A grove of oak trees lined either side of the road, their heavy branches tangled above, allowing only slivers of moonlight through. Howling winds whistled through the tree tops, trembling branches casting shadows on the ground. Piles of dry withered leaves adorned their bases in a wreath, scattering into the road. Cold winds nip at her cheeks and the tips of her ears, frigid air pricking her lungs with every breath as her tongue darts out to wet cracked lips. Her horse’s hooves thump against the soddened dirt, its grunts joining the distant chorus of frogs croaking and insects chirping, head jerking to the side at every moving shadow or rustling shrub.

“Easy,” she mutters, rubbing her hand along the side of its neck in slow circles. “We will be out of this soon enough.”

Her gaze lingers on the writhing shadows they pass, reins clutched in one hand while the other idly pats the horse’s neck. The road curves and twists through the thicket. A ceiling of branches strangle out the light and her eyes narrow, shoulders drawing up at every rustle or chitter, fingers twitching and leg shaking. As they edge closer to the end of the thicket, the sky opens up, glittering with stars and a full moon hanging high over a small town in the distance. Houses squashed together, surrounded by miles of grassland dotted with trees and ruined buildings swallowed by nature. She tugs at the horse’s reins, bringing it to a stop and stares at the warm amber lights in the distance.

“Do you see those?” She says, patting the horse’s matted mane, her full lips curving into a wry smile. “That is where we’ll go, and you’ll have a proper bath.”

The back of her neck tingles and she scratches it, grumbling beneath her breath as the sensation travels from one side of her neck to the other. Slapping a hand against her nape, she pulls it away and grimaces at the paper-thin wings and smudged remains smeared across her dirt-covered palm. Tugging her braid over her shoulder, she lifts it to her nose, recoiling and dropping it with a grunt.

“And so will I.”

Her horse whinnies and she rolls her eyes, lightly kicking her heels against its side to spur it into a light trot down the hillside. She peers to the side as the horse’s hooves kick up a cloud of dust, following the tracks pressed into the soft dirt with her finger. Some tracks resemble her horse’s hooves while others are thicker. Fruits and vegetables, besieged by flies lay discarded on the side of the road. A ragged squirrel darts across their path, grabbing one of the rotten fruits and escaping into a gaping hollow in the base of a dying tree. Vines coil around its base and hang from thin branches, swaying in the breeze. She slows her horse alongside its trunk, pulling one of the vines down and unsheathing a dagger from the holster on her thigh. Cutting some of the vines loose, she bundles them up in a white cloth and shoves them into a pocket in her saddlebag, sheathing the dagger.

Her horse snuffs and she pats the side of its neck.

“More supplies we have out here, the less we spend in there,” she says, grabbing hold of the reins and preparing to jerk them to the right until a glint of light catches her eye.

Moonlight bathes the world in faint shades of silver and white, silhouettes of dilapidated buildings and trees lingering in the distance. A distant howl echoes across through the treetops, her horse rearing up on its back legs then pacing from left to right. She pets the side of its head, whispering soft reassurances close to its ear, looking around for any sign of predators. Climbing down slowly, she hitches the horse to the tree and pats its side with one hand, the other reaching into the saddlebag and drawing out an apple.

“You’re okay, Bartolomeo,” she mutters, holding it up for him to eat as she pats his side. “Everything is fine, boy.”

Bartolomeo shakes his head a few times, eyes scanning the horizon as they sit in silence, listening to the sounds of insects chirping and wind whistling through the foliage. He bites into the apple and takes it from her hand, chewing as she runs her fingers through his mane, undoing the gnarls and knots quickly.

“It’s peaceful here,” she whispers, looking into the distance. “Solid land, downhill but there are worse places to die.”

A glint of light catches her eye, disappearing just as she turned to get a better look. Another gust of wind picks up, whipping her hair around and Bartolomeo neighs, shaking his head vehemently. She pats his side and shushes him, offering another apple.

“Wait here, this won’t take long,” she assures, patting him between the ears then turning away.

The grass flattens beneath her boots as she ambles towards the glimmering light, eyeing the shadows cast by a structure a few feet away, the stone of the remaining wall singed black while the others were utterly destroyed. She frowns, clenching her jaw and looking away, as the clouds rolled In and hid the moon. Left in the moon’s shade, she draws her dagger from its sheath and shuffles forward, checking over her shoulder with a glance.

 The tip of her boot knocks against something, and as she shifts her foot back, the clouds roll on and she looks down. A shield grounded in the dirt glimmers in the moonlight, a golden lion facing the east stands on its hind legs, claws at the ready. She holsters her dagger, grabbing both sides of the shield and yanking it up, sending clumps of dirt flying everywhere. The silver outline of the shield crusts with dirt and grime, a scowl etched into her features as she runs her fingers over the dirt colored a darker shade of red.

“A quiet place like this,” she mumbles, studying the shield’s broken strap. “Who would’ve thought?”

She holds the halves of the strap tightly, turning away when the glimmer of light returns just at the corner of her eye. Holding the shield at her side, she draws her dagger and treads towards the light. Her eyes widen and lips part as she gets closer and the hilt of a sword comes into view. Its blade rests crookedly in the dirt.

 A silver locket hanging from the remains of a rusted circular pommel, catching the moonlight with every swing. Laying the shield down and sheathing her dagger, she slips the locket from the pommel and cradles it in her palm, running her fingers over the outer casing and turning it over. Undoing the small clasp, it springs open and she tilts it towards the light, squinting at the yellowing picture. 

Two men stand shoulder to shoulder, proudly smiling at whoever took the picture, one stout and brawny while the other was thin and wiry. The stouter man wears a soldier’s uniform, emblazoned with medals and honors on his chest, a crest of a lion on its hind legs embroidered on his sleeve. His companion, wearing a tailored suit, sports a grin wide enough that his cheeks rounded. She glances to the right and squints, the engraving written in scrawl that she can barely make out.

“You have saved me,” she whispers, eyebrows furrowing. “And I will save you.”

She studies the photograph, glancing down at their hands, pinkies wrapped around one another while the rest of their fingers attempted to lay flat. The corner of her lips quirk up and she huffs, wondering if the photographer noticed before or after it was taken. Taking a look at the field, the half-smile dissipates as the moonlight catches on weapons scattered across the field. Some laying on their sides while others are buried in the dirt.

Shields overturned or sat upright, some with arrows sticking from their centers, piercing the lion in its head or body. She bites her lower lip and glances up to the sky. Stars twinkle above, accompanied by the soft hum of insects and whistling winds. Closing her eyes, sharp piercing screams break the silence, sparks fly as iron clashes and bodies fall to crumpled heaps, wide glassy eyes unseeing, pallor skin and faces cemented with horror. She breathes in sharply, the cold air cutting through her skin and soaking into her bones as she fights to breathe.

You are alive, she tells herself. You must stay alive.

Exhaling harshly through her nose, her heads snaps from left to right. Bartolomeo, lingering in the distance, shifts from side to side and neighs loudly. The sound echoes across the plain as he rears up on his back legs then down, kicking backward. She starts jogging over, picking up the pace when a silhouette darts from behind the tree as Bartolomeo tugs at his reins and jerks his head wildly.

“Stop!” She shouts, sliding through the dirt and stumbling over her feet, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared as the silhouette keeps moving.

She almost gives chase until they trip and land in the dirt, scrambling to their feet and running towards the town in the distance. The wind picks up and she clicks her tongue, returning to Bartolomeo’s side and petting him until he calms.

“Seems we’ll have a welcoming party,” she grumbles, undoing the reins and climbing on, giving the field another glance before they continue down the road.