The wind whispered through the leaves, and sunlight slipped between the towering trees, painting the ground with shifting patterns. I sat beside oak, my two blades resting in the dirt.

Both of my blades were still red with someone else's blood.

Their edges caught the light with a faint gleam, the way old memories sometimes flash in your head when you don't want them to.

How many days had it been since I slept? Two... three days? I lost count after the first night.

"How I wished I could sleep. Just for a little bit," I muttered. I could feel my eyelids growing heavy.

I let my eyes rest.

Not even a second had passed when an unfamiliar sound awoke me. I looked around to find the source of the noise.

Then the same noise came again. Looking up at one of the trees, I spotted a small creature, a squirrel, maybe—skittering down the bark. I watched it as it moved. I silently sat there, not daring to move. Perhaps I was tired, but I was also curious to see what this small animal would do.

It neared closer, inching away from me. It didn't break eye contact with my blade.

I didn't know why, but I wanted to pet it. Not yet noticing me, I tried to reach out. The creature froze, stared at me, then darted back up the tree, vanishing into the branches above.

"Even the animals hate me, too, huh?" I commented.

Slowly, I picked myself up. My bones ached. I struggled to even stand up.

I reached down and picked up the blades. With one swift motion, I swung them, letting the remaining blood, dirt, and debris fly off, landing on the ground beneath me.

My scarred hands wrapped around the hilts with practiced ease. I tightened the straps across my waist, feeling the familiar weight settle against me. My other hand worked fresh bandages around my forearms, hiding the old wounds beneath new ones.

From my pouch, I pulled out a silver bracelet, its faint glint catching what little sunlight made it through the leaves. I stared at it for a moment before slipping it back into its place, hidden beneath my cloak. Then I pulled the dark, tattered fabric over my shoulders. It smelled awful—I smelled like mud, decay, or vomit—and yet I couldn't throw it away. It was the only thing I had left.

With a heavy breath, I stepped out of the forest's cool embrace. Ahead of me, a road of nothing but dirt and rock lay bare.

And then I walked.

The further I walked, I could see something in the distance.

"A scarecrow?"

The further I walked, I could see something in the distance.

I kept walking, my boots crunching against the loose stones. The figure remained still against the grey sky, its silhouette dark and crooked.

Then I noticed another one. Off to the left side of the road, maybe twenty paces from the first. Its arms hung at odd angles, the posture all wrong for a normal scarecrow.

I slowed my pace, my hand drifting toward one of my blades.

Another appeared ahead on the right. Then two more beyond that. With each step forward, more figures emerged from the haze of distance—lining both sides of the road like silent sentinels. Five. Ten. Fifteen. They stretched ahead as far as I could see, creating a grotesque corridor of wooden crosses and hanging shapes.

The wind shifted, carrying with it a smell that made my stomach turn. Sweet and rotten. Familiar.

"No," I whispered.

A harsh caw split the air. Black shapes circled above, their wings cutting through the grey. Crows. Dozens of them, maybe more, perched on the crosses or wheeling in the sky above.

These weren't scarecrows.

The first figure hung limp against the wooden cross, arms bound with frayed rope that had cut deep into swollen flesh. What remained of a man or what had once been a man sagged forward, head tilted at an unnatural angle. His clothes were little more than tattered rags, stained dark with old blood and filth. The skin had turned a mottled grey-green, pulled tight in some places, sagging loose in others where the crows had been feeding.

One of the birds sat perched on the corpse's shoulder, its beak red and glistening as it tore at the exposed meat of the neck. It looked up at me with one black eye, tilted its head, then went back to its meal.

I forced myself to keep walking, to keep looking.

The next cross held a woman. Her face was half-gone, pecked away until bone showed through beneath. Her jaw hung open in a silent scream, and something dark crawled from her mouth—beetles, perhaps, or worse. Her hands were bound behind the cross, fingers bent and broken.

More crows scattered as I passed, their complaints echoing down the road. They didn't fly far. Just far enough to watch and wait.

Each cross told the same story. Men, women—some looked young, though it was hard to tell with the decay. All of them are bound. All of them left to rot under the open sky while the crows and insects claimed what remained. The ropes had cut so deeply into some of them that the flesh had begun to grow around the bindings, as if the bodies were trying to swallow the evidence of their torture.

I counted twenty crosses on the left side of the road. Twenty-three on the right. Maybe more ahead.

