The modest townhouse sat at the edge of the merchant quarter, its weathered stone fa?ade standing resilient against time. Moss clung to the edges of the roof tiles, and a crooked brass knocker shaped like an owl marked the door. It was a quiet place, humble and unassuming—just as Halric had described it.

  Caelan Adrien de Forneaux stood with his arms folded loosely behind his back, his eyes scanning the ivy-veiled upper windows. Beside him, Lucien Armand du Lac shifted his weight, giving the door a skeptical look.

  “This is the place?” Lucien asked, arching a brow.

  Caelan gave a slow nod. “According to Halric, yes. Alric Vienne. Scholar, historian, and apparently, someone who’s seen more of Verdainne than he lets on.”

  Lucien gave a short huff, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “And here I thought we were done knocking on eccentric doors for the day.”

  Before Caelan could reply, the door creaked open.

  A man, hunched yet sharp-eyed, peered out through the narrow gap. His spectacles hung precariously on the edge of his nose, and his white beard framed a mouth set in a firm, inquisitive line.

  “Yes?” the old man asked, voice raspy with age but lacking none of its edge.

  Caelan gave a short bow. “Alric Vienne, I presume?”

  The scholar blinked once, then opened the door wider. “You presume correctly. And you must be the young lord with a thousand questions. Halric told me you might come.” His gaze flicked over Caelan, pausing a moment longer on the scar that ran from cheekbone to jaw. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you? The creature in the woods.”

  Caelan’s expression darkened. “I have. And I need to know how to fight it.”

  Alric’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something unreadable behind his lenses. “Then come in. But be warned, Lord Forneaux… some truths are older than this town. And far more dangerous.”

  Without another word, he turned and walked deeper into the house, leaving the door open behind him.

  Lucien gave Caelan a side glance. “We really need to stop meeting strange old men in dark houses.”

  Caelan smiled faintly. “You can wait outside if you want.”

  “Not a chance.”

  And with that, they stepped inside.

  Alric rose from his seat with a grunt and shuffled to a shelf hidden behind a faded tapestry. He pulled it aside to reveal an old lockbox secured with a rusted latch. From inside, he retrieved a thick leather-bound ledger, worn with age. He brought it to the table, dropping it with a thud.

  “This,” he said, brushing off the dust, “is not part of the town's official records. I’ve kept it hidden since I first arrived here twenty years ago. Back then, I came chasing legends. Stories the locals whispered about Verdainne.”

  He flipped open the book to a marked page. The ink was faded but legible—sketches, scribbled accounts, and symbols lined the parchment.

  “Verdainne was never just a forest. Not truly. The locals once believed it to be a boundary—between the realm of man and something older. Wiser. Or madder. They called it ‘La Lisière Sombre’... the Shadow’s Edge.”

  Caelan leaned forward, studying a rough sketch of a creature that bore a passing resemblance to the one he fought. The eyes were drawn too wide, as if the artist meant to convey an intelligence that couldn’t be described in words.

  “You’ve seen this before?” Caelan asked, tapping the page.

  “I’ve heard of it,” Alric corrected. “These sketches were made by a hunter who went missing a decade ago. He was part of an expedition into the heart of Verdainne. Only one of them came back. And he didn’t last long after.”

  Lucien furrowed his brow. “What happened to him?”

  “Madness,” Alric said simply. “Rambling about a beast that ‘walked like a man and thought like a god.’ He claimed it could shape the forest to trap you, lead you astray. Make you see things that weren’t there. The men he lost? He swore they didn’t die from claws or fangs. They just... vanished.”

  Caelan was quiet for a moment, weighing every word.

  “If even half of this is true, then what we’re facing might not just be a beast,” he said, voice low. “It might be something worse.”

  Alric nodded. “That’s why I didn’t share this with the Baron or his council. They would’ve dismissed it as superstition. But you... I think you already know the rules of the world are changing.”

  Caelan met the old man’s gaze. “I saw it in the forest. Whatever it is, it’s real. And it’s coming.”

  Alric closed the book. “Then you’ll need more than walls and men. You’ll need knowledge. I have old contacts—former scholars of the Magisters’ Circle. Not many, but enough to help piece together more of this... if you're willing to listen.”

  “I’m listening,” Caelan said.

  Lucien gave a sideways glance at his lord. “And we’re in deeper than ever, aren’t we?”

  Caelan gave a humorless smile. “We were in deep the moment we left Beaucourt alive.”

  Alric turned away from the table and moved toward a cabinet, pulling out a small inkwell, parchment, and a fine-tipped quill. His gnarled hands moved with surprising steadiness as he began to scribble something down—symbols, phrases, addresses perhaps.

  “I’ll send letters to those who still owe me their ears,” he said without looking up. “They were scholars once. Men and women who didn’t run when truth turned ugly. Some have turned hermits, others buried themselves in obscure monasteries… but they’ll come, if not for me, then for what’s stirring in Verdainne.”

