Chapter 13: A Royal Summon

  The grand halls of Castle Forneaux stood silent in the dim glow of evening torches. Caelan Adrien de Forneaux stepped into his father’s study, his boots echoing against the polished stone floor. Duke Adrien Forneaux sat behind an oak desk, a single parchment lying before him, its wax seal broken. His face, normally calm and composed, carried an edge of unease.

  "Sit," the Duke commanded.

  Caelan obeyed without question, eyes flickering to the letter. His father slid it across the desk.

  "A royal summons."

  Caelan picked up the parchment, scanning the finely inked words. His brow furrowed as he read.

  "By the decree of His Majesty, King Louis Auguste of Frankia, Duke Adrien Forneaux and his heir, Caelan Adrien de Forneaux, are to present themselves at the royal court in the capital with due haste. Matters of utmost importance concerning the future of Frankia shall be discussed. The realm stands at a precipice, and wisdom must prevail. Furthermore, the Kingdom of Raelith seeks audience for a formal treaty, and your presence is required in this negotiation. Delay is not an option."

  A flicker of suspicion crossed Caelan’s mind.

  "A treaty with Raelith?" he mused, lowering the parchment. "Since when did we negotiate with our eastern neighbor?"

  The Duke exhaled slowly, fingers steepled before him. "That is the question, my son. There has been no formal declaration of war, no known conflicts at our borders. Yet this letter carries a sense of urgency I do not like."

  Caelan leaned back, considering the possibilities. Frankia and Raelith had always maintained an uneasy peace, a fragile balance that neither kingdom dared disturb. Yet now, a sudden treaty? And an urgent summons with no clear details?

  "It could be a ploy," Caelan said. "If not from Raelith itself, then from factions within our own court. A treaty of unknown purpose could mean concessions. Land? Trade routes? Military alliances?"

  The Duke nodded gravely. "Or worse, an ultimatum."

  Silence stretched between them. The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows against the stone walls.

  "If the king requires both of us there," Caelan continued, "then it means this is more than politics. Something is shifting beneath the surface."

  The Duke studied his son for a long moment before standing. "We leave at dawn. The capital is a week’s ride from Valmont, and we cannot afford delays."

  Caelan stood as well. "Shall I make preparations?"

  His father shook his head. "I already have. We travel light, with only a handful of guards. If this is a trap, I want us to be fast, not weighed down by ceremony."

  Caelan smirked. "Caution? Now that is unlike you, Father."

  The Duke allowed a ghost of a smile. "One must learn from past mistakes."

  The castle buzzed with quiet urgency as orders were given. Horses were prepared, supplies packed, and their trusted knights assembled. In the armory, Caelan tightened the straps of his riding gloves as Lucien entered.

  "You’re leaving for the capital?" Lucien asked, his expression unreadable.

  Caelan nodded. "The king demands an audience. A treaty is in the works, but no one seems to know why."

  Lucien crossed his arms. "That reeks of trouble."

  Caelan chuckled. "I know. That’s why I’m going."

  Lucien hesitated before speaking again. "Be careful. I have a feeling this is just the beginning."

  Caelan clasped his friend’s shoulder. "If something happens, you’ll know where to find me."

  By dawn, the group was assembled at the castle gates. The Duke, Caelan, and a small contingent of knights set off under the pale morning sky, the road to the capital stretching before them.

  As they rode, Caelan couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling curling in his gut. The treaty, the urgency, the secrecy—it all pointed to something more than mere diplomacy.

  And if he was right, Frankia stood on the edge of something far greater than anyone anticipated.

  The rhythmic clatter of hooves against the dirt road filled the morning air as Caelan and his father rode side by side, their cloaks fluttering in the crisp breeze. Behind them, a small contingent of knights followed in disciplined silence, their steel armor glinting in the sunlight.

  For a time, neither father nor son spoke. The road stretched long before them, winding through rolling green hills and dense patches of woodland. It would be days before they reached the capital, and the weight of the royal summons lingered between them like an unspoken question.

  It was the Duke who broke the silence first.

  "You seem unusually quiet, Caelan. I had expected you to start strategizing aloud by now."

