Dawn had arrived.
The first rays of sunlight lit up the sky, as if announcing that the moment had already come.
The rain had ceased, and the clouds had almost completely dispersed.
The Duke sat in his office, his elbow resting on the desk, his hand pressed against his forehead as he sank deep into thought.
Suddenly, a knock echoed on the door.
"Enter."
The door opened, revealing a servant carrying a sleeping infant in her arms. Behind her followed a middle-aged soldier with a deep scar carved along his face, and another soldier in his late twenties.
The servant spoke in a trembling voice:
"My lord, the Duchess has been put into slumber by the sorceress Elanor. She will not awaken for a long while."
The Duke remained silent for several seconds. Then, turning his eyes toward the soldier, he commanded in a cold tone:
"Take the child… and bury it in the Graveyard of Curses, in the Dark Forest."
Those words instantly changed the air in the room. The Graveyard of Curses was where the children of heroes who had fought against the witch were buried—children who had perished under curses.
Even the mere mention of the Dark Forest made the atmosphere tense. For, as its name suggested, it was no ordinary forest.
The Dark Forest was a realm cursed so thoroughly it was said even the sun had turned its face away.
Its branches knitted together above, blotting out the sky so that even in daylight, it felt like night. The silence there was suffocating, yet beneath it one could sense the chilling hum of unseen eyes watching.
Even standing at its borders, the sinister whispers from within could make one's hair stand on end.
Those who entered faced not only the oppressive darkness but also the creatures dwelling within. Yet the true terror came from what could not be seen—the unseen hunters, whispering like restless spirits, preying silently upon the unwary.
Countless tales about the forest circulated within the Empire: some spoke of a weeping child's voice that was never a child's at all, but the offspring of the "Mother of Shadows," seeking her young. Those who followed that sound were never seen again, save for their blood-soaked garments. Others spoke of the Widow of Night—a woman clad in a black veil, eternally mourning in the darkness. Shadows trailed behind her, and everything she touched turned to stone.
It was said that merely hearing her name carried the echo of a woman's weeping from the depths of the forest.
Thus, the Dark Forest was considered the most accursed land in the Empire; being sent there was little different from a death sentence.
The servant's eyes trembled at the merciless order. She was a mother herself, and the thought of a child being cast into such a fate tore her heart apart.
The soldiers, upon hearing the name of the Dark Forest, felt their eyes widen and beads of sweat gather on their foreheads. They knew full well how dangerous the mission was—yet disobeying the Duke was unthinkable.
Their reply was curt and firm:
"As you command, my lord."
---
Ten days had passed since the soldiers had set off with the infant toward the Dark Forest. Thanks to Elanor's spell, the child had remained in a deep slumber, making the journey mercifully free of crying. Yet that silence carried its own unsettling anomaly: how could an infant survive ten days without a single drop of water or morsel of food?
By all logic, the baby should have perished long ago, and yet it stubbornly continued to breathe. It was as though the curse it bore refused to let it depart this world so easily. The soldiers, shaken by the unnatural sight, buried the thought deep within their minds—choosing to believe it was merely another manifestation of the child's curse.
At last, guided by the Duke's parchment map, they reached the borders of the Dark Forest. Their destination was the ancient graveyard at its heart. The moment they crossed the threshold, the very air seemed to change. It was not merely gloomy—it was oppressive, alive, and malevolent.
Branches stretched skyward like skeletal fingers, while the faint light that pierced through the leaves appeared pale and sickly. At every crack and rustle, they swore they felt unseen eyes watching from the shadows.
Yet even amidst all this dread, it was the cursed child they carried that weighed heaviest on their minds. They despised the mission, and more so the burden in their arms, yet the Duke's order was absolute. With heavy breaths, they pressed on into the shadows.
The beasts they encountered along the way were mere distractions. One soldier was a seasoned warrior at the Peak of the Sixth Star, the other newly ascended to that level. Cutting through packs of Silverfang Wolves was little more than sword practice for them. But even with each effortless victory, the gnawing unease in their bones refused to fade.
After one such skirmish, they chose to rest. Collapsing to the ground, the metallic tang of blood from the slain wolves clung to their sweat-soaked bodies. The fleeting rush of battle wore off, leaving only the forest's crushing dread to seep back in.