  He finished the first note and set it aside to dry. “But if we’re to speak plainly,” he added, “this town has always lived with one foot in shadow. Montrevelle owes its longevity not just to strong walls or trade, but to the forest. That damned forest has turned back more armies than the crown ever could.”

  Caelan frowned. “You mean it’s protected the town?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes. Invading forces—brigands, rival lords, even the Western Coalition during the old wars—they all tried to march through Verdainne. Few ever emerged. Most turned back. The forest rejects what it does not want. It guards this region like a jealous lover.”

  Lucien’s jaw tightened. “That doesn’t sound natural.”

  “It isn’t,” Alric said grimly. “And here's the worst part—it may not be coincidence. There are stories, whispers from centuries ago, that Verdainne wasn’t always this way. Something changed it. Or was put there.”

  He stepped over to another shelf and pulled down an older, thinner volume. This one bore the royal sigil of Frankia—though faded, the twin-lion crest was still visible on the spine.

  “This town,” Alric said, placing the book down with a reverence usually reserved for holy texts, “was once a holding of the royal house itself. Long before the Barons were given stewardship. It was one of several places considered sacred, in a way. Not for temples or relics—but because it was tied to the bloodline.”

  Caelan raised a brow. “The royal bloodline?”

  Alric nodded. “Yes. The Verdainne was sealed, or so the records say, during the reign of King Theobald I. An ancestor of your current king. They used old rites, forbidden now, to bind something within. The nature of that thing? Lost to time or purposefully erased. But from that day forward, the forest was... different.”

  Lucien crossed his arms, silent for a moment before speaking. “So you're saying the royal family locked something away in Verdainne, and now it’s waking up?”

  Alric looked at them both. “That’s one possibility. Or perhaps something worse—something has broken the seal. Either way, the answers don’t lie within books anymore. They lie in forgotten truths, and in people who swore never to speak them again. But you, young lord, might be the one person who can make them speak.”

  Caelan absorbed it all, his mind already racing ahead. Every move he’d made since Beaucourt was toward rebuilding and surviving—but this, this was bigger. It felt older. More dangerous.

  Alric continued writing, the scratching of his quill filling the heavy silence.

  “I’ll send word tonight. If the wind favors the birds, we may hear something in three days. Until then, prepare your town and your people. This isn’t just a monster problem anymore. It’s a crack in the foundation of everything.”

  Caelan stood slowly, his voice even. “Then we’ll need more than soldiers and stones. We’ll need the truth. No matter how old, or how dark.”

  The door creaked shut behind them, and a long moment passed before either Caelan or Lucien said a word.

  They stood just outside Alric Vienne’s aged home, beneath the dimming light of afternoon sun filtered through swaying branches. The air was still, yet thick with the weight of the old scholar’s words.

  Lucien cast a sidelong glance at Caelan. “You’re quiet.”

  Caelan’s eyes remained locked on the path ahead, brow furrowed in thought. “We’re not ready.”

  Lucien said nothing. He didn’t need to. He knew what Caelan meant.

  “I thought the garrison would hold,” Caelan muttered. “With the Baron’s men supplementing them, I thought we’d hold until this thing passed. But if Alric is right... if this isn’t just some rogue beast...”

  Lucien finished the thought for him. “Then this could become a siege against something we don’t even understand.”

  They walked in silence down the narrow, slightly uneven road back toward the town’s main square. Familiar townsfolk moved around them, hammering planks, dragging carts, mixing mortar—signs of a town preparing for a siege. But even with all the visible work, it felt woefully inadequate now.

  Caelan’s steps quickened.

  “We need more,” he said. “Not just walls and spears. We need trained soldiers. Reinforcements who’ve seen real combat, who know how to stand their ground.”

  Lucien gave a firm nod. “You want to call on the Marshal?”

  “And my father,” Caelan added. “He needs to know this is more than a territorial problem now. If there’s even a sliver of truth to the forest being bound by royal rites… this is not a local issue anymore. It’s a threat to the kingdom.”

  By the time they reached the garrison’s main gate, Caelan was already mentally drafting the letters. His mind was sharp despite the pressure—names, ranks, supply chains, travel routes. Every second counted now.

  “Get me parchment,” Caelan ordered as they entered the garrison. “And ink. We’re sending two riders by nightfall—one to the Marshal at Fort Avem, the other to intercept my father before he reaches the capital.”

  Lucien peeled off immediately to relay the orders, his cloak catching the breeze as he moved with practiced speed. Caelan, meanwhile, made his way into the command chamber, nodding to the guards who stood straighter the moment he passed.

  As he sat at the writing desk, he exhaled deeply. There was no time to hesitate. He had seen what hesitation cost.

  He uncapped the inkwell and pressed the quill to parchment, his script swift and clean.