The smell was overwhelming now—thick enough to taste. I pulled my cloak over my nose and mouth, but it did little to help.

A crow landed on the road ahead of me, dragging something in its beak. I didn't look too closely at what it was.

Someone had made an example. Someone wanted travelers on this road to see what happened to those who displeased them. This was a message, written in rotting flesh and splintered wood.

Walking past, I read my disanation. The walls stood tall and unforgiving, stone scarred by time. Crank show in the aging stone, livery and moss slowly taking over the wall.  Towers climbed into the clouds, and banners hung limp in the wind. Even from here, I could hear the faint hum of life within—voices, footsteps, the constant noise of people pretending to live.

Two guards stood at either side of the entrance, holding spears as people entered and left without interaction.

"How odd," I thought.

The closer I looked, peaking at their faces, the more unsettling they became. Lifeless. Drained. Black bags hung under their eyes like they hadn't slept in days.

As I entered, the familiar chaos of the marketplace hit me like a memory that never faded. Merchants shouted over one another, their voices mixing into a messy chorus as random passersby tried to mind their own business.

"Apples, fresh from the trees! Get your fresh apples here!" one man cried, waving two bright red fruits in the air. Behind him, his stall was fully stocked with bright red and yellow fruit. "Finest cotton dresses! Fit for royalty!" a woman yelled, displaying dresses that probably cost more than a family's life savings.

It had been a while since I'd been in a town full of people. Why was it making me nervous?

I pulled my hood further down, trying to cover my face. I moved through the crowd quietly, the cloak keeping me unseen.

My eyes skimmed the stalls' food, tools, trinkets, toys. Seeing what was in front of me, it seemed peaceful. I stopped at one stand lined with blades and axes. The merchant, an older man, was slumped in a chair, asleep with his mouth slightly open.

Studying the knives resting on the table. It wasn't special. I reached out and picked it up, feeling its weight. Balanced, but dull. I could tell without testing it.

Then—

BANG!

The man's chair crashed to the ground. He jolted awake, blinking like he'd just been dragged back from another life. "Wha—? What happened... where am I? Oh!" He looked around, then looked at me. "I see you've got a good eye!" he said, recovering quickly. "That's one of my best knives. Durable, dependable—go ahead, test it. Bend it if you want."

I raised an eyebrow beneath my hood. "Fine knife, huh? Sure," deciding to humor him. I gripped the blade at both ends and applied pressure.

SNAP.

It broke clean in half.

The old man's eyes widened. He snatched up the pieces, turning them over like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. "Must be… old," he muttered, scratching his head.

I dropped the broken half back onto the table and continued looking at the other weapons he had in stock.

"You know," the old man said, a nervous laugh escaping him as he swept the broken pieces aside, "I've got better quality in the back. Real steel. Not this... clearly defective merchandise."

I didn't respond, my fingers trailing over the edge of a short sword. The metal was tarnished, the edge nicked in three places. I moved to an axe next—the handle was cracked near the head.

Everything on this table was junk.

"Are all your wares like this?" I asked.

The merchant shifted uncomfortably. "Times have been... difficult. The forges aren't what they used to be. Raw materials are harder to come by..." He trailed off, glancing toward the entrance where the hollow-eyed guards stood. "Well. Everyone's struggling lately."

I noticed it then. The way his hands trembled slightly as he organized his display. The way his eyes kept darting toward the guards. The exhaustion etched into every line of his face was similar to that of the guards at the gate.

"How long has it been like this?" I asked.

"Like what?" he said too quickly, too defensively.

The old man's jaw tightened. I thought he might actually answer. Then his gaze flicked past my shoulder, and whatever he'd been about to say died on his lips.

I followed his line of sight. Another guard was making his way through the marketplace, moving slowly between the stalls. People parted for him without being asked.

"MOVE IT!"

The shout came from behind me—sharp, commanding. I looked over my shoulder. A group of children shuffled through the market, their wrists bound together by rope. They couldn't have been older than ten or twelve. Their clothes were rags, barely clinging to their bodies, faces smudged with dirt and hopelessness.

One child fell behind—a girl.

A girl with dirty white hair. Perhaps it would shine bright white if she washed it. The guard holding the rope turned toward the girl who had fallen down. His armor shone bright under the sun, as if mocking the filth beneath him. The girl remained staring down at the ground. Without hesitation, he swung a metal rod and struck her across the head.

