"Wait." Elira stumbled to a halt, her ankles numb and burning. She leaned against a tree, breath ragged. "I'm tired. How much longer do we have to keep going?"
Lucan stopped a few paces ahead and turned, his gaze sharp beneath the shadows of the trees.
"Do you want to meet another carrion hound?" His voice was cold, clipped. "Because if you do, I won't save you again. So move. And stop complaining."
Elira bit back a retort, her pride stinging more than her aching legs. She forced herself forward, each step dragging, the damp earth clinging to her bare feet.
The forest grew denser as they pressed on, the canopy swallowing what little light remained. The silence was heavy, broken only by the crunch of Lucan's boots and Elira's uneven breaths. Just as despair began to weigh on her, a faint glow shimmered ahead.
At first, she thought it was moonlight breaking through the trees. But as they drew closer, she saw it was something else entirely.
Stones. Dozens of them, scattered across the ground and embedded in the trunks of ancient trees, glowing with a soft, otherworldly light. The air around them hummed faintly, as though the forest itself was alive with breath.
Elira slowed, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "What… is this place?" she whispered.
Lucan's expression shifted, just slightly — not surprise, but recognition. "The heart of the forest," he said. "A village hidden from the world."
Elira's eyes widened, awe and unease warring within her. "A village… here?"
Lucan's gaze swept the glowing stones, his jaw tightening. Memories stirred within him — fragments of a place he had once heard of, a sanctuary whispered about in hushed tones.
Before Elira could ask, a shrieking sound tore through the forest behind them. She spun, heart hammering, but saw nothing. When she turned back, Lucan was already striding forward, entering the village without hesitation.
Elira hurried after him. But as she crossed the threshold of the glowing stones, her breath caught.
The village was not alive.
The homes stood hollow and broken, their walls blackened by fire, roofs caved in. Doors hung from shattered hinges, and the vines that clung to them were withered, brittle as ash. The air was thick with the scent of charred wood and something older, something that clung to the bones of the earth.
Elira froze, staring at the hollow homes and blackened beams. "This… this place… it's ruined."
Lucan walked deeper into the village, his boots crunching over fragments of pottery and bone. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were shadowed, heavy with something darker than memory.
"This was once a thriving village," he said at last, his voice low. "A sanctuary. A place hidden from kings and demons alike."
Elira glanced around, her chest tightening. She could almost hear echoes of laughter — children's voices, the hum of life that had once filled these streets. "What happened here? Who did this?"
Lucan stopped. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, without looking at her, he answered.
"I did."
Elira's breath caught. "You…?"
His jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on the ruins. "I was a boy then. Lost in this forest, hunted, starving. They found me. Took me in. Fed me. One woman… she treated me as if I were her own." His voice faltered, just for a heartbeat. "But the curse came. The blood inside me… it woke. And when it did, I slaughtered them all. Every man, every child. Even her."
The silence that followed was suffocating. The glowing stones pulsed faintly, as if mourning with him.
Elira stared at him, horror and pity twisting inside her. "You killed them… all of them?"
Lucan finally turned to her, his eyes cold, but beneath the steel there was something raw — a wound that had never healed. "Yes. And that is why this place lies in ruin. Not by war. Not by fire. By me."
The wind howled through the broken homes, carrying with it the faint scent of ash.
Then Elira staggered, clutching her head. A memory not her own flickered in her mind — a boy, ragged and starving, standing in this very forest. A woman's gentle hand offering him bread. His eyes, the same piercing eyes that now stared at her, filled with both hunger and fear.
Her breath hitched. The boy from the void… it was him.
Elira shivered, realizing the truth: the tyrant king was not only feared for what he had done to others — he was haunted by what he had done to those who once saved him.
She blinked twice, her gaze locking with his. For a heartbeat, she saw not the king, not the monster, but the broken boy who had once stood here.
Without a word, she walked past him, toward a cracked flower pot half-buried in the ash. Against all odds, a single bloom had survived, its petals pale but alive.
She crouched, brushing the dirt from its rim. "Well," she said softly, not looking at him, "everyone's a bad person."
Lucan's eyes narrowed, uncertain whether it was mockery or understanding.
Elira touched the fragile bloom, her voice steadier this time. "But not everyone gets a chance to start over."