  To His Excellency, Marshal Leontes of Forneaux,

  Mobilise the reserve legions. Move at once toward Montrevelle and station additional units at outlying villages. Prepare siege deterrents and scout the southern treeline of Verdainne for anomalies. Further details to follow. Authority for full action granted under Ducal Seal.

  —Caelan Adrien de Forneaux, Heir of House Forneaux

  The second letter followed swiftly, addressed to his father. This one bore more weight—less command, more explanation.

  Father,

  Our enemy is not singular, nor is it conventional. Alric Vienne confirms Verdainne holds ties to royal history and dark rites long buried. This may reach deeper than we imagined. I am taking full precaution and requesting reinforcements. I need your approval and insight as soon as you receive this.

  I’ll hold Montrevelle. But I will not risk underestimating it again.

  —Caelan

  He folded the parchments, sealed them with wax, and pressed the Forneaux signet into each.

  By the time Lucien returned with two trusted riders, Caelan was ready. He handed each rider their letter with specific instructions and watched them ride off into the lengthening dusk.

  Lucien joined him at the top of the wall moments later, overlooking the town below. Lights were starting to flicker into view. The streets still bustled. For now, things remained calm.

  But Caelan’s gaze was fixed on the dark silhouette of the forest at the horizon.

  “Let’s hope they reach in time,” Lucien said quietly.

  “They have to,” Caelan replied, jaw clenched. “Because I don’t think we get a second chance.”

  Nightfall, the rooftops of Montrevelle

  The town slept lightly under a thin veil of fog and flickering lanternlight. From above, shadows stretched long between narrow streets, and the tiled roofs bore the weight of something far more sinister than the night.

  It moved without sound, muscle and sinew coiling with unnatural grace. A shape against the dark, low to the tiles, slipping from one rooftop to the next. Talons scraped softly against stone—just enough friction for balance, not enough to alert.

  The beast prowled.

  Its senses flared. Heat. Breath. Movement.

  Below, a group of humans stumbled through the street, their laughter loud and slurred, wafting up like smoke from a dying fire. Drunken. Vulnerable. Oblivious.

  The beast stilled, crouched on the ledge like a grotesque gargoyle as it watched them meander through the sloped lane. It moved with them, stalking just out of their peripheral, a predator cloaked by shadow and elevation. Their scent was thick—sweat, alcohol, muddied perfume. It knew the rhythms of this town now, knew when the guards passed and where the blind spots formed between flickering lanterns.

  Then, a break.

  One of the men peeled off from the group, laughing as he muttered something unintelligible and turned into a narrow alley. The others kept walking, not noticing—or not caring.

  The beast shifted.

  Eyes locked. Pulse steady.

  It moved again, faster this time, navigating the rooftops with the precision of something born in darkness. It climbed down silently, clinging to the bricks, sliding into position above the alley.

  The prey was isolated now.

  Perfect.

  “Oi, you lot go on ahead—I gotta take a piss,” slurred Marius, waving his arm lazily as he staggered away from the group.

  “Again? You’ll be watering the whole damn town at this rate!” one of his companions jeered, followed by a round of half-hearted laughter.

  Marius grinned, teeth flashing in the dim streetlight. He gave a crude gesture over his shoulder and turned into the narrow alley without waiting for a reply. The walls on either side were high and grimy, littered with broken crates and the sharp scent of rotting produce wafting from an unseen bin. He barely noticed. His mind was still fogged by drink, warm and loose, his legs barely listening to his brain.

  He hummed a tune—off-key, tuneless really—as he fumbled with his belt. The stones underfoot were uneven, damp from some earlier drizzle, but he found his footing near the wall and leaned one hand against the cold surface for balance.

  The sound of the wind brushing against the rooftops barely registered to him. Nor did the soft shift of gravel. The street behind him was empty now, his companions' voices long gone, swallowed by distance and drink.

  “Bloody town’s too quiet at night,” he muttered to himself, chuckling, unaware of the pair of eyes narrowing above him in the dark.

  He was alone.

  But not unnoticed.

  Marius gave a satisfied sigh as he leaned back slightly, shaking off the last of his relief. He was still chuckling to himself, perhaps at the thought of how his mates would call him a leaky old goat in the morning. The alley was silent but for the occasional rattle of the wind. No footsteps. No voices. Just the faint rustle of fabric and a whisper too soft to belong to anything human.

  A shadow moved behind him.

  Fast. Silent.

  The hairs on his neck rose—not from cold, but from something else. A primal sense buried in every living thing. The gut-twisting feeling of being watched.

  He paused, head tilting. “What the…?”

  Before the words could leave his mouth fully, something heavy dropped behind him—soundless except for the faint scrape of claws on stone. Marius spun around, his eyes bleary and unfocused.

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  He saw nothing.

  Just the dark. The alley was empty. Too empty.