"I said move, didn't you hear me, brat?" he spat, his voice dripping with disgust.

The girl collapsed, her white hair streaked instantly with blood. Around us, people watched but didn't move. Didn't care. Just another day.

She looked up, dazed. Her eyes met mine for a split second—pale, haunting. Something in them held me there. Fear, pain... maybe something I once knew. It was something I still know. She tried to speak, but the guard yanked the rope, dragging her along the ground before she quickly stumbled back to her feet. Her head dropped, and the line moved on, swallowed by the crowd.

After that, the market fell to hushed whispers, no one daring to speak in fear of being caught.

"What was that about?" I asked quietly.

The old merchant didn't even look up from the broken knife. "You must not be from around here," he said with a dry laugh. "Just another day in this godforsaken place."

I didn't answer—the broken knife in his hands.

"I'm just a traveler," I finally said.

He gave me a look, then leaned closer. "If you really want to know what's going on... there's a bar not too far from here. Ask around. You might find your answers," he whispered.

Having taken an interest, I decided to follow his advice. The deeper I went into the kingdom, the worse it got. Rot, stench, and silence filled the alleys. A man huddled against a wall, gnawing on stale bread, his eyes darting up when I passed. I didn't stop. His problems weren't mine.

I wandered into an open area, trying to find the bar the old man mentioned.

"FORGIVE ME... PLEASE FORGIVE ME!!" A female voice was screaming out. Taking a look around, I saw a small crowd gathered in front of a stage.

On the stage was a woman standing in the middle with a rope tightly wrapped around her neck. Her hands were tied to her waist.

Looking at her, she looked like a maid with dark brown hair. Her outfit was torn and dirty, like she'd been thrown in the trash over and over.

Beside her stood a man dressed in black.

"I swear I didn't see anything... please, I won't tell anyone," she screamed. She kept repeating it over and over.

Finally, she turned toward the crowd. "Please... help me... someone help me," she screamed once again.

Tears streamed down her face as the realization hit her—no one was going to help her.

Then she laid her eyes on me.

"Plea—"

She didn't even have a chance to finish her last word; she was suddenly pulled upward. The sound that came from her was not something I wanted to remember.

Her legs swung back and forth. Her hands, still tied to her waist, struggled to break free.

limp. Silence.

Like the end of a show, people began to leave.

She was just left there, hanging. She was young as well. Probably the same age as my sister. pushing away the thought and turning, I walked away.

That thought bothered me... it really bothered me.

After taking a few turns and crossing a few alleyways, I found the bar a few streets down. The door hung crooked, and the smell of stale beer and dust hit me the moment I stepped inside. Cobwebs clung to the ceiling. Two men sat across the room, watching me too closely. They were dressed like the knights from the front entrance of the gate where I first entered.

I ignored them and took a seat at the counter.

"What'll it be?" the bartender asked, not even glancing up.

"Rum," I said.

He poured the drink, sliding the bottle toward me. "You new around here?"

I looked up. "Strange question. How'd you know I wasn't from here?"

He gave a short, proud smile. "Been here over twenty-one years. I know everyone in this kingdom." He slid the cup across the counter toward me.

I took a sip of the rum, letting it burn down my throat. "Then you must know what's happening," I said.

His hands froze. "I'm sorry?"

"The disappearances." I leaned in slightly. "What do you know about them?"

The bar fell silent. Even the two men across the room stopped pretending not to listen. Their hands drifted toward their weapons.

The bartender swallowed hard. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, wiping the counter that didn't need wiping.

I didn't reply. Silence worked better than threats sometimes.

I heard the heavy footsteps slowly walking toward me. One of the men stood behind me, his footsteps deliberate. His hand landed on my shoulder.

"Listen, buddy," he sneered. "Why don't you take a hike before things get ugly—"

He never finished.

My blade was already through his skull. The sound it made was wet, final. He choked, eyes wide in disbelief, trying to speak.

"Wai—"

He dropped before he could finish the word. I pulled the blade free and crushed his skull under my boot. The crack echoed through the room.

The other man froze where he sat. The bartender stood pale, trembling, trying to form words.

"Now," I said quietly, cleaning the blood from my blade with the dead man's cloak. "Let's try this again. Tell me what you know."

 End of chapter 1