinship. And we swore to shield it with our lives.

  Alec stared into the fire for a moment. When he spoke again, it was quieter.

  “We waited for three days. Twenty-five thousand of us, dug in across that valley—two miles wide, with nowhere to run.”

  He swallowed hard.

  “We expected them to attack at night. That’s when they always came.”

  He looked at Siv then. His voice dropped, flat and cold.

  “But they surprised us.”

  The fire cracked, sending a brief spray of sparks into the air. Alec didn’t blink. “They came at dawn,” he said, voice low. “Right as we were beginning stand-down for the day.”

  He stared into the fire, jaw tight.

  “We saw the black mass... a wave of bodies moving at full pelt toward the valley. We had maybe fifteen minutes—if that—to form up. No time to think. Just act.”

  He paused, eyes glassy now, lost in memory.

  “We formed our battle lines in six minutes—amidst shouting, the thunder of hooves, and the panic of men trying to find their positions in mud and blood. It should’ve taken an hour, but every Shield knew their place, every captain barked orders like they’d rehearsed it a hundred times. We made order out of chaos in less time than it takes to break camp.,” he said, the faintest edge of pride in his voice. “Six minutes to position twenty-five thousand men.”

  He took a long pull from the wineskin, wiped his mouth, and continued.

  “Then they hit us. Smashed into our shields like a tidal wave of muscle and fury. We killed thousands in the opening minutes—just held the line while they broke on us like surf on rock.”

  He shook his head slowly.

  “The screams... gods, the screams. I’ve been in battles before—many times—but nothing, nothing, compared to that day.”

  Another swig.

  “It was deafening. And then…”

  He fell quiet for a beat, his voice lowering.

  “Then we realised we weren’t killing Hurok.”

  Siv looked over sharply.

  “They were human,” Alec said, his voice tight with something close to a growl. “Children, taken in raids over the previous decade.” His knuckles whitened around the wineskin, and his eyes burned with a mixture of rage and guilt that he couldn’t quite swallow. “We thought we were holding back monsters. Turns out, the real monsters were the ones who turned them into that.” The Hurok had been stealing them—raising them like cattle, training them like soldiers.”

  He swallowed hard.

  “They weren’t just taught to fight. They were taught to fight us. They broke our shield wall on the third pass—because they knew where to hit. They mimicked our flanking manoeuvres, used our own drills against us. One unit even used our signal calls to fake a retreat, luring half a company into an ambush. They didn’t just fight like soldiers. They fought like Shadows. They knew our tactics. Our formations. They were faster, meaner, brutal.”

  Siv was silent. Alec took another drink, slower this time.

  “It was a twisted mix of psychology and strategy. And it nearly worked.”

  He exhaled sharply through his nose, bitter.

  “But the Hurok made one mistake. They didn’t account for what fear and desperation can do to a man.” We were cornered, outnumbered, and bloodied—but somewhere in that madness, the line didn’t break. It roared. Men who’d lost everything surged forward with nothing left to lose, screaming as they drove spears through their own fallen to get at the enemy beyond. It wasn’t honourable. It wasn’t clean. But it turned the tide.

  Another pull from the wineskin.

  “Fear and desperation,” he said quietly, “is one hell of a motivator.”

  “It made us fight like cornered demons,” Alec said, his voice low, gravel-thick. “We ripped and tore like madmen. The fact they used our own children as weapons… it enraged us.”

  He stared past the fire, lost in the memory.

  “You could feel it. The rage—like heat in the air. Every one of us knew: if they broke us there, they’d do worse to every child in Othmaris. There was no retreat. No surrender.”

  He paused. Swallowed. Took another swig from the wineskin.

  “We fought for sixteen hours. Sixteen,” he said, slowly. “It took us two hours just to push our way through to the Hurok themselves. I was in the front rank for every one of those hours.”

  Siv didn’t say a word.

  “By the fifteenth hour... there was only one rank left.” Blood and ash caked our armour, and the ground beneath our boots felt more like churned meat than earth. You could hear men sobbing between clashes, whispering names under their breath as if the dead might still be listening.

  Alec gave a bitter laugh.

  “The archers were out of arrows. Artillery had run out of missiles. The last volley landed with a hollow thud—one final roar that faded too quickly, swallowed by silence. Then all that was left was the sound of boots crunching over corpses as the lines closed. So they joined us—picked up shields, stood shoulder to shoulder. Just like the rest of us.”

  “We were nearly spent. But so was the enemy. I’d swung my hammer so many times it had started to fall apart in my hands.”

  He took another slow drink.

  “But we could see it—the end of that black tide. The surge was breaking. The Hurok were falling.”

