As the council meeting drew to a close, Knight-Commander Halric Dorne wasted no time.

  Outside the keep, beneath the fading light of day, he addressed three of his knights—Sir Edric Caelwyn, a seasoned rider known for his sharp instincts; Dame Rheya Velt, calm and observant; and Sir Renric Fenmore, youngest but steadfast. Six guards stood at the ready, already armed and mounted.

  “You leave immediately,” Halric ordered, his voice low and firm. “Take the south road. Ride hard, but keep sharp. Set camp if you must, but don’t engage unless necessary. I want answers—before the sun rises.”

  The knights saluted. “Yes, Commander.”

  “To the east,” Halric turned to two other knights—Sir Weylan Kael and Sir Aldrin Fenn. “Check on the wardens at Eastpost. No word since last night. Four guards will accompany you.”

  They nodded and mounted their horses without question.

  Nearby, Master Ronan Voss was already moving. He pulled aside a trio of his most trusted city guards. “Dig into that wagon. Find out what you can—blood stains, broken crates, anything out of place. And talk to the warden who saw it first. Someone might’ve missed something.”

  Night fell swiftly as the southern-bound group passed through the outer gates of Karmine. Lanterns flickered in the distance behind them, the last light of civilization giving way to the thick hush of the wild.

  The moon was high by the time the riders reached the stretch of road where the merchant convoy had vanished.

  The scent hit them first—burnt wood and something acrid beneath it. The wind carried the metallic tang of blood.

  The six guards dismounted, lanterns held high, casting golden halos across the wreckage. Their boots crunched over shattered crates and splintered wood. One wagon had overturned, its wheels still slowly turning in the breeze. Another lay in ruins, the fire long dead but the wood blackened and warped.

  Sir Edric crouched near a twisted piece of armor, his gauntlet brushing aside soot. “They didn’t run,” he said grimly. “They were cut down where they stood.”

  Dame Rheya knelt by a nearby gouge in the earth—long, curved, and claw-marked. “This wasn’t a skirmish. It was a slaughter. Whatever did this was fast. Strong. Not bandits.”

  Sir Renric swept his lantern around the area, the light catching on a blood-slicked wheel hub. “There’s no sign of struggle beyond this point. Whatever hit them, hit hard and left fast.”

  Near the rear of the overturned wagon, one of the guards gave a sharp whistle.

  “Over here!”

  The group rushed over. Half-buried beneath broken wood and canvas, a man lay sprawled in the dirt. His leg was crushed, twisted at an unnatural angle, and his clothes were soaked in blood. One arm was limp. His eyes fluttered open weakly as their lights touched his face.

  “He’s still breathing…” Renric murmured, kneeling.

  Sir Edric crouched beside him. “Name?”

  The man coughed, his voice dry and ragged. “Derren… caravan driver…”

  “You’re safe now,” Rheya said softly, touching his shoulder.

  Derren’s gaze flicked toward the sky, panic tightening his voice. “It… flew. From the sky… black wings. Eyes glowing. It wasn’t a beast—it thought. It knew.”

  He passed out before they could ask more.

  Silence fell. The grass whispered. A cold wind stirred the ash.

  Sir Edric stood, frowning. “Secure the area. Patch him up—use a healing potion if we have one. We camp here tonight. At first light, we ride back to Karmine with this man.”

  The guards moved quickly, setting up a perimeter, gathering what supplies hadn’t been ruined. A fire was started. Tents were pitched just beyond the wreckage. The wounded man was laid on a padded cloak and wrapped in blankets, watched over by two guards.

  The knights sat near the fire, warming their hands and taking turns on watch. Two other guards tended the horses.

  One of the younger guards, Harlen, spoke up, staring at the tent where the wounded man lies. “you think he’ll make it?”

  “He has to,” Edric replied. “He’s the only witness.”

  “What about the creature?” another guard asked. “The one the survivor mentioned. Black wings. Gold eyes. Thought like a person.”