  Caelan smirked, keeping his eyes on the horizon. "Would you rather I theorize endlessly or let you enjoy a peaceful ride for once?"

  Adrien scoffed. "Neither. I prefer the sound of truth over silence or idle speculation."

  Caelan exhaled through his nose. "Very well, then. The truth is—I do not trust this summons."

  His father glanced at him, one brow raised. "And why is that?"

  "The timing," Caelan replied without hesitation. "A treaty with Raelith, suddenly thrust upon us, and we are ordered to the capital with little explanation? It reeks of urgency, yet we have heard no reports of war or conflict. Either something is being kept from us, or something is happening beyond our sight."

  The Duke gave a thoughtful nod, but his expression was unreadable. "You believe the king is withholding information?"

  "I would be a fool not to consider it," Caelan said. "Frankia is strong, but not invulnerable. If a treaty is necessary, it means either the crown is being forced into it or someone within the court is orchestrating a move."

  Adrien remained silent for a moment before sighing. "I’ve taught you well."

  Caelan glanced at his father, intrigued by the subtle shift in his tone.

  "You think the same," Caelan guessed. "You wouldn't have prepared such a small escort if you trusted this situation."

  The Duke smirked. "Now you’re truly thinking like a ruler." He let out a breath. "Yes, I have my suspicions. If this treaty was a simple formality, the king would have sent an envoy to Valmont with the details. Instead, he summons us both with haste. That means something is at stake, and it is not mere diplomacy."

  Caelan tapped his fingers against the reins. "Then we must assume the worst. That either we are walking into a negotiation that has already been decided in secret—or worse, into a trap."

  The Duke nodded. "And the question remains: who benefits from this?"

  Caelan frowned, considering. "If the treaty weakens Frankia, Raelith stands to gain. But there are factions within our own nobility who would welcome a weakened monarchy as well."

  Adrien’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Indeed. And the king is no fool. He will know that as well."

  For a while, they rode in silence, lost in their thoughts.

  It was Caelan who spoke next. "And if we find that this treaty is not in Frankia’s best interest?"

  His father chuckled, though there was no humor in it. "Then we will do what Forneauxs have always done—fight, scheme, and ensure our survival."

  Caelan smirked. "Now that is a lesson I will gladly take to heart."

  The road ahead stretched long, and the capital loomed ever closer. Whatever awaited them at court, Caelan knew one thing for certain—this was only the beginning.

  The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of crimson and violet as the escort made camp for the night. They had ridden hard throughout the day, covering as much ground as possible in their urgent journey to the capital. The decision to forgo nearby villages in favor of speed meant that they now found themselves deep in the outskirts of the countryside, far from the comforts of a proper inn.

  A small clearing near a slow-moving stream provided an ideal campsite. The knights worked efficiently, setting up tents, tending to the horses, and gathering firewood. The Duke retired early to his tent, his mind likely occupied with thoughts of the impending meeting, leaving Caelan to his own devices for the first time in what felt like months.

  For once, there was no court to maneuver through, no political games to play. Here, on the open road, there was nothing but the crackling of the campfire, the rustling of leaves in the evening breeze, and the distant calls of night creatures.

  Caelan stood at the edge of the clearing, gazing out at the vast countryside. The rolling hills, the untamed woodlands, the winding rivers—it was all unfamiliar yet beautiful. For the first time since his rebirth, he was outside the confines of his family's lands, beyond the carefully maintained estates and structured routines of nobility.

  A strange sense of peace settled over him. In his past life, as Napoleon, he had always been surrounded by war, politics, and ambition. Even in his early years, he had been consumed by duty and discipline. But here, in this moment, there was nothing but the stillness of the world. No expectations. No battles. Just the simple pleasure of existing.

  He let out a slow breath, allowing himself to enjoy the moment before turning his attention back to the camp.

  The knights had settled around the fire, sharing quiet conversations and rations from their saddlebags. Their polished armor had been loosened for comfort, and their weapons rested within easy reach—ever vigilant, even in moments of rest.

  Caelan approached, hands tucked into his riding cloak. The men stiffened slightly, instinctively aware of his noble status, but he waved them off with a casual gesture.