  He took a step back, heartbeat quickening now. “H-hello?”

  Silence.

  He reached to pull up his pants in a rush, stumbling a little, suddenly sober.

  A shape moved again—just above. On the ledge above the alley, crouched low in perfect stillness, the beast waited. Muscles tensed like coiled springs, glowing amber eyes locked on the man below. Its maw dripped a slow thread of saliva, caught briefly in the silver gleam of moonlight before it vanished into the shadows.

  Marius turned again, faster this time. Panic now.

  Then—

  A blur.

  A gust of wind.

  A thud, sharp and final.

  The alley fell quiet once more.

  Only the faint drag of something heavy being pulled deeper into the shadows remained, and then even that was gone.

  The night moved on.

  But the town had lost another soul.

  Caelan’s eyes snapped open, breath ragged, the weight of the nightmare still clawing at his chest. The image of the beast—its eyes, its teeth, that oppressive aura—lingered like smoke in his mind. Sweat clung to his brow despite the cool morning air slipping in through the shutters. He sat up abruptly, elbows on his knees, forcing himself to breathe slowly, deeply.

  Just a dream, he reminded himself. Just a dream.

  But dreams had a way of carrying truth in them, especially when they were soaked in recent memory. He ran a hand down his face and glanced around, grounding himself in the now. His quarters at the barracks were modest, but clean. A desk cluttered with parchment and wax seals stood against one wall. A folded tunic and his sword rested on the nearby chair. No snarling beast, no cursed forest—just walls and quiet.

  He exhaled through his nose, slower this time. The pounding in his chest began to ebb.

  Right. The day.

  He stood, stretching the stiffness from his back and shoulder. The ache in his left arm had dulled, thanks to Emeline’s healing, though the scar on his face still throbbed faintly with the pulse of his heart. A reminder. Proof.

  His agenda today was simple, though far from easy—select half of the Baron’s men and integrate them into the town’s defensive structure. It was a logistical challenge, sure, but also a delicate political one. Choosing the wrong soldiers might spark resentment; choosing too well might earn suspicion. But he needed reliability, discipline, and strength—not empty uniforms. And he would be the one to choose them. No one else.

  He crossed to the desk, pulling out the parchment he’d prepared the night before. Names, recommendations, a rough structure of the defensive arrangement. There were still many unknowns, and after yesterday’s visit to the scholar Alric, those unknowns felt deeper—more dangerous—than ever.

  Caelan’s jaw tightened.

  There was no time to waste.

  He would meet Lucien at the courtyard, and from there they’d ride to the Baron's estate. Today, Montrevelle would gain new shields—and Caelan would begin forging them into something that could actually stand against what lurked in the Verdainne.

  The sun hung higher now, casting long, sharp shadows across the uneven fields beyond Montrevelle’s walls. The air was warmer, tinged with the scent of wildgrass and churned soil. Caelan led the selected men—two dozen in total—along a narrow path toward an open clearing flanked by sparse trees and low brush. Lucien followed close behind, along with a handful of garrison soldiers chosen to assist with the evaluation.

  Caelan had chosen this spot on purpose: quiet, out of sight, and far enough from town to avoid unnecessary eyes or ears. The sort of place where truth had nowhere to hide.

  The Baron’s men stood in two lines, their gear worn in places but functional. Most held themselves with practiced discipline, though Caelan could already see the cracks—fidgeting fingers, stolen glances at the garrison troops, shoulders a little too stiff to be calm.

  “Lucien,” Caelan said, not turning. “Split them into groups of four. Pair each group with two of our own.”

  Lucien gave a sharp nod and got to work, barking names and orders. Within moments, a rhythm formed—garrison soldiers standing beside the Baron’s men, formation drills beginning, followed by sparring routines and obstacle runs laid out crudely with rope and stakes.

  Caelan watched it all with the eyes of someone trained to see what others missed. The way one of the Baron’s men hesitated before taking a swing. How another fumbled a basic counter. The strength was there, yes—but the cohesion was lacking. No unity. No trust. And certainly no experience working as part of a real defense force.

  After half an hour, Caelan stepped forward and signaled for them to halt.

  “You’ve had your walls,” he said. “Your patrols. Your comforts.”

  His voice was calm, but it carried.

  “But the next time you stand guard, it won’t be against smugglers or bandits. You’re up against something that doesn’t fear your steel, doesn’t care about your ranks, and won’t be fooled by showmanship. What I’m looking for now—is how you hold your ground when you're not prepared.”

  He pointed to one of the men—a tall, broad-shouldered veteran with a scar under his eye and a confident stance.

  “You. Against him.”

  He motioned to one of the garrison soldiers.

  The two stepped forward. No hesitation.

  Lucien stepped into the middle. “Blunted swords only. First to disarm or yield.”