  Rheya’s expression darkened. “That’s what unsettles me most. Not just that it killed—but how it killed. With precision. Power. Intent.”

  Edric’s voice dropped low. “It wasn’t hunting. It knew exactly what it was doing.”

  A heavy silence settled over the camp.

  “I’ll scout the area,” Renric said, rising. “Look for traces. We might get something.”

  “Take two guards with you,” Edric said. “Be careful. Tread lightly.”

  “Keep within shouting range. Whatever it was… we’re not sure it’s gone,” He added.

  The three rose and moved into the darkening plain, lanterns casting soft glows over the swaying grass as they followed a worn trail. Sparse trees stood like silent sentinels, their shadows long in the fading light.

  Rheya remained by the fire, her gaze lingering on the trail where Renric and the two guards had vanished into the night. The faint glow of their lanterns still bobbed in the distance, flickering like fireflies before slowly fading into shadow.

  Behind her, the remaining guards had gathered in a loose circle around the campfire. Armor loosened, cloaks drawn tight against the cold, but swords and shields never more than an arm’s length away. Sir Edric poured water into a tin cup, steam curling into the chill air, before handing it to one of the men and settling beside Rheya.

  “Still thinking about what the caravan driver said?” he asked quietly.

  Rheya nodded, her eyes on the firelight. “Black wings… gold eyes… had a mind of its own. I just wish we knew more.”

  Edric’s gaze stayed fixed on the flames. “Creatures that kill on instinct leave chaos. This one left silence. That’s what worries me.”

  One of the guards leaned in, voice hushed. “You think it’ll come back?”

  Edric didn’t answer right away. He stared out into the darkness. “If it comes back, we meet it on our feet—not with fear, but steel.”

  Silence filled the cold air.

  Before anyone could speak again, a faint rustling rose from the grass beyond the camp.

  Several guards reached for their weapons. The firelight danced across drawn steel. But then a familiar voice called out from the dark.

  “It’s us,” Renric said, stepping into view with the two guards close behind. “We circled a wide perimeter. No signs of a struggle, no movement. The tracks end too cleanly… like whatever did this left without touching the ground.”

  “No signs of pursuit?” Edric asked.

  “None. It’s like it came and went with the wind,” one of the guards muttered, clearly unsettled.

  Edric gave a nod. “Then we rest for now. Two on watch at all times. We leave at first light.”

  The camp gradually settled. The wounded driver lay wrapped in cloaks beside the fire, his breathing shallow but steady. The knights and guards took shifts through the night, some dozing in turns, others staring into the dark with one hand on hilt.

  Harlen sat by the fire alongside one of the guards, both keeping watch. Rheya rested nearby—eyes half-lidded but alert, her hand never far from her blade.

  Hours later, with the moon still high in the night sky and the fire burned low, a deep, guttural growl broke the stillness—low and distant, rising from the southern plain like a warning carried on the wind.

  Another growl followed. Then another. Closer. Heavier.

  The camp snapped to life.

  Guards scrambled to their feet. Cloaks were thrown off, weapons were drawn in a flurry of motion.

  “Positions! Tight circle around the fire!” Edric barked, already on his feet, sword drawn and eyes scanning the horizon.

  “Protect the survivor!” Rheya shouted, stepping in front of the injured driver, her sword flashing in the firelight.

  Boots pounded the ground. Lanterns were lifted, casting long shadows through the tall grass. The camp bristled with tension as the growls grew louder—then suddenly, from the darkness, they appeared.

  Four grotesque shadow creatures burst from the night, long-limbed and gaunt, eyes like dying embers. Twisted remnants of the witch’s legion, fiends born of corruption, still prowling the land by night.

  They moved quickly, surrounding the camp, low to the ground like predators ready to strike. Their snarls rising as they drew closer.

  "Steady!" Edric shouted, sweeping his sword in front of him. "Eyes sharp!"