  "At ease, gentlemen," he said, settling onto an overturned log near the fire. "No titles tonight. Just men sharing a fire after a long ride."

  There was a moment of hesitation before the atmosphere relaxed. One of the older knights, a grizzled veteran named Sir Edric, chuckled.

  "Not many nobles would sit with common soldiers," Edric remarked, biting off a piece of dried meat. "Let alone share their fire."

  Caelan smirked. "Most nobles have never fought in the trenches. I have."

  Edric raised an eyebrow. "Have you, now? You’ve been in battle?"

  "More than I care to count," Caelan replied, stretching his legs out toward the fire. He had once commanded the Grand Armée, marched across continents, faced cannons and muskets in the deadliest wars of his time. But here, he was merely a young noble, an heir on his way to a royal summons.

  A younger knight, barely past twenty, leaned forward curiously. "What was it like?"

  Caelan picked up a small twig and rolled it between his fingers. "It’s different for every man. For some, war is glory. For others, it’s survival. But in the end, it’s always the same—chaos, blood, and the cold embrace of steel. The trick is learning how to live with it."

  The fire crackled, and a quiet hush fell over the group. Some of the knights nodded in understanding, others seemed lost in thought.

  "You sound like a man who has lived through many battles, my lord," Edric mused.

  Caelan smiled faintly. "Perhaps I have."

  The conversation shifted after that, moving to lighter topics—old war stories, amusing tales from past campaigns, and complaints about the capital’s endless politics. Caelan listened, laughed, and for the first time in this life, felt something strangely familiar—comradeship. Not as a noble, not as an heir, but as a soldier among soldiers.

  The night stretched on, and for a fleeting moment, Caelan allowed himself to forget the weight of what awaited them in the capital. For now, beneath the endless expanse of stars, he was simply a man sharing a fire with warriors.

  But deep down, he knew this peace would not last.

  Tomorrow, the journey would continue. And soon, the fate of Frankia would hang in the balance.

  The first light of dawn painted the sky in soft hues of gold and pink as the camp stirred to life. The knights moved with practiced efficiency—rolling up bedrolls, securing their gear, and tending to the horses. The embers of the previous night’s fire had long since cooled, leaving only the scent of smoke lingering in the crisp morning air.

  Caelan stretched as he stepped out from his tent, inhaling deeply. The scent of damp earth and morning dew filled his lungs, and for a moment, he simply stood still, appreciating the quiet before the inevitable clatter of hooves and steel overtook the morning.

  His father was already prepared, standing beside his destrier, a powerful black stallion. The Duke of Forneaux never wasted time when it came to travel, always preferring to be the first ready.

  Caelan approached, adjusting the sleeves of his riding tunic. "Father, I want to ride today."

  The Duke turned to him, brows slightly raised. "Ride?"

  "Yes," Caelan said, nodding toward the horses. "Not as a passenger in a carriage, not led by reins—I want to ride myself."

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  The Duke studied him for a long moment, clearly weighing the request. "You’re aware that it is not a casual ride through the countryside? We travel hard and fast, not for leisure."

  Caelan smirked. "Then it’s the perfect opportunity to learn. If I’m to command armies one day, I should at least be comfortable in the saddle for long periods."

  Adrien’s eyes narrowed slightly, skeptical but not dismissive. It was true that noble heirs were trained in horseback riding, but Caelan’s formal education had focused more on military strategy and court politics rather than extensive riding experience. His father knew this. But he also knew Caelan was not one to make frivolous requests.

  Finally, the Duke exhaled. "Very well. But do not slow us down."

  Caelan grinned. "I wouldn’t dream of it."

  A squire brought forth a chestnut-brown stallion—strong, well-bred, and suited for travel. Caelan mounted smoothly, adjusting his position with practiced ease. He had ridden before, of course, in this life and his previous one. While he had never been a cavalry officer, he had spent enough time around horses in the French army to know his way around a saddle.

  Lucien rode up alongside him, watching with an amused expression. "You look comfortable enough. I was expecting you to struggle a bit."

  Caelan smirked. "I learn fast."

  His father gave the order to move, and soon the escort was back on the road, galloping eastward toward the capital.