  The mock duel began—and within moments, it was clear who had the edge. The Baron’s man was strong, skilled even. But the garrison soldier moved like a wolf—controlled, calculating, unrelenting. He took hits, gave them back, and eventually knocked the blade from his opponent’s hands with a sharp, twisting feint that ended the match.

  Caelan nodded, then turned to the rest.

  “This is what I expect. If you can’t give it, you’re of no use to me.”

  Another match. Then another. The day wore on with clashing steel, barked instructions, and the sharp rhythm of footwork on dry earth. A few of the Baron’s men impressed him—gritty, adaptable, quick learners. Others needed work. But that was why they were here.

  By late afternoon, Caelan finally called for a break. The men collapsed into the shade, panting and sweat-soaked, but something had shifted in their eyes. A new kind of respect. And more importantly—awareness.

  Lucien approached with a waterskin, tossing it over. “So? Satisfied?”

  Caelan took a sip, gaze lingering on the tired but sharper-looking formation of fighters.

  “They’ll need more time. But they’ll do—for now.”

  Lucien gave a grunt of agreement. “They’re better than I expected.”

  “That’s not hard,” Caelan muttered, then cracked a faint smile. “Still, we’ll push them harder tomorrow.”

  He turned his eyes back toward the dark silhouette of the Verdainne Forest in the distance, the wind carrying a faint whisper through the trees.

  Time was running short.

  The break was short. Caelan didn’t let them rest long—not when every passing hour brought the threat closer. As the men rose and wiped sweat from their brows, he called Lucien over with a motion of his hand.

  “I want to try something different now,” Caelan said, voice low but steady. “Set up the matchlocks.”

  Lucien arched a brow. “Matchlocks? Thought this was close combat training.”

  “It still is,” Caelan replied, eyes distant for a moment. “But I remember something from Beaucourt.”

  He looked out across the training ground as he spoke, the memory creeping back in fragments—narrow alleys, shadows moving too fast, villagers screaming, the sharp recoil of his pistol as it fired out of instinct, not thought.

  “I hit it before it reached them. Because I didn’t think. I just reacted.”

  Lucien nodded, starting to understand. “You want to train for reflex shots.”

  “In tight quarters. Like Montrevelle’s streets,” Caelan said. “If the beast gets in, there won’t be time for formations or drawn blades. You’ll have only one second—and maybe one shot.”

  Lucien didn’t argue. Within minutes, he’d fetched the garrison’s quartermaster and a small crate of matchlock pistols, each with its own quirks. Powder flasks and lead shot followed. Caelan kept the process brisk—he didn’t need precision right now. He needed instincts.

  “Line up,” he ordered. “Garrison soldiers, left side. The Baron’s men, right. One pistol each. You’ll fire in pairs.”

  He pointed toward the far end of the clearing, where Lucien and a few others were already rigging up a series of crude wooden contraptions: swinging ropes with small straw bundles attached to the ends, weighted to move unpredictably when released.

  “Those will be your targets,” Caelan continued. “We’ll release them at random. You get one shot. Aim fast, fire faster. Reload only if you survive the first.”

  That got a few grim chuckles. But most of the men had gone silent, expressions sharpening.

  Lucien stepped up beside him. “You want to start?”

  Caelan took one of the pistols, checking the priming and the match. “I’ll show them how it’s done.”

  He moved into position, squared his shoulders, and gave a nod. One of the ropes snapped loose—a bundle swinging sharply across the field.

  Caelan didn’t think. He just moved.

  The shot rang out with a flash and smoke—loud, sharp, startling. The bundle exploded mid-arc, bits of straw scattering in the breeze.

  The men reacted with a collective sound of surprise, then admiration. Caelan lowered the pistol, smoke curling around his fingers.

  “That’s the speed I want,” he said, voice even. “Miss, and you’re dead. Don’t wait for perfect aim. React.”

  The drill began.

  One by one, the men took their places. Some missed wide, caught off guard by the motion. Others grazed the targets, shaky but promising. A few hit dead-on—especially the garrison veterans used to urban patrols.

  But what caught Caelan’s attention were two of the Baron’s men. Not exceptional swordsmen earlier, but now showing crisp, clean reflexes with the pistols. One clipped his target through the middle; the other hit it clean with barely a delay. Caelan made a mental note.

  They cycled through again and again, rotating, refining, adjusting. Lucien shouted corrections between rounds while Caelan watched like a hawk.

  The scent of gunpowder filled the air. The pace stayed relentless.

  By the end of it, hands were blackened with soot and ears rang from repeated fire. But Caelan saw something shift—confidence beginning to spark in the men, a subtle shift in posture, in how they held the weapons.

  More importantly, they were starting to understand the speed that would be demanded of them.

  Lucien walked up beside him, rubbing powder off his gloves. “They’re learning.”

  “They’ll have to,” Caelan said quietly. “Because next time, it won’t be straw.”