  Without warning, the first creature lunged.

  Steel met claws in a furious clash. Sparks flew. One of the guards was slammed to the ground with a howl—barely defending himself with his sword from the barrage of claws, before being driven off by a blow from Rheya’s sword, hitting its leg. The guard had cuts on his arms, blood flowing to his shoulders. Another swiped at Rheya, who parried the strike and countered with a slash to its shoulder. The thing hissed, black smoke leaking from the wound.

  A third leapt at Edric, and he met it head-on, bracing with both hands on his broadsword. Steel clashed with claw. He ducked just in time to avoid a second swipe, then drove his blade deep into its belly—staggering the creature. It shrieked in pain but kept fighting.

  Nearby, Harlen—one of the younger guards—cried out as the fourth creature slammed into him, driving him to the ground with a savage snarl. Claws raked across his side, and blood sprayed across the dirt. Rheya turned at the sound and charged, sword in hand. She drove her blade deep into the creature’s flank. It shrieked and leapt back, wounded but not yet finished. Harlen lay still in the dirt, eyes open, breath shallow—awake, but his body would not answer.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Another guard cried out as the second creature slashed and caught his left arm—he staggered, but stayed on his feet, gritting her teeth and keeping his sword leveled.

  Renric moved swiftly, with blades flashing through the gloom, he severed the creature’s arm and kicked it back into the firelight, where it writhed and shrieked before turning to smoke. Finally, with a well-timed thrust, Renric impaled the creature through the chest. It convulsed, letting out a shriek before dissolving into smoke.

  The fight dragged on. Every breath came with effort, every clash of steel a battle for survival.

  The first shadow creature leapt at Derren—the wounded driver—but Rheya stepped-in between them with her sword raised, blocking the attack. She deflected the blow, her boots skidding in the dirt from the force.

  The creature hissed, its glowing eyes narrowing. It lunged again, this time faster, its gaping maw opening wide. Rheya ducked low and slashed upward in a tight arc, her blade carving across the beast’s side. It shrieked, staggering back—but not down.

  With a sharp breath, she pressed forward. A feint to the left. A strike to the right. Sparks flew as her blade clashed again with its claws. It retaliated, swiping wildly and grazing her shoulder plate, the force sending her stumbling back a step.

  But Rheya didn’t falter.

  She stepped into the next swing, twisted past the creature’s reach, and drove her sword up beneath its ribcage. The blade punched through with a gurgling crunch.

  The shadow creature spasmed, black mist pouring from its wound. Rheya stomped her boot on its chest and yanked her blade free. It writhed once—and then stilled, dissolving into smoke.

  Breathing hard, she turned back to Derren, her eyes lingering on the unconscious driver as she stood guard.

  Happening at the same time, the third creature lunged again at Edric. He twisted aside, its claws grazing his left arm. He gritted his teeth, countering with a wide arc of his blade that forced the creature back a step.

  They circled each other, firelight flickering in the distance. The beast feinted, then slashed low. Edric blocked, boots digging into the dirt as sparks flew. With a grunt, he shoved forward, throwing the creature off-balance.

  It snapped at his throat—too close.

  He dropped low, rolled beneath its reach, and came up behind it. One clean strike—shoulder to hip.

  The creature froze mid-snarl. Then it wailed and crumpled to the ground, its form unraveling into smoke, hissing into the cold night air.

  Edric stood over it, chest heaving, blood trickling down his forearm. He turned toward the fire, sword still in hand, his eyes scanning the battlefield.

  Think.

  Rheya—she’d taken one down and was guarding the wounded driver. Good.

  Renric—his blade was bloodied, another beast slain at his feet.

  Three guards injured. One couldn’t move.

  Then he saw it—three guards locked in a desperate struggle with the last remaining shadow creature.

  Edric’s grip tightened on his sword.

  It wasn’t over yet.