  For the first time, Caelan had the chance to truly take in the land—not from a carriage window or the confines of a noble estate, but from the open road. The rolling countryside stretched endlessly before him, vast and untamed. It was different from the well-kept lands of his family's duchy—harsher, wilder, yet full of potential.

  Fields of tall grass swayed with the wind, scattered farmsteads dotted the landscape, and in the distance, the thick expanse of the Verdainne Forest loomed on the horizon. Occasionally, they passed traders or small groups of travelers, most of whom gave the armed escort a wide berth, recognizing the noble banners.

  Caelan urged his horse slightly ahead, feeling the exhilaration of the ride. It was freeing in a way he hadn't expected. In his past life, he had commanded men, dictated the movement of armies across vast maps—but here, in this moment, he was simply a rider on the road, part of the world instead of lording over it.

  A knight rode up beside him—Edric, the veteran from the night before. "Enjoying yourself, my lord?"

  Caelan chuckled. "More than I thought I would."

  Edric nodded. "Good. A man should know his land, not just rule it from a throne." He gestured toward the distant farmlands. "Those people, the ones tilling the fields and mending their roofs—they are the backbone of the kingdom. Kings and lords come and go, but they remain. Knowing their struggles, their land, makes you a better ruler."

  Caelan regarded him with interest. The man spoke with the wisdom of a soldier who had seen much, who understood the reality beyond courtly politics.

  "I'll remember that, Edric," Caelan said sincerely.

  The knight smiled. "See that you do."

  As they rode on, Caelan couldn’t shake a strange feeling in his gut. He had been enjoying the journey, the simple pleasure of the ride, but something lingered at the edge of his thoughts—an instinct, a nagging sense that the peace would not last.

  Something was waiting for them in the capital.

  Something that would change everything.

  And with that thought, he spurred his horse forward, riding ahead to where his father led the escort. The journey was far from over, and soon, they would be at the heart of the storm.

  The morning sun had risen higher in the sky, casting long shadows across the road as the escort rode eastward. Caelan urged his horse slightly ahead of the group, his eyes fixed on the vast expanse of the Verdainne Forest looming in the distance. It was a dense, ancient woodland that stretched for miles, marking a natural boundary between Frankia and its eastern territories.

  Something about it unsettled him.

  Perhaps it was instinct—a soldier’s intuition honed by experience in his past life. Or perhaps it was the strange stillness surrounding the road leading into the forest. Something was wrong.

  His gaze sharpened as he studied the worn dirt path that veered off from the main road and disappeared into the dark woods. There were faint markings in the dirt—disturbances that suggested recent movement. Yet, no one was visible.

  He frowned. Caravans, merchants, and travelers should have been on that road. But it was empty.

  Not even the usual wildlife stirred near the treeline. No birds flitted among the branches. No deer grazed near the edges. Just silence.

  Caelan turned in his saddle. "I need a telescope."

  One of the knights, a younger man named Gérard, quickly responded, reaching into his saddlebag and handing over a small brass telescope. "Here, my lord."

  Caelan nodded in thanks, bringing the instrument to his eye and focusing on the forest’s edge.

  Through the telescope, the details became clearer. The road leading into the forest bore fresh tracks—wagon wheels, hoof prints, and heavy boot marks. Yet there were no visible travelers.

  Then he saw it.

  Just off the main path, partially hidden among the underbrush, were signs of disturbance—broken branches, uneven patches of grass, and what looked like discarded cloth or sacks. A few yards further in, he spotted what could have been an abandoned cart, tilted slightly on its side.

  It was subtle, easy to miss at a glance. But to Caelan, it spoke of something deliberate. A struggle, a hurried departure, or something worse.

  He lowered the telescope, his mind working rapidly. If it had been an ambush, where were the attackers? And if people had fled, why had no one emerged seeking help on the main road?

  He turned his horse and rode swiftly back toward his father and Edric.

  The Duke and Edric were riding side by side, speaking in hushed tones when Caelan approached.

  "Father, Edric," he said firmly, reining in his horse beside them. "Something is wrong at the edge of the Verdainne Forest."