  The air still hung heavy with the scent of gunpowder as another matchlock fired, the sharp crack echoing across the field. A straw bundle burst mid-swing, followed by a round of hoots and claps from the watching soldiers. Caelan stood at the edge of the training ground, arms crossed, observing quietly while Lucien paced beside him, marking notes on a rough parchment.

  “They’re improving,” Lucien muttered, eyes flicking from shooter to target. “Not nearly good enough yet, but it’s something.”

  Caelan nodded, silent, eyes narrowing on a group of Baron’s men. One of them had a steady hand—too steady for a noble’s guard, perhaps. He made another mental note.

  Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught movement.

  An old man approached, hunched slightly with age but moving with a quiet, surefooted gait. He wore a broad, worn-out farmer’s hat that shadowed most of his face, a patched linen shirt, and a weather-beaten cloak draped across his shoulders. He looked every bit a weathered peasant—or someone who wanted to be mistaken as one. Yet his eyes, as they peeked beneath the brim of his hat, were sharp. Watchful.

  “Excuse me, young lord,” the man rasped, coming to a slow stop a few paces from Caelan. “Name’s Gregor Valtin. I believe Halric sent word I might find you.”

  Caelan and Lucien exchanged a glance. Lucien subtly straightened, hand brushing against his sword hilt just in case.

  Caelan studied the man a moment, then inclined his head. “You’re the hunter he mentioned.”

  “I am.” Gregor lifted his head slightly, just enough to reveal a heavily scarred cheek and a pair of eyes that had seen too much. “Was passing through town anyway. Figured I’d speak with you before heading to the hills. Halric said you had questions. About the forest. About the thing in it.”

  “Not here,” Caelan said, voice low. “Let’s walk.”

  He gestured for Lucien to follow, and the trio moved away from the firing line, past a shallow rise that gave them some privacy and a view of the men still practicing below.

  “Halric said you might’ve seen things in Verdainne,” Caelan began, glancing over. “Things like what attacked Beaucourt.”

  Gregor gave a grim little chuckle, dry as dead leaves. “Boy, I’ve hunted boars with tusks longer than your arm. I’ve seen packs of wolves that move like ghosts. But that thing?” He shook his head. “That weren’t any forest predator.”

  He paused, kicking a small stone out of his path. “First time I saw one, I was just a lad, not even a real hunter yet. It moved like shadow on snow—silent, fast, smart. We lost half the hunting party before we made it back to town. They never found the bodies. And the worst part?”

  Caelan waited.

  “It watched us. Not like prey. Like it was deciding whether we were worth the trouble.”

  That chilled the air between them.

  Lucien was the first to speak. “And it’s still out there?”

  Gregor gave a tight nod. “One of ‘em is. Maybe more. Hard to tell. They don’t leave tracks like beasts. No spoor. No scent. Just fear. And bones, if you’re lucky enough to find those.”

  Caelan’s jaw tensed. “What do you know about stopping them?”

  Gregor scratched at his jaw. “Not much. Never had the chance. But I know someone who might. Old contact of mine. Used to trap unnatural things, back before the Guild tightened their rules.”

  “You trust them?”

  “No,” Gregor said plainly. “But I trust that he hates dying more than he hates me. If there’s a way to catch that beast’s scent, he’ll know it.”

  Caelan didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted back to the training yard, to the men firing again and again, trying to kill straw and motion.

  That wouldn’t be enough.

  “Get in contact with him,” Caelan finally said. “Whatever it costs.”

  Gregor gave a short grunt of acknowledgment. “I’ll leave by sundown.”

  And with that, the old hunter turned and walked away—quiet as smoke.

  Lucien watched him go, then turned to Caelan. “Think we can trust him?”

  “No,” Caelan murmured. “But I don’t have to trust him. I just need him to do his job.”

  The streets of Montrevelle buzzed with early morning energy—vendors setting up carts, shutters creaking open, and the distant hammer of blacksmiths already at work. Selene walked among the crowd, cloak drawn close, her hood casting just enough shadow to keep her face forgettable. She moved with purpose, but without urgency. Just another townswoman running errands—if anyone was watching.

  They usually weren’t.

  She stopped at a fruit stand, fingered a bruised apple, and listened.

  Two dockhands nearby were arguing about the barricades being built by the garrison. One swore the walls wouldn’t hold. The other was convinced the Duke’s brat had it under control—though his tone suggested it was more hope than belief.

  She moved on, slipping a few copper coins into the vendor’s hand and pocketing the fruit without ever really intending to eat it.

  Selene turned down a narrow lane and headed toward the market square’s edge, where gossip flowed more freely than coin. This was her real task—listening, watching, reading the undercurrents. Ever since the fall of Beaucourt and the beast rumors began spreading like rot, the town’s mood had shifted. Fear lingered behind every smirk, every half-hearted joke. The people didn’t trust their walls anymore. Or their leaders.