  His voice dropped lower.

  “I was exhausted. We all were. But we fought on… My arms trembled with every swing, my vision blurred with sweat and blood. My legs felt like splintered timber ready to give at any moment, and still, we pressed forward—because stopping meant dying, and dying meant letting them win. right up until I took a mace to the jaw and blacked out.”

  He glanced down into the wineskin like it held something more than just drink.

  “I woke up three days later in a field hospital. Was told the war was over. That the Hurok were wiped out completely.”

  A long silence followed.

  “And that was it,” he said. “No fanfare. No banners. Just the wind rustling through the valley, carrying the stench of blood and smoke. No cheers. Just silence, broken by the distant cry of crows.” I was the last of the Shields. The rest of them…” He looked to the fire. “The rest lay in that forgotten valley.”

  “I only survived because of that mace.”

  Another drink.

  “So I moved on. The order was gone. Just like that—wiped away, like it had never been. One moment we were legends, protectors of the realm... the next, nothing but whispers and forgotten graves. I tried to hold on, at first. To purpose. To pride. But the world doesn't wait for ghosts.” And it’s hard to find honest work when your only job history is a secret order no one believes existed in the first place.”

  He gave a faint smirk.

  “Worked odd jobs. Took contracts. Drifted… until Albos found me. Hired me as security.”

  He shrugged.

  “And now I’m here.”

  He took one last swig and let the wineskin hang by his side.

  Siv let the moment linger, the silence hanging heavy between them. His fingers tensed on his knees, jaw shifting slightly as if chewing on a memory. Then, after a long breath, he smiled faintly.

  “I was there too,” he said.

  Alec’s eyes widened, just slightly.

  “Not on the front line,” Siv continued. “But I saw the aftermath. I wasn’t made privy to the what’s and whys—not my place. I was a medic. What you'd probably call a healer.”

  He paused, gaze distant.

  “I remember the screams. The blood. The smoke. And your order…” He looked back at Alec. “It isn’t forgotten.”

  Alec took another swig from the wineskin. “What?” he muttered.

  “You really think a battle that left a quarter of a million corpses in its wake would stay secret?” Siv asked, tone quiet but firm. “Even among my people, the stories live on. They tell of the Great Wall of Warriors—glad in silver chain and plate—who stood against the devils of the sand.”

  Alec said nothing, but the fire in his eyes flickered.

  “You’re legends, Alec,” Siv said. “You aren’t forgotten.”

  Alec stood, jaw clenched.

  “It wasn’t meant to be known,” he said, voice low and bitter. His fists clenched at his sides, the old fire in his chest smothered by years of silence. He turned away slightly, jaw tight, as if wrestling with whether to say more or retreat back into the walls he'd built. “It wasn’t supposed to be remembered.”

  Siv stood too, meeting his gaze. “Us—the survivors—we made sure it was. We told the story. Carried it in song, in whisper, in firelight.”

  He stepped closer.

  “The great last stand of the Shields… wasn’t gonna be forgotten. Not by us. Not by the world.”

  He placed a hand gently on Alec’s shoulder.

  “And not by me. I owe my life to men like you.”

  Siv let out a gruff chuckle, the sound rich and genuine. “You might be a legend, big man, but you’re still just big man to me,” Siv said with a chuckle. “Same fool who got us lost in the Marshlands for days ‘cause he swore he could navigate by moss.” he said, a sly grin cutting through his beard. “Now, hand over some of that wine before you drain it dry.”

  Alec grunted but tossed the wineskin to Siv, who caught it with a quick swipe. He uncorked it and took a hearty swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Knew there was more to you than just being some knackered sell-sword,” Siv said, his tone lighter but not without a hint of admiration. “You’ve been walking around with a hell of a story rattling around in that thick skull of yours.” He reached out and gave Alec’s shoulder a firm pat. “Come on, let’s get back to Albos before he decides to sell our horses for a pocketful of coins.”

  Siv turned and started heading back toward the campfire, but he paused mid-step. Albos was a short distance away, playing catch with Maisie. The dog bounded clumsily through the grass, her tail wagging madly as she retrieved a stick. The boy, John, stood beside Albos, his small, dirt-streaked face alight with something that almost resembled joy—a fragile flicker of happiness in a child who’d seen his family torn apart mere days ago. They took turns tossing the stick, laughing as Maisie scrambled to catch it.

  “Dopy lad,” Siv muttered with a shake of his head, but there was a warmth in his eyes all the same.

  Alec trailed behind him, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. The sky had begun to bleed orange and gold, the sun sinking low and casting long, creeping shadows across the trees.