  The Duke gave him a sharp look. "Explain."

  Caelan handed the telescope to Edric. "See for yourself. The road into the forest has fresh tracks, yet there's no sign of people. I also spotted what looks like an abandoned cart and possible signs of a struggle near the underbrush. Something happened there recently."

  Edric frowned but took the telescope, bringing it to his eye as he scanned the area. The grizzled knight had seen his fair share of battlefield tactics and ambush sites, and his expression darkened as he studied the details.

  "He's right," Edric muttered. "That road should be busy with traders and travelers heading east, but there's nothing. And that cart…" He lowered the telescope. "It looks like it was tipped over—not by accident, but by force."

  The Duke exhaled slowly, his gaze turning toward the forest. "You suspect an ambush?"

  "It's possible," Caelan admitted. "But if so, the attackers are long gone. Or worse—they're still watching."

  A tense silence settled between them.

  Edric was the first to speak. "We should proceed with caution. We could send a few men to investigate while the main group stays on course."

  Caelan glanced at his father. "We don’t need to stray far—just enough to confirm what happened. If it’s nothing, we move on. But if something is amiss, we’ll know before riding into a potential trap."

  The Duke considered for a moment before nodding. "Agreed. We’ll not risk delaying our journey, but I won’t ignore possible danger on the road. Edric, take a small group and investigate the area. Caelan, you go with them."

  A slow smile tugged at Caelan’s lips. "Gladly."

  The escort continued forward, but now, the atmosphere had shifted. The peaceful morning ride was over. Something awaited them near the forest, and Caelan intended to find out exactly what it was.

  (Edric’s Perspective)

  Edric adjusted the grip on his reins as he led a small detachment of riders toward the Verdainne Forest’s edge. The weight of responsibility sat heavy on his shoulders, but it was a familiar burden—one he had carried through years of battle and service.

  Behind him, five knights followed in tight formation, their movements disciplined and precise. Each of them carried a matchlock pistol holstered at their sides, the distinctive weapons more suited for close engagements than drawn-out skirmishes. Before departing, they had taken the necessary precaution—lighting their slow matches, keeping them smoldering for immediate use. It was an old but effective practice, ensuring they could fire at a moment’s notice.

  Caelan had wanted to join them, but the Duke had ordered him to stay back with the main group. Wise, Edric thought, though he doubted the young heir was happy about it.

  Now, as their horses trotted closer to the shadowed treeline, Edric's instincts sharpened. This was the part of soldiering he had always respected—the moment before the unknown.

  The Road into the Verdainne

  The path leading into the forest looked even more ominous up close. The wagon tracks were deep and fresh, but there was no sign of movement—no traders, no travelers, no patrols.

  Edric raised his fist, signaling the group to halt. The riders obeyed instantly, drawing their horses to a stop just before the treeline. The silence was unnatural. No birds, no rustling of animals—just the wind shifting through the trees.

  He turned to Gérard, the younger knight who had given Caelan the telescope earlier.

  "See those tracks?" Edric murmured. "Tell me what you notice."

  Gérard frowned as he examined the ground. "The wagon veered slightly before stopping… there, just off the road. But the horses that pulled it are gone."

  Edric nodded. "And the footprints?"

  The young knight's brow furrowed. "Heavy boot prints, clustered. Some facing the wagon, some turned away. Not natural movement—this was an engagement."

  Edric exhaled slowly. The boy was observant. "Exactly. Whatever happened here wasn’t an accident."

  One of the other knights, Alain, spoke up. "Sir, should we dismount and investigate further?"

  Edric considered. The road ahead led deeper into the forest, where the shadows grew thicker and the terrain less predictable. They had enough men to handle a small skirmish, but if they were walking into a trap, they would need to retreat quickly.

  He glanced back toward the main escort in the distance. Too far for immediate backup, but close enough that a warning shot from their matchlocks would be heard.

  He nodded. "We dismount. Keep your pistols at the ready."

  The knights dismounted in unison, the trained motion practiced from years of experience. Their matchlocks—bulky but deadly weapons—remained in their hands, their lit matches glowing faintly against the morning mist.

