Adius let out a yawn as he adjusted himself atop his horse, shoulders rolling lazily. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, already heavy with fatigue.

“I’d better not hear a single complaint until we make camp,” Thallan said, tone even but with a faint smile betraying his amusement. “You’re the one who insisted on another round after another and couldn’t accept your loss.”

“I thought if we kept going, you’d eventually tire out,” Adius muttered, narrowing his eyes in a thin-lipped glare. “But it seems the walking wall has stamina to match his stubbornness.” With a huff, he nudged his horse forward, just enough to break the even pace they’d shared.

They had ridden since Matins, and by the hour of Terce the sun had begun to crest over the hills, casting warmth across the chain of armored men weaving through the path toward Mirelen.

The vanguard led the way—banners raised, hooves steady—followed by the middle ranks and then the rearguard of each vassal’s retinue. It would be a fortnight before they reached their destination. The days blurred together in saddle-bound hours, the nights marked by brief rest. At Vespers, they would break to make camp. By Matins, they were already mounting again beneath pale, drowsy skies.

The journey was, for the most part, uneventful. But now and then, their path twisted into conflict. Ambushes sprung by trolls or goblins—low-thinking pests who mistook the armored column for merchant caravans—ended swiftly, their traps broken by steel and discipline. At times, more dangerous beasts crossed their route: a mantic hound lurking near the wooded ridge, a hornback wyrm stirred from its nest, or the rare duskprowler slinking too close to a village. Some threats came by chance; others were brought to them—villagers kneeling in the dust, hailing the mass of knights as a sign from the gods, an answer to their unanswered prayers.

They could not refuse. They would not turn away. It was the oath that bound them—unyielding, absolute. A knight existed for one purpose alone: to stand between humanity and the monsters that would devour it.

Thallan’s hearing picked up on a faint cry in the distance. The forest had grown denser over the past league, its foliage thick and shadows deeper now that the sun had risen high behind the canopy. Trees clawed at the sky in clusters, and the path behind them was already swallowed by green.

The sound—thin and warbled, like the whimper of a child or a woman—came from off the trail. But there were no villages this deep between the valleys and the mountains that loomed ahead like jagged teeth. No homesteads. No reason for such a voice to exist. He tugged lightly on the reins, slowing his horse.

“Did you hear that?” he muttered, more to himself than to Sebastian.

More likely than not, it was a trap. A lure meant to draw foolish men off the road. He’d heard of such things during his studies with his father. Beasts bred from shadow and bone, trained by instinct to exploit mercy.

Wyrlings, they were called—small, hunched creatures with limbs too long for their torsos, and hollow ribs that echoed with the cries of the helpless. They traveled in packs, often letting one cry out while the others circled, waiting. To knights, the sound was hard to ignore. That was the point. It was almost always a child’s voice.

Then there were the Silkenhowlers, rarer still. Gaunt and pale, with faces like wet linen and no true mouths to speak of. They didn’t mimic strangers. No, the voices they used were pulled from memory. From grief. From failure. They whispered in the tongue of the ones you couldn’t save.

Thallan straightened in his saddle, the hair at the nape of his neck rising. Whatever it was, it was close. He cast a look toward the trees—noticing now that even the birds had fallen silent.

Sebastian’s horse slowed to match Thallan’s pace. “What is it?” he asked, voice hushed as his gaze followed Thallan’s, scanning the dense wall of trees.

“I heard a cry,” Thallan said plainly, eyes never leaving the woods. No one else seemed to react—either they hadn’t heard it, or they were keeping it to themselves. “Wyrling, most likely. It’s been silent since the first call and hasn’t tried another lure.”

Sebastian exhaled through his nose. “With wyrlings, the first cry you hear is never really meant for you. It’s a beacon, meant to draw the others. But the laugh… the laugh is for you. That means they’ve got you right where they want you.”

His gaze swept over the nearby riders, measuring the mood. No tension. No unease. Not yet. The trees offered perfect cover—thick-limbed, overgrown. Ideal for creatures that climbed and pounced from above.

“You’re probably right,” Sebastian said, his voice low and serious. “Only reason you caught it is because of your blood.” Sebastian continued, “How many men would you need to handle this without bringing the whole procession to a halt? The fewer who enter that forest, the fewer who risk being marked.”

Wyrlings weren’t just pack beasts. If they got so much as a drop of your blood, a sliver of flesh, a single hair slick with sweat—they could follow you across leagues. And they would. Not alone, either. With every step they gained, they’d grow their pack, drawing others to the scent until they could swarm and end you.

“Three swordsmen,” Thallan said. “And give me Adius.”

Sebastian’s gaze lingered on him for a beat before he nodded. “Do it quick, then meet us ahead. Last thing we need is for them to follow us to camp and slip in after dark.” Without another word, his horse moved ahead, likely to inform the other vassals of the situation in hushed tones.

“Adius,” Thallan called, guiding his horse forward until he rode beside the younger knight. “Come.” He gave a short nod toward the treeline.

“Why?” Adius frowned, his brows pulling together.

“It was an order, not a suggestion,” Thallan replied, voice even, before motioning to three more knights to break off with them.

They veered from the main path, steering closer to the forest’s edge—near enough to be watchful, but not so close as to be reckless. Their pace slowed until they stopped entirely. Thallan dismounted first. The others followed suit.

Before Thallan could speak, another cry echoed through the trees—clearer this time, unmistakable. The lure.

All four froze, the sound cutting straight through the hush. The others instinctively straightened, falling silent as Thallan adjusted Ghealach’s reins with calm precision.

“D-Did you hear that?” Collin asked, his voice low. His brown eyes stayed fixed on the woods, wide and uneasy.