They emerged from the trees one by one, their gear gleaming only as much as needed, no more: hardened leather breastplates, half-helms that spared their vision yet offered no shield against the rain, and broad-bladed knives, heavier than suited for single combat, bound to their thighs with straps frayed by wear. As they reached the camp's edge, no words were exchanged; instead, they aligned in silent order behind the horse standing at the forefront, watching their last companion hasten towards them, wiping mud from his hand onto his cloak until he reached the rider seated in the saddle.

"Nothing." he reported.

The rider, upon hearing this, showed neither movement nor change, for the news was as expected, its outcome known before it was spoken. He merely extended his gaze to the horizon through his red locks, having removed his helm in vexation at the summer's heat and its redundancy. Then, lowering his eyes, he cast a glance at his band and said, "We'll veer to the right for a look before returning to our course."

He did not turn to see the discontent on their faces. Marco was the first to let out an audible sigh: "Again…" he muttered, not so quietly that it escaped Matteo's ears, though the latter chose to ignore it deliberately. He knew the man meant to be heard, not punished.

"Why always again?" Marco pressed.

Girolamo shot him a look, a silent rebuke folded within it. Good, Matteo thought, at least one of them knows the boundaries.

But Marco merely shrugged in irritation. He was weary of chasing phantoms.

Rami, standing beside Matteo, voiced their doubts plainly: "Is this truly necessary?"

No… but Matteo could not admit it. Instead, he said, "We've done this before…" and left it at that, for he knew, as they did, that they were pursuing a hopeless endeavour. Yet he was willing to persist, if only to honour the memory of the lost knight.

He paused, seeing the silent frustration in their eyes—not defiance, but a muted groan. 
He looked at their faces. Mud-streaked. Hollowed by weeks of
pointless searching.

They'd obey. They always did.
He could remain silent; as their leader, it was natural for him to be the most aware of the futility of their task. But they did not see that in him.
A leader must not only know but speak. To the men, silence was weakness, though to the wise it might be prudence. This was their first mission together, his first time leading them. They still weighed him by his words as much as by his sword, judged what he said as keenly as what he did.

They needed him to remind them that he saw what they saw, feared what they feared—even if it was obvious, even if his fears were entirely different from theirs.

"More than once. This is our fourth campaign, perhaps the fifth, but…" He gripped the reins of his lost comrade's horse, trying to guide it. At first, it resisted, so he tugged harder until it yielded reluctantly. Then, bowing his head slightly, he whispered soothing words to it. He looked at each of them in turn.

But if this mission failed—when it failed—the nobles would
shrug and find another scapegoat. Matteo's title would survive.
His men's futures?

Less certain.

They knew it too. He could see it in Marco's tight jaw, in the
way Rami watched him without quite meeting his eyes.

So he chose his words carefully. No grand speeches about duty
or honor—that was for generals begging peasants to die for
their land. He wasn't begging.

"This is a knight who fell. Our duty is to bring him back."

Plain. Direct. It united them under the banner of duty and reminded them of the goal, not the consequences.

Then, because loyalty needed feeding: "We can take half a day's rest when we return to the course."

He sensed a slight relief as some of the grumbling faded from their faces. Half a day's rest—a fair price for fleeting loyalty.

He patted his horse's mane gently, turning to lead the march, when he halted abruptly. There, at the edge of the horizon, a shadow limped towards them with effort. The axe dangling at its hip marked it as a woodcutter. Matteo gestured to it and ordered Rami to investigate.

Rami, who had also noticed the figure, responded at once, striding forward with wide steps, subtly swaying his left hand near his stomach—a movement that kept a smaller, concealed dagger within reach, hidden in the inner folds of his cloak, should the need arise.

The knight watched from atop his horse in silence, observing the woodcutter as he drew closer, his weary features growing clearer in the fading sunlight. The woodcutter stopped abruptly upon spotting them, his eyes widening in terror. Yet his gaze soon shifted from the entire band to Rami, who advanced towards him, halting an arm's length away.

Rami noted the woodcutter's stare fixed on the dagger at his hip, then how his trembling hand slid to his axe, gripping it without drawing. It was a purely defensive gesture, fitting his stance. So Rami extended his hand slowly, revealing an empty palm, and placed it gently on the woodcutter's slanted shoulder.

"Take a moment," he said, letting the man catch his ragged breaths.

He cast a quick glance behind to ensure nothing had escaped his notice. "What are you fleeing from?" he added. "There's nothing behind you."

His words seemed to calm the woodcutter slightly, who drew a deep breath, though a pained exhale cut it short. Rami's attention fell to the man's limping leg, wrapped in a torn cloth stained a dark brown. "This wound…" Rami continued, guiding him back towards the band. "What caused it?"

This time, the woodcutter did not hesitate as Rami shifted his supporting hand from shoulder to back. Realising the danger had passed, he draped his arm over Rami's shoulders, leaning his weight on him, whispering broken thanks. But Rami pressed, "How were you injured?"

The woodcutter answered in an exhausted voice, "In the village… something happened." He paused before adding cautiously, "You… where are you from?"