  Three guards stood shoulder to shoulder, weapons raised, their boots shifting against bloodied earth as the last shadow creature circled them like a predator scenting weakness.

  It lunged.

  Steel rang out as one guard deflected the first strike, nearly losing his grip as the creature's claws tore a groove in his shield. Another guard swung his sword, grazing the creature’s shoulder—but it barely flinched.

  The youngest of the three stumbled, tripping over a splintered plank from the wreckage. The beast turned on him in an instant.

  “Hold!” the older guard shouted, stepping between them with his sword raised.

  The creature lashed out, claws raking down the man’s bracer. Sparks flew. The blow knocked him sideways, but he held his footing.

  “We can’t hold it!” the youngest cried, scrambling to his feet.

  “Just buy time!” the older one barked, eyes narrowed, blood dripping from his arm.

  The creature came at them again, relentless, forcing them back toward the firelight.

  And just when it seemed the guards would break, heavy boots pounded behind them—

  “Move!” came Edric’s voice, cutting through the noise like steel through cloth.

  The three guards dropped aside as Edric charged in, broadsword flashing. The creature met him with a savage snarl, claws slashing in a blur.

  But a second blade struck from the side—Renric.

  With no warning, he flanked the creature, slashing across its ribs. It shrieked and staggered, just long enough for Edric to press the attack.

  They moved in tandem—Renric driving the creature back with sharp precision, Edric following with the weight of judgment.

  The beast lunged, aiming for Renric’s head. He ducked, rolled beneath its arm, and slashed its thigh. It twisted toward him—only for Edric to drive his blade down into its back.

  A howl tore through the camp. The creature writhed, staggered... then collapsed, dissolving into black smoke.

  Silence returned, broken only by the crackle of fire and the heaving breaths of those still standing.

  Renric straightened beside Edric, panting.

  “You took your time,” he muttered.

  Edric exhaled, glancing at the fading smoke. “Figured you could use the help.”

  The guards lowered their weapons, exhausted but alive.

  Edric looked around the camp, gaze sharp.

  “No more,” he said quietly. “Not tonight.”

  He stepped forward. “We can’t stay here,” Edric said, wiping blood from his blade. “Not after this. We move. Now.”

  Rheya was already at the side of the downed guard—Harlen—binding his wounds quickly with practiced hands.

  “We can’t ride hard with him like this,” she said.

  Edric rushed over to her, where Harlen lay near the fire, clutching his side.

  “He’s fading fast.”

  She uncorked the last healing potion and administered it carefully.

  “He’s bad, but stable for now.”

  Renric stepped forward. “We’ve got three injured guards—one badly—and an unconscious driver. It’ll be hard to move through the night.”

  “Then we’ll haul them,” Edric decided. “Flip the wagon. Load them both.”

  The three abled guards moved quickly. The overturned wagon was righted with grunts and strained shoulders. Two horses were hitched to the front. Derren, still unconscious, and Harlen were laid gently in the back, bundled with cloaks and spare blankets. The remaining salvageable supplies were stacked carefully around them.

  Rheya turned to the lightly injured guard, who had shallow cuts along his arms. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I can manage,” the guard replied.

  “Here, take this.” She handed him her spare salve—they had run out of healing potions. “It’ll help with the cuts.”

  Renric knelt beside the guard with the gashed arm, helping him bind the wound. “Can you ride?”

  The man hissed as he flexed his hand but nodded. “Yes, sir. I can still fight.”

  “Then mount up. You’ll ride beside me.”

  As the camp broke down, the formation fell into place:

  Edric led the front with two guards.

  The wagon rolled behind him, driven by another, with Harlen and Derren wrapped in blankets inside.

  Rheya and the lightly injured guard rode on either side of the wagon.

  Renric and one last guard took up the rear.

  The wheels creaked. The horses snorted. The road stretched long and dark ahead.

  They moved slowly through the night. The wounded groaned with every jolt of the wagon wheels, pain drawn deep across their faces.