The silence stretched between them, heavier than before — but different. Not just fear. Not just hatred. Something else had taken root.
But Lucan broke the silence with a sharp, humorless sneer. Whatever flicker of vulnerability had surfaced in his eyes vanished behind iron walls. Without a word, he turned from her and strode deeper into the ruins, his boots crunching over ash and broken stone.
Elira rose slowly, brushing the dirt from her hands, and followed at a cautious distance. She watched him move with a strange certainty, as though his feet remembered the path even if his mind wished to forget.
He stopped before a house at the edge of the village — or what remained of it. The roof had collapsed long ago, and the doorway sagged, half-swallowed by creeping vines. Yet Lucan stood there, rigid, his hand brushing the charred frame as if testing whether it was real.
Elira hesitated, her voice low. "You… knew this place."
Lucan's shoulders stiffened. For a moment, he didn't answer. Then, in a voice stripped of its usual command, he said, "This was her home."
Elira's breath caught. She didn't need to ask who he meant. The woman from his story — the one who had shown him kindness, who had treated him as her own.
The air between them thickened, heavy with ghosts.
Lucan stepped inside the ruined house, his figure swallowed by shadow. Elira lingered at the threshold, torn between fear and something she couldn't name.
The tyrant king was a monster, yes. But here, in the ruins of the only place that had ever offered him warmth, he looked less like a ruler and more like a man still standing in the wreckage of his own sins.
----------------
The descent was slow, the mist thickening with every step. The smoke rose steadily ahead, curling into the pale sky like a beacon. Rensic's eyes gleamed with grim satisfaction, but Alden's unease only deepened.
The forest grew unnaturally still. No birds. No insects. Only the crunch of boots and the faint hiss of torches.
Then it came.
A scream tore through the fog — sharp, panicked — and then silence. One of the men was gone. No body. No blood. Just an empty patch of earth where he had stood.
Another shout. Another disappearance. As if something unseen was reaching through the mist and plucking them away.
A guttural snarl split the silence, followed by another, and another. From the shadows between the trees, shapes emerged — low, hulking forms with eyes that burned like coals. Carrion hounds. Their hides were stretched too tight over their bones, their jaws dripping with black saliva that hissed when it struck the ground.
"Form ranks!" Rensic barked, his sword flashing free. The soldiers scrambled into position, shields locking, torches raised.
The hounds did not charge. Not yet. They circled, their growls vibrating through the earth, their shadows stretching unnaturally long in the torchlight.
Then, as if on some unheard command, they lunged.
The first wave struck hard, slamming into shields, snapping jaws inches from men's throats. Steel clashed, torches flared, and the clearing erupted into chaos. But Alden, blade in hand, noticed something strange.
The hounds weren't hunting.
They struck, clawed, and shoved, but when they could have torn a man's throat, they pulled back. Instead, they forced the soldiers sideways, deeper into the fog, away from the smoke they had been following. Every clash, every retreating step, pushed them farther from their quarry.
"They're not leading us to him," Alden gasped, parrying a snapping maw. "They're casting us away!"
Rensic snarled, cutting down a hound with a vicious stroke. "Nonsense! They're beasts, nothing more!"
But Alden's gut twisted. The hounds moved with precision, as if guided by a single will. And then he saw it — perched high on a twisted branch above the battlefield.
A crow.
Its feathers gleamed like oil in the torchlight, its eyes two pinpricks of unnatural red. It did not move, did not caw, but the hounds seemed to shift with every tilt of its head.
Alden's blood ran cold. This was no ordinary bird. It was watching. Controlling.
One soldier screamed as a hound's shadow wrapped around his legs, dragging him into the fog. Another vanished with a gurgled cry, his torch snuffed out in an instant. The formation broke. Panic spread.
The hounds pressed harder, scattering the survivors into splintered groups, driving them deeper into unfamiliar ground — away from the ruins, away from Lucan, away from the truth they sought.
Rensic's fury burned hotter with every step, but Alden's dread only grew. They weren't chasing Lucan anymore. They were being banished from him.
And above them, the crow spread its wings, a silent sentinel in the mist. Its gaze never wavered, as though another pair of eyes — far away — was watching through it.