"A scouting party from the capital," Rami replied. "We seek the knight who slew the dragon, and now we've come across you."

"Wait." The woodcutter let out a stunned whistle. "The dragon was slain? Truly? Did it not destroy a fortress only recently?"

The disbelief in his tone was clear, and Rami understood it, for the beast's devastation had lingered so long it had become part of everyone's existence. But his aim was not to trade news, so he gave a quick nod of confirmation. He meant to steer the conversation back: "Yes, before—" but the woodcutter cut in, "But… why seek him? Did he do something wrong?"

A clever, evasive question.

"No, no…" Rami replied, deciding to offer an answer regardless. "It's only that we haven't found him, as we found the dragon's corpse. We're scouts, not warriors…" He forced the talk back to its course. "And so I wondered if your injury was related. Have you seen anything that might aid us? You're near the place of the dragon's death."

"I saw nothing of that…" the woodcutter continued, wiping sweat from his face with his sleeve. "My injury was from—wait, you said it happened near here?"

The response caught Rami off guard; he hadn't expected a meaningful reply, given weeks had passed since the event. Is he dodging again? But the man's tone suggested he'd stumbled upon something. Rami answered carefully, "Yes, in the very lands of the fortress you mentioned."

The words seemed to please the woodcutter. "Near the village, then…" he muttered, as if speaking to himself. "Are dragons magical? I mean… do they return as spirits? Or perhaps leave curses when they die?"

Rami faltered for a moment. He'd anticipated evasion, not this sharp turn. Magical dragons? Perhaps—they breathe fire and soar despite their bulk. But he was no sorcerer to know for certain. He'd never heard of a dragon turning into a spirit or cursing like a witch; he couldn't even imagine it. Fortunately, they had neared the band, so Rami decided to end the exchange and leave the questioning to the leader.

He eased the woodcutter's heavy arm, who remained leaning on him half a step, dragging his injured leg through the dirt. The knight gave him a brief moment to collect himself, then spoke clearly, "What is your name, and how are you known?"

"Stefano, my lord…" the woodcutter tried to match the tone, but his voice trembled. "A woodcutter from Vineyard Village."

Matteo nodded, satisfied. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Stefano… Now, tell me, what affliction has befallen you?"

The question, though expected, seemed to unsettle Stefano. His eyes flickered, searching for a fitting response. "I think it's the dragon's curse, my lord. Our village…" His words rushed out. "Something magical is happening, but I fled, so I don't know…" His body shook with exhaustion. "Could it be spirits?"

When he finished his rambling, he looked at Matteo and Rami, pleading for confirmation, as if they could make sense of his broken words…

Rami cast a sidelong glance at Matteo, suggesting that the knight's noble words had borne little fruit. Though Matteo showed no overt irritation, his drooping eyelids betrayed his waning patience. Yet he swiftly masked them, leaping from his saddle and grasping Stefano's shoulder, who flinched back a step.

"You seem burdened by weakness," Matteo said. "Rest until your strength returns, then we shall speak at leisure." He turned to one of his men. "Girolamo, can you tend to him?"

The band's physician stepped forward, waving a hand. "Here, I'll see what I can do." He moved between Rami and Stefano, taking the woodcutter's arm to aid his steps, coaxing him with a question: "Come now, when were you injured…?"

The two watched as Girolamo led him away, then Matteo turned to face the plains, exhaling heavily. "You may mock now."

Rami pivoted in the same direction, a smile untinged by shame spreading across his face. "Perish the thought, Your Grace."

Matteo let out a dry laugh. "This 'Grace' demands counsel—and what you've gleaned from him."

"Like you, not much…" Rami's smile dimmed. "Only that his village lies near Fort Vila, that he's unaware of the dragon's demise, and that he believes its death caused the affliction that's befallen him. If I were to guess, I'd say it's a blight upon the entire village."

He added cautiously, "And he's suspicious, too."

This caught Matteo's attention. "How so?"

"He's more on edge than suits a man so weary, meeting someone clearly not a brigand," Rami explained. "He stared long at my dagger, ready to fight despite his weakness. He doesn't seem like a woodcutter barely clinging to life."

Matteo fell silent, giving Rami space to offer a stronger reason.

"He was trying to appear as one fleeing something relentless, exhausted beyond measure," Rami continued, emphasising 'trying' for Matteo to catch. "He had time to tear his cloth and bind his wound, yet behind him stretch only open plains, hiding no ambush or danger. Still, he ran with that injury as if his life hung by a single step, feigning distress greater than it was. But what baffles me…" He paused, then added, "How did he spot us before we spotted him?"

They were a scouting band on a hill, their position elevated. Even with their focus on the task, they should have noticed him first.

The silence lingered until Matteo broke it curtly: "So, he's lying."

"And hiding something."

Matteo clenched his jaw tightly, a reaction so exaggerated it unsettled Rami. "Will this pose a problem for us?"

"No…" Matteo rubbed his forehead. "I just wished to complete my final mission without complications."

Final mission!