  Their path skirted the ridge, the high slope looming to their left, casting long shadows beneath the moonlight.

  Hours passed. The stars wheeled above. The grass whispered beneath hooves and wheels.

  Partway into their journey, Rheya turned, brow furrowed. She leaned toward the wagon, watching Derren’s shallow breaths—Harlen’s face drawn tight with pain.

  Her voice cut through the quiet. “They won’t hold much longer… This pace is too much for them.”

  Edric turned in his saddle, his gaze hard. They were still far from Karmine—and time was slipping through their fingers.

  His jaw tightened. “We’ll stop when we near the end of the ridge.”

  They stopped at the roadside, just opposite the ridge. The air was colder here, with a breeze brushing through the tall grass. They gathered off the path, in the lee of a slope, where the wind wouldn't cut as deep.

  A small fire was kindled. Renric sat beside it with the guard whose arm had been gashed—he was quiet, face pale, his arm bound in fresh wrappings. The others rested in near silence.

  Edric stood apart, eyes sweeping the darkness, broadsword resting across his shoulder. His jaw was tight, every muscle in his stance wound with tension.

  He turned to two of the remaining guards. “Check the area. Search for herbs—anything we can use for pain or fever.”

  The two nodded and slipped into the night, keeping low as they moved into the brush.

  Rheya climbed onto the back of the wagon, careful not to jostle it too much. The fire cast long shadows over the crates and blankets.

  She placed a lantern atop one of the crates, its glow soft and steady. She knelt beside Derren first, checking his breathing. Shallow, but steady. His brow was damp with fever.

  Then she moved to Harlen. His face was tight with pain, teeth clenched even in sleep. She gently peeled back the cloak covering his side, lifting the bloodstained bandage. The wound looked angry. She reached for her satchel, applying more salve.

  Once finished, she turned her attention to the stacked crates around them. Her fingers moved over wooden lids, prying open one after another—cloth, tools, dried goods… a small vial of tincture, tucked beneath a bundle of old linen. She took it quickly, checking the label. Some relief, perhaps.

  Then a faint voice reached her.

  “Dame Rheya…”

  She turned. Harlen’s eyes were half-lidded, awake but weak.

  “Don’t speak,” she said, reaching for a waterskin.

  “Wh… where are we?”

  “Near the edge of the ridge,” she replied softly. “We couldn’t go further, not with your wound. We’ve made camp until we find a way to move again.”

  At the fire, Renric stirred. “I’ll ride ahead,” he offered. “Hard and fast. I can reach Karmine before dawn, bring back help. We can meet along the road.”

  Edric hesitated, jaw tight. Clearly torn.

  Harlen’s voice rasped again. “Northwest… of here. There’s a house. Just past the ridge. Quiet place… I passed it once… on patrol.”

  Rheya froze. “A house? Out here?”

  Harlen gave the smallest nod, struggling. “Smoke… from the chimney, sometimes…”

  “Easy now,” she murmured, easing him back against the wagon. But her gaze drifted toward the ridge, thoughtful.

  A house, this far out?

  The fire crackled. In the distance, a lone bird cried into the night—then fell silent.

  Rheya stared into the dark.

  If the house was real… maybe they didn’t have to wait.

  Maybe help was closer than they thought.

  From the fire, the guard with the gashed arm shifted. “I’ve heard talk in town. They say a woman lives out there. Alone.”

  Another guard chimed in, his voice low. “Some say she’s a healer. Others say… a witch.”

  Sir Renric gave a soft snort. “That’s just tavern talk. Every town has a ‘witch in the woods’ story.”

  The youngest guard hesitated. “I don’t know. If she is a witch… what if she’s involved in all this?”

  “Maybe,” Rheya said, standing on the wagon, eyes on the firelight. “But whoever she is… she might have something that could help the wounded.”

  Sir Edric stood. “Then we’re not leaving it to chance.”