Arlot leaned against the roots of an ancient oak, reaching for his waterskin. He gulped deeply—only to gag, spitting violently onto the ground.
"What's wrong, Sir Arlot?" asked Max, concerned.
"Swamp water…" Arlot muttered with disgust, glaring at the waterskin. "Rotten metal and filth. Damn thing's gone bad."
Meanwhile, Max pulled a strip of dried meat from his pack. Yet the moment he bit into it, his mouth filled with the taste of ash and damp earth. He glanced down, and for a fleeting instant, he swore he saw the meat crawling with tiny white maggots writhing across its veins.
His stomach lurched, and he hurled the meat away. "It's spoiled! Infested!"
Arlot shot him a sharp glare, his earlier unease forgotten as he donned the stern mask of a veteran commander. "Nonsense. That meat was fresh yesterday. You're seeing things."
He snatched the discarded strip, inspecting it. "See? Nothing. Perfectly fine."
Max stared. Indeed, the meat looked normal again. The maggots had vanished. Yet the vile taste lingered on his tongue. "But… the taste—it was real, I swear!"
"Get a hold of yourself, soldier!" Arlot snapped, harsher than necessary—perhaps to smother his own doubts. "This forest preys upon your mind. It twists your fear, your exhaustion. Do not let it! Eat."
Reluctantly, Max obeyed. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to chew through another piece of dried meat, each bite a torment that churned his stomach.
As he struggled, his gaze wandered into the forest's depths—and then he saw her.
In the thickest shadow stood the silhouette of a woman, cloaked in pitch black, her face blank save for two burning red eyes glowing like embers. And they were fixed upon him.
Max froze, blood turning to ice. He blinked, praying it was a trick of the mind—but she remained, still and watching. The strip of meat slipped from his hand as instinct drew his palm to his sword's hilt.
"There! Over there!" he cried, his voice trembling through the trees.
Arlot groaned, rising with weary irritation as he unsheathed his blade and turned toward the direction Max pointed. But all he saw were twisted trunks and deepening shadows.
"What is it, Max? What do you see?"
Max's voice shook. "A woman. No face—only red eyes. She was watching me. I swear she was there… but now she's gone."
"Are you certain it wasn't a hallucination?"
"I swear it, Sir Arlot! She looked straight into my eyes."
For minutes they stared into that patch of darkness, breaths held. But nothing stirred. At last, Arlot lowered his sword.
"Pull yourself together, Max. We keep moving. The sooner we bury this cursed child, the sooner we leave this accursed forest."
So they pressed onward, though every step tightened the grip of dread around their souls. The forest coiled around them like a living serpent, whispering madness into their ears.
This time, it was Arlot who fell victim. In his vision appeared a grotesque bride, clad in a tattered, bloodstained gown. Her greasy hair clung to her face, and in her hand gleamed a massive, rusted dagger. A scream tore from Arlot's throat—so raw and desperate it was unrecognizable as coming from a seasoned warrior.
Max froze. "Sir Arlot! What's wrong?!"
Clutching his head, Arlot's eyes bulged with frenzy. "I can't take it anymore, Max! I'm losing my mind! Let's kill the child here—bury it now! I can't endure this any longer!"
"But… what about the Duke's order?"
"To hell with the Duke! He isn't here, watching us! If he cared for us at all, he'd never have sent us into this pit of hell!"
Max hesitated, torn between fear of the Duke and the unbearable terror clawing at his own heart. Looking into Arlot's crazed eyes, he realized the suggestion felt like salvation. With a grim nod, he dropped to his knees and began digging into the soil with his bare hands, carving a grave for the infant.
His lips curved into a sickly smile. At last, they would be free. Every handful of dirt he flung aside felt like lifting a stone from his chest. Finally, he had dug a pit just large enough for a child's body. With a triumphant grin, he turned back to call his comrade.
"Sir Arlot, the grave is rea—"
The words died in his throat, replaced by a strangled gasp as cold steel pierced through his neck. His eyes widened in disbelief, staring at the man he had trusted for years. The last reflection in his fading sight was Arlot's face—twisted, merciless—as Max clutched helplessly at the hilt buried in his flesh.