  Edric drew his sword with his free hand, moving cautiously toward the abandoned cart. The ground near it was disturbed, grass flattened, and traces of torn fabric clung to the underbrush.

  Then, he saw it—a streak of dark red on the wagon’s wooden frame.

  Blood.

  He tightened his grip on his sword. Something violent had happened here. And whatever it was, they were likely not alone.

  He turned to his men, voice low and steady. "Eyes sharp. Weapons ready. We are not alone in these woods."

  And with that, they pressed forward.

  The forest loomed around them, its towering trees casting long shadows despite the rising morning sun. Edric led his men forward, their boots crunching against the damp earth as they fanned out around the abandoned wagon. Every step was measured, every glance cautious.

  The wagon itself was in disarray—its frame tilted at an angle, one of its wheels partially shattered. Wooden crates lay scattered, some split open, their contents spilled onto the dirt. Whatever had happened here had been swift and brutal.

  Gérard knelt beside one of the broken crates, pushing aside torn cloth to reveal sacks of grain, now half-buried in the soil. "Doesn’t look like a raid," he murmured. "No valuables taken."

  Edric ran a gloved hand along the wagon’s side. His fingers came away stained dark red. "No, this wasn’t about theft."

  Alain, who had been scanning the ground near the treeline, suddenly stiffened. "Sir—over here."

  Edric turned, his hand instinctively tightening around his sword hilt as he strode over. Alain pointed at a set of tracks in the dirt—massive indentations, larger than any man’s footprint.

  Edric crouched, examining them carefully. The shape was unmistakable—paw prints, deep and heavy, pressed into the earth. But these weren’t from a dog or a wolf. They were too large. Too wide. And the spacing suggested something that moved with incredible power.

  Gérard’s face paled. "That’s… that’s not human."

  Edric didn’t answer immediately. He had seen many things in his years as a soldier—ambushes, skirmishes, the brutality of war—but this was different.

  Slowly, he traced the edges of one of the prints with his finger. The soil had been pressed deep, indicating weight. Whatever had left these tracks had been heavy—far heavier than a normal beast.

  And then he noticed something else.

  The tracks weren’t just leading away from the wagon.

  They circled it.

  Edric’s stomach tightened. "It didn’t just attack the wagon. It stalked it."

  Alain’s grip on his matchlock tightened. "What kind of beast does that?"

  Edric exhaled, rising to his feet. "A predator."

  The knights exchanged uneasy glances. Frankia had its share of dangerous creatures, but nothing that left prints like these. Nothing that tore apart a merchant wagon and left no survivors.

  One thing was certain. Whatever had happened here, it had not been the work of mere bandits.

  And if the beast was still nearby… they were being watched.

  Edric turned to his men, his voice low but firm. "We head back. Now."

  They did not need to be told twice.

  Keeping their weapons ready, they carefully withdrew from the site, eyes scanning the shadows of the forest for any sign of movement.

  As they mounted their horses and turned back toward the main escort, Edric couldn’t shake the feeling that they had just stumbled into something far bigger than an overturned wagon.

  Something was out there. And it was hunting.

  The air inside the Verdainne Forest had changed.

  Edric felt it the moment they turned their horses back toward the road—the shift from uneasy silence to something far worse. The woods were no longer just quiet. They were holding their breath.

  The horses sensed it first.

  Edric’s stallion, a seasoned warhorse that had ridden through battlefields without flinching, snorted and tossed its head, muscles coiling as if ready to bolt. The other mounts reacted similarly, ears pinned back, eyes wide with unease.

  Gérard tightened his grip on the reins. "The horses don’t like this, sir."

  Edric didn’t need to be told. Horses always knew before men when something was watching. When something was wrong.

  "Move," he ordered, voice firm but quiet. "Back to the road. Now."

  They turned their mounts, urging them into a steady trot. Not too fast—not yet. Running outright could trigger a chase, and Edric didn’t want to confirm their presence as prey.

  The forest felt like it was closing in around them, every shadow stretching just a little too far, every rustling leaf a whisper of unseen movement.

  Then came the sound.

  A low, guttural growl.

  It was faint, almost distant, but unmistakable. A deep, primal noise that didn’t belong to a wolf, nor a bear, nor anything Edric had ever heard before.