  He pointed toward the ridge. “Renric. Take two guards and ride hard. Follow the northwest path. Approach the house quietly—don’t spook her. If she’s a threat, you’ll know. If not… she might be the only help we’ve got.”

  He paused. “And if she has supplies—herbs, potions, anything to treat wounds—see if she’ll spare some. The driver and Harlen won’t last long without proper care.”

  Rheya nodded. “Even a salve or poultice could make a difference until we reach Karmine.”

  Renric gave a curt nod. “We’ll return before dawn.”

  Sir Renric and the two guards wasted no time. They mounted swiftly and rode hard, northwest, over the ridge. The night air cut cold against their cloaks, the wind snapping through tall grass as the slope fell away into open plain. The moon hung high overhead, casting pale silver across the land. Owl cries echoed distantly. Branches swayed gently in the breeze, rustling like whispers.

  Before them, the wide plains stretched out like a sea of shadows. Sparse trees rose from the earth, and in the distance, a lone oak stood against the sky, its silhouette dark and unmistakable. Just below it, stood a small house—still and quiet.

  Their pace slowed slightly as they approached.

  Halfway there, one of the guards spoke, breaking the silence.

  “Say... what if she really is a witch?” His voice was uncertain, tinged with the weight of rumor.

  Renric didn’t slow. “Stop talking nonsense.” His tone was sharp but even. “And if she is, what do you suggest we do? Burn her house down?”

  “I’m just saying,” the guard continued in a low voice. “You hear things in town. A woman living out here, all alone—no one knows her name.”

  The second guard gave a nervous chuckle. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone blamed a healer for things they didn’t understand.”

  The first guard shrugged. “I just think,” voice quieter now, “that if she really is a witch, she won’t be happy we’re knocking on her door in the dead of night.”

  Renric’s tone was even but firm. “We’re not here to accuse anyone. We’re here because two men might die without help. If she has herbs, or better yet potions, anything—then we ask. If not, we ride back.”

  The first guard hesitated, then added quietly, “What if she’s the one responsible? For the wreckage, I mean. That thing the driver spoke of—black wings, glowing eyes. What if she summoned it?”

  Renric reined in slightly, his gaze never leaving the distant oak and the dark shape of the house beyond. “If she’s hostile,” he said, voice low and steady, “she’ll meet the blade.”

  The second guard shifted in his saddle. “You really think one woman could do all that?”

  Renric’s eyes narrowed. “I think we don’t know enough to assume anything. That’s why we knock first… and draw second.”

  The wind picked up, rustling the grass around them. A lone owl hooted from the trees ahead, then fell silent.

  They rode on, hooves muffled against the soft earth, the house drawing ever nearer. No lights. No movement. Just the silent silhouette beneath the great oak, still as stone beneath the moonlit sky.

  As they neared, the shape of the bungalow came into clearer view—nestled beneath the sweeping branches like a child under a watchful guardian. The garden was neat and thriving, its rows of herbs and vegetables flourishing even in the dim light. The whole place radiated peace and serenity.

  Renric narrowed his eyes, brow drawn.

  Looks normal enough, he thought.

  The house looked untouched by time. No lamps lit the windows. No sound from within.

  He dismounted first, boots crunching softly against the dirt. The two guards followed, their movements cautious. Weapons sheathed, but hands never far from the hilts.

  Renric stepped to the door and knocked twice, firm and measured. The sound echoed off the wood and into the silence.

  Nothing.

  He knocked again, louder this time. Still no answer.

  The first guard glanced around. “You sure someone lives here?”

  The second one added, more quietly, “It doesn’t feel empty.”

  Renric stepped back, gaze sweeping the windows. “Seems like no one’s home.”

  They stood in silence, only the rustle of leaves breaking the stillness.

  “Should we check inside?” the first guard asked, already reaching for the handle.

  Then—a woman’s voice, calm and smooth, came from somewhere nearby.

  “There’s no need to break the door.”