  She stopped by a well, lowering the bucket halfway and letting it clatter before pulling it back up. A perfect excuse to linger.

  Behind her, two soldiers in Baron’s colors shared a flask and muttered under their breath.

  “—saw the boy himself pull half our lads for training. Said he wanted quick shooters. Town fights, he said. Streets and rooftops.”

  “You saying the thing’s gonna crawl right into the square?” the other replied, voice unsteady.

  Selene smirked faintly and walked on. She already knew about the training. What interested her was the fear buried in the soldier’s tone.

  She made a few more rounds—quiet corners, tavern windows, the edge of the carpenter’s yard. She asked no direct questions, but the whispers found her all the same. Sightings in the woods. Strange howling near the south wall. And one drunkard at the tavern last night who hadn’t come home.

  Another one gone.

  Selene’s lips tightened. She turned toward the garrison.

  Time to find the young lord, Selene thought to herself.

  He needed to hear what the town was saying—what they weren’t saying too. Because while the beast hunted in shadows, fear was already clawing its way through the town in plain sight.

  And fear… was contagious.

  Selene’s boots crunched softly against the dusty street as she passed through the open gate of the garrison. Morning had ripened into late noon, and Montrevelle simmered under the weight of rising tension—soldiers barked orders, steel rang against steel, and everywhere the sound of discipline masked the unease that had begun to take root.

  She wasn’t here to mingle. She had something to sell, and she needed to find the right buyer.

  Her eyes swept the yard until they landed on two men standing apart from the others. One was tall and sharp-featured, with a hardened expression and an air of silent command. The other broader, heavier-set, his stance unmistakably that of a lifelong fighter. They weren’t dressed like common soldiers, but they didn’t flaunt rank either. They just... observed. Calm. Cold. Intent.

  Selene frowned. She didn’t recognize them.

  Still, they looked like they were in charge. She walked straight toward them.

  “Excuse me,” she called out, “I’m looking for someone in command.”

  The two turned. The taller man regarded her with a clear, quiet focus. The broader one didn’t speak, but his posture tensed ever so slightly.

  “Depends,” the tall one said. “What for?”

  “Information,” Selene said. “Fresh. Local. Worth something.”

  The man nodded once, then motioned her toward a quieter stretch near the edge of the yard. She followed, cloak brushing behind her, not missing the way the two men remained flanking her slightly—habit, not intimidation. Definitely trained.

  Once they stopped, she didn’t wait.

  “Someone went missing last night,” she said. “Name’s Marius. Local. Drunk. Was last seen staggering with friends near the old market road. He stepped into an alley to take a piss and never came out.”

  The broader man raised a brow. “Drunks vanish all the time.”

  “Maybe. But not when it’s the third case in two nights.”

  That caught the tall one’s attention.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Three men. All on the edges of town. All after dark. First one was the night before last, second happened yesterday morning—folk found his cloak half-torn near a drainage ditch. No body. Then Marius, just last night. Same pattern. Wandering off. Gone.”

  She paused, letting it sink in.

  “There’s more,” she added. “People are locking their doors earlier. Saying they hear things at night—scratching on rooftops, strange cries in the dark. They’re scared. But they’re also quiet. No one wants to be the first to say the wrong thing.”

  The tall man’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of understanding—or calculation—passing behind them.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Selene.”

  A subtle glance passed between the two men. Recognition didn’t surface, not yet. She still didn’t realize who they were. Not in daylight, not without the false names and disguises.

  “And the price?”

  “Five silver,” she said with a shrug. “Just for today’s details. If you’re interested in regular updates, we can discuss terms.”

  He reached into a pouch and handed her the coin without argument. She accepted it without a flicker of hesitation.

  “I’ll be around,” she said, turning on her heel. “If you’re smart, you’ll want to hear more soon.”

  And with that, she slipped into the crowd, vanishing back into Montrevelle’s heartbeat.

  Neither she nor the townspeople yet knew just how close the darkness truly was.

  Caelan watched Selene disappear into the crowd, his expression unreadable.

  Lucien broke the silence first. “That’s her, isn’t it?”

  Caelan nodded slowly. “Same voice. Same confidence. She was sharper in the dark, but it’s definitely her.”

  “Didn’t recognize us at all.”

  “She wouldn’t,” Caelan replied, arms crossing. “Pierre and Louis were two nameless strangers with coin and questions. We look nothing like that now.”

  Lucien let out a low exhale, his eyes following the direction Selene had gone. “Three disappearances. In two nights. That’s not just a pattern. That’s escalation.”

  Caelan’s gaze narrowed. “And it lines up far too closely with the beast’s behavior we witnessed near Beaucourt. Nighttime attacks. Isolated prey. No survivors.”