  His heart pounded. "Faster."

  The knights didn’t hesitate. Their horses responded instantly, breaking into a gallop as they raced toward the open grassland beyond the trees. The forest blurred around them, branches whipping past, the sunlight just beyond the treeline feeling impossibly far away.

  Then—

  "Movement! To the right!"

  Alain’s voice rang out in alarm.

  Edric turned his head just in time to see it—a shape, a blur of motion in the underbrush, keeping pace with them. Fast. Too fast.

  Whatever it was, it wasn’t running in a chaotic, panicked sprint. It was purposeful. It was closing the distance.

  "Prepare your weapons!" Edric barked.

  The knights fumbled with their matchlocks, raising the bulky firearms, their smoldering slow matches glowing faintly in the dim forest light. If it came any closer, they would fire.

  The thing in the bushes moved again—this time, closer.

  The trees thinned ahead. The open road was just within reach.

  "Go, go!" Edric shouted.

  The horses broke into a full sprint, hooves thundering against the dirt, muscles straining as they surged toward the clearing. Behind them, the underbrush exploded outward—

  But none of them turned to look.

  They burst from the forest, racing onto the open grassland, the warm sunlight striking their armor in a blinding flash. The road stretched ahead, and in the distance, the rest of their escort turned at the sudden commotion.

  Edric didn’t slow until they were a safe distance away, breathing hard as he yanked his horse to a stop.

  He turned back toward the forest.

  The treeline stood still. Empty. Silent.

  As if nothing had happened.

  But Edric knew better. Something had been there. Something had followed them.

  His hands were still gripping the reins tightly, his knuckles white. They had barely escaped.

  "Sir," Alain panted, catching his breath. "What in the name of the Saints was that?"

  Edric exhaled slowly. "I don’t know."

  But whatever it was…

  It had been hunting.

  And it had let them go.

  (Caelan’s Perspective)

  The morning ride had been uneventful—until now.

  Caelan had been riding alongside the main escort, still absorbing the vast countryside beyond his family's domain, when he noticed the sudden change in the knights around him.

  The relaxed conversations between the riders had died away. Their formation tightened slightly, hands drifting toward sword hilts and matchlocks as they stared toward the distant treeline.

  Something was wrong.

  Caelan followed their gazes, turning his attention toward the Verdainne Forest in the distance.

  At first, there was nothing. The trees stood still, their towering forms casting long shadows over the land. The road leading into the woods remained empty. But then, movement—riders bursting out from the underbrush, their horses in a full gallop.

  It was Edric’s scouting party. And they were riding as if the Devil himself was at their heels.

  Caelan’s grip on the reins tightened. His horse shifted beneath him, sensing his tension. "What in hells…" he muttered under his breath.

  The Duke had noticed it too. His father sat straight in his saddle, eyes narrowing as he observed the approaching knights.

  "They’re riding too fast," the Duke muttered. "Something happened."

  Caelan didn’t wait. He spurred his horse forward, breaking formation and galloping toward the returning scouts. The wind howled past his ears as he closed the distance, his heart pounding not from the ride—but from the unshakable sense that whatever had sent those men fleeing was no ordinary threat.

  As he neared, he could see their expressions—grim, tense, and breathing hard. Edric’s face was set in a way that told Caelan everything he needed to know. They had seen something.

  The scouting party didn’t slow until they reached the escort. Dust and dirt kicked up as the horses came to a sudden halt, their flanks heaving from the hard ride. The men were visibly shaken, their matchlocks still drawn, fingers tense over the triggers.

  Caelan didn’t even wait for them to dismount. "Report," he ordered, his voice sharp.

  Edric exhaled heavily, running a gloved hand over his face before turning to him. His usual composed demeanor was gone—replaced by something Caelan had never seen in the veteran knight before. Unease.

  "There’s something in the Verdainne," Edric said grimly. "Something that shouldn’t be there."

  Caelan felt a cold chill creep down his spine. He didn’t know what they had seen—but he knew one thing for certain.

  This journey was no longer just about reaching the capital. Something far more dangerous had begun.

  End of the Chapter

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