  “We’ll need to set watch tonight, mate,” Alec said, his voice steady but edged with caution.

  “Aye, I figured,” Siv replied with a sarcastic huff. “On account of the butcherin’ nightmare men who eat people and thieve children in the night. Wouldn’t want to leave the welcome mat out for them.”

  Alec’s eyes stayed on the darkening treeline, his jaw clenched. A rustle in the underbrush caught his ear—too soft for a beast, too deliberate for wind. His hand drifted toward the hilt at his side, instincts honed by years of bloodshed stirring beneath the surface. “No, we wouldn’t.”

  Siv caught the look and his expression softened. “We’ll keep the lad safe, Alec. Just like you kept the line.”

  Alec nodded, his grip on the wineskin slackening just a little.

  Alec handed the wineskin back to Siv, his fingers lingering on the worn leather for a moment before he let go. He needed a clear head tonight, he told himself. Whatever comfort the wine offered wasn’t worth the haze it would leave behind.

  “We’ll need to talk about whether it’s a good idea keeping him,” Alec said, his voice low. “It’s not just about feeding another mouth. A boy like that... he could be marked. We don’t know what those things wanted with him, or if they’ll come looking again.” Alec said, his gaze drifting to the tent where the boy slept.

  “Aye,” Siv replied with a grunt. “We do.”

  They sat in comfortable silence for another hour, the fire’s glow shrinking as night closed in. Crickets began their nightly chorus, and the occasional hoot of an owl echoed from the trees. A faint breeze carried the scent of damp earth and pine, brushing across their faces like a whispered warning. When Albos finally led the boy to his tent and Maisie padded in after him, Alec and Siv rose and made their way back to the camp proper.

  as the last of the daylight faded, the sun bleeding red and gold before sinking below the treeline. Darkness would take hold within the hour, smothering the forest in shadow. A chill crept in with it, curling around tree trunks and settling on the skin like damp cloth. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called out, its cry long and hollow.

  Albos had already settled the boy into his tent, Maisie curled protectively at the child’s side. The dog lay with her head on John’s chest, ears twitching at every creak of the woods. Even in sleep, she kept her watch.

  Alec, Siv, and Albos gathered around the fire, its flickering glow painting their faces in shades of orange and shadow. Alec spoke of his past—of the Shields, the final stand, the horrors of that day. He described the choking smoke that clung to everything, the screams of the dying echoing over shattered stone, the way the air itself seemed to hum with the unnatural. Brothers he’d trained with for years torn apart in seconds. The memory of blood on his hands—too much to wash away—seeped into every word. This time, he told the tale without embellishment, his voice rough and weary.

  Albos listened, his usual bravado stripped away, leaving only stunned silence. His eyes had gone distant, his fingers twitching nervously over his knee.

  When Alec’s voice finally trailed off, Albos swallowed hard and spoke, his voice thin and uncertain. “I always thought... I always thought that was just a bedtime story. My nan used to sit at the edge of my bed, her voice low and slow, telling me how the Shields stood against the dark when no one else would. I thought it was just to keep the night terrors away.” Something my grandmother used to tell me before sleep. The great Shields holding the line against the darkness. Heroes.”

  Siv barked out a laugh, short and rough. “Wait—how bloody young are you, lad?”

  Albos shot him a glare, though it lacked its usual bite. “Not that young,” he snapped. “Just... young enough for the stories to stick, I suppose.”

  Siv shook his head with a scoff. “Would’ve pegged you for the type to spin tales, not cling to ’em.”

  Albos glanced at Alec, then looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I never thought the stories were true.”

  Alec stared into the fire, his eyes hard and unfocused. In the shifting flames, he saw a row of helmets laid in the mud, each one dented or bloodied, a silent memorial to brothers who never got their due. The faces blurred together—men he’d laughed with, bled with—now reduced to smoke and flicker. “Every tale’s got a grain of truth in it. It’s just easier for most folk to swallow when it’s dressed up as a legend.”

  The fire crackled, sending a spray of sparks into the cool night air. The darkness pressed in, thick and heavy, the kind that seemed to listen.

  “We need to set the watch,” Alec said, his gaze still locked on the shadows beyond the firelight. “Those things won’t stay away forever.”

  Siv grunted in agreement. “Aye. They’re hungry. And desperate bastards like that don’t give up easy.”

  Albos, his voice shaky but resolute, volunteered. “I’ll take first watch.”

  Siv raised an eyebrow. “You? Thought you’d be trembling in your boots by now.”

  “I’m not as daft as you think,” Albos shot back, his tone sharper than before. “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  Alec’s hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword. Whatever lurked in the darkness, he’d be ready.