  “She said one man’s cloak was found torn. Like it was dragged off,” Lucien muttered. “That sound familiar?”

  “Too familiar,” Caelan said grimly. His mind flashed back to the alley in Beaucourt, the guttural snarl, the sickening silence that followed. “This thing doesn’t leave traces unless it wants to. The cloak was a warning. Not a mistake.”

  Lucien looked toward the training yard, where the men were still taking shots at flying targets. The occasional crack of a matchlock echoed across the field, punctuated by barked orders and the shuffling of boots.

  “We're still not ready,” Lucien said.

  “No. We’re not,” Caelan replied. “Even with the Baron’s men, we’re underprepared for something that can scale rooftops and pick off grown men in seconds.”

  “Selene just confirmed it—whatever’s hunting this town has already started.”

  Caelan fell silent for a long moment, the weight of it settling in his chest like a stone. Then, with quiet resolve, he turned to Lucien.

  “Double the training rotations. I want half of the Baron’s men on rooftop watches by sundown. Crossbows, matchlocks, anything they can carry and fire from height.”

  Lucien nodded without hesitation. “And the villagers?”

  “Keep them inside after dusk. No exceptions.”

  Caelan looked back one last time in the direction Selene had vanished. A flicker of admiration crossed his features, tinged with wariness.

  “She may not know who we are,” he said, “but that girl’s better connected than half the town’s guards combined. We’ll need her again.”

  Lucien smirked faintly. “Should’ve asked for a discount.”

  Caelan’s lips twitched into the ghost of a grin. “She would’ve doubled the price.”

  With that, the two turned and strode back toward the barracks, the afternoon sun already beginning its descent behind the trees of Verdainne. The shadows stretched longer.

  And the beast would return with them.

  (Caelan's POV)

  Late afternoon. The sun hung low over Montrevelle, casting golden light across the sharpened wooden spikes and sandbag reinforcements being stacked along the town’s rooftops and battlements.

  Caelan stood atop one of the taller garrison watch points, his arms crossed, eyes tracking the deployment of rooftop lookouts below. The townspeople moved with a mix of urgency and clumsiness. Some soldiers barked orders to newly assigned Baron men, most of whom were still stiff from training.

  Lucien stood beside him, helmet under one arm, squinting at the horizon. “Still think this’ll hold?”

  “It has to,” Caelan said. “We don’t have time to rebuild the town.”

  He motioned to a younger garrison soldier fidgeting with his matchlock. “That one. Put him under someone steadier. First sign of movement and he’ll shoot a chimney.”

  Lucien nodded and moved off, issuing commands while Caelan’s eyes remained fixed on the tree line of Verdainne—black and still, like a wall of waiting breath.

  (Selene's POV)

  Elsewhere in town, Selene slipped into the back entrance of a storage house just off the main square. It wasn’t marked as anything special, but those who dealt in whispers knew it housed one of the quieter informants in Montrevelle—Armand, the same man she’d mentioned to "Pierre" and "Louis" two nights ago.

  He was already there, sorting through a stack of coded documents by candlelight.

  “Took you long enough,” Armand grunted, not looking up.

  “I didn’t come to chat,” Selene said, pulling her cloak off and tossing it on a crate. “The Duke’s son is here.”

  That made Armand pause.

  “I’ve been tracking movements all day. Guards tightening patterns. Garrison messengers leaving at dawn. And there’s one new face walking around with a commander’s authority who doesn’t appear on any of the Baron's rosters. Scarred. Sharp. And his friend’s a Forneaux knight. One of the two people I encountered two nights ago.”

  “Pierre and Louis?” Armand asked with a dry chuckle.

  “Yes, and I suspect that the one with the scar I mentioned is probably the Duke’s son.” She crossed her arms. “So tell me. What’s the Duke’s heir doing hiding in plain sight while the threat from the forest creeps closer?”

  Armand gave her a long look. “You want to get involved in that mess?”

  She didn’t answer directly. Her expression said enough.

  Dusk Falls

  Back on the town wall, Caelan stood watching the sunset bleed orange and red across the rooftops.

  The first wave of night patrols were heading to their assigned positions. Matchlocks were checked. Lanterns trimmed. Sandbags doubled.

  The town was tense—quiet, but in that charged way a battlefield went silent moments before a charge.

  Lucien joined him again, carrying a short spyglass.

  “Nothing so far,” he said. “But I don’t like the wind. It’s wrong tonight.”

  Caelan didn’t respond at first. He took the spyglass and swept it across the forest edge. Still nothing. But he felt it too—that subtle wrongness, like the forest was holding its breath.

  Then, from somewhere near the outer rooftops, a sharp bang echoed. Not a shot—something falling. A shout followed. And then another.

  Caelan spun around. “Sound the signal bell. Now.”

  A bell began to ring once—twice—across the rooftops.

  And then silence.

  End of the Chapter