Far from the palace, beneath the pale light of a southern moon, Alan rode at the head of his knights.
The wind dragged his dark cloak behind him as the horses clattered down the forested road. None of them spoke. Their destination was clear—Grigor's camp, where the next move in the human resistance would be decided.
But something weighed on him.
Alan reached into his saddlebag, searching for a map he swore he packed—and froze.
His fingers brushed velvet.
He pulled it out slowly. A small black box, unmarked, no lock, no seal—but familiar. Too familiar.
He frowned. "What the hell is this…?"
One of the knights glanced over.
"Captain?"
Alan didn't reply and furrowed his brow. He didn't remember packing this. Didn't recognise the texture or the weight, and for some reason... just touching it made him feel disgusted, he turned in his saddle and tossed it into the bushes.
It hit the grass with a dull thump—and then vanished.
