Matthias Harlow
1253
Caed Dhu, Angren
Caed Dhu, the Black Forest as it was known in the common tongue , is a vast, ancient expanse of woodland and shadow, stretching for nearly sixty leagues from its eastern borders at the Yaruga River down to the marshy lowlands of the west.
Its heart is dense and unyielding, the trees old beyond memory, their trunks twisted and blackened by centuries of wind, lightning, and untamed magic.
The forest earned its reputation long before most on the Continent had even mapped the lands to the east. Kings and commoner alike feared it, for it was said that entire hunting parties disappeared into the thickets, their screams swallowed by the darkness before dawn.
Travelers spoke in hushed tones of strange lights, unnatural mists, and the occasional glimpse of eyes that reflected moonlight far too bright to belong to any animal.
Historically, Caed Dhu was once a sacred grove to the druidic tribes of Angren, who revered it as a place where the Veil between worlds was thin. Rituals were performed here, offerings left at hidden clearings, and children were sometimes dedicated to the forest in hopes of gaining protection from its spirits.
When the northern kingdoms expanded, the old tribes were driven out, but the forest retained a memory of their power.
Rivers and bogs crisscross the terrain, making the forest nearly impassable for armies or carts. Wolves, bears, and worse creatures stalk the shadows, and even seasoned hunters are wise to avoid it after dusk.
Paths exist, but they are few and often deceptively treacherous, swallowed by sudden sinkholes or misleading fogs.
Only the boldest—or the most desperate—attempt to cross its breadth, and few do so without paying the forest in blood or sanity, it is a place that only bandits, men hiding out from the world, would dare hide out in its depths.
It makes sense why Syanna was exiled here, the knights knew if they dropped her off deep enough she would either die, or be forever lost in its depth.
The forest pressed around us as we moved, thick trunks blotting the sky, tangled roots snagging at boots and hooves alike.
Earlier in the day, the mist still clung to the hollows, curling like smoke around the gnarled roots and low branches, but now the sun had begun to climb, brushing thin gold across the undergrowth.
We weren't as far in as I'd estimated. At this pace, even with the careful, deliberate movement of the horses, we'd be clear of Caed Dhu by late afternoon. The thought was mildly comforting.
Rhenawedd rode slightly behind, reins loose in her hands, eyes scanning the shadows with practiced caution.
I kept my senses open, attuned to the subtle shifts in the undergrowth, the faintest scrape of claws or brush. It didn't matter that we were on a path. Caed Dhu had ways of hiding the dangerous things that lurked beneath its floor. A snap of a twig, a hiss of water over stones—any of it could signal a predator.
The armor I'd repurposed sat tightly on my frame. The fit of it was good enough, the weight of it constant.
If I still felt heat or cold, I imagine the humidity would have made it unbearable. As it was, the only thing that made me uncomfortable was the smell of its previous owner clung to the steel and leather, the sweat of travel that never quite dried.
Épine moved beneath me with the steadiness of a creature that had known discipline before fear.
Clean now, her white coat shone faintly through the dim light, though streaks of mud still clung to her legs. Rhenawedd's mount was smaller, brown-coated, lean but resilient. She handled the reins with care, though I could tell she wasn't used to long rides.
She rode stiff-backed, trying to hide the fatigue that crept into her shoulders. She hadn't said much since we left camp, only small talk to fill the quiet, mostly commenting on how the route was familiar.
Behind us, two riderless horses trailed at a patient pace — the last remnants of the men I'd killed. Their saddlebags were heavy with spoils: dry rations, spare cloaks, a few silver trinkets, waterskins, and repair kits for armor and swords. And, as was customary for men of Toussaint, more than one bottle of wine.
I caught myself watching them as we rode — the slow, obedient rhythm of beasts without masters. Two riderless horses would draw too many eyes, too many questions.
A knight's horse was not something easily mistaken for a peasant's field nag. They were bred for war — broad-chested, high-spirited creatures with more muscle than sense, trained to charge through steel and fire without flinching.
Their coats were brushed to a sheen, their manes trimmed, their tack reinforced with quality leather and metalwork. Even stripped of heraldry, you could see the breeding in the way they moved
Still, problems had simple solutions. Even a small place like Dregsdon would have fences, or merchants, or stablehands who didn't care where a thing came from — only what it was worth. I'd sell them when we arrived, along with anything else that might fetch coin.
My musing was interrupted by Rhenawedd, finally gathering the courage to continue the conversation I had tried to cut short the night before.
From somewhere behind me came her voice, quiet but firm, carried along the damp forest air. I could hear the faint shuffle of her horse, the soft sigh of reins as she shifted her weight.
"Matthias," she said cautiously, almost as if testing it on her tongue.
"Yes? Is something wrong?" I asked, my eyes still fixed on the path ahead, listening to the distant drip of water from the low branches and the rustle of leaves under the horses' hooves, scanning for any hidden dangers.
"No… your name—Matthias—It's foreign to me, not in a way I can place. Does it mean anything in your tongue?"
I glanced over my shoulder at her, noting the faint furrow of her brow. Names, titles, words—everything seemed to hold weight for her, even in this wild, shadowed forest.
I didn't answer immediately, letting the silence stretch. The forest filled the space between us: the slow crunch of hooves over leaf-littered earth, the faint rustle of wind through the trees, the occasional snap of a twig.
Each sound seemed louder than it ought to, holding the quiet like a taut string.
"In my tongue… no," I said finally. "It was my mother who decided on it. She told me it meant 'Gift of God.' My parents struggled for years, hoping for a child, and when I finally came… well, they chose the name then, late in their lives. A gift, they said, worth all the waiting."
"'Gift of God'?" she asked, latching onto the implication, curiosity flickering in her tone. "Your kind… pray to gods?"
I tilted my head slightly, letting the question hang. "My kind?" I repeated, a hint of amusement creeping in despite the sweat and dust of the ride.
I glanced at her over my shoulder, trusting Épine to stay the course. Her expression was sharp, almost defensive, the question already loaded before it left her lips.
"Your kind… vampires, or whatever you call yourselves. I find it odd that you would pray to anything."
"You'd be right to doubt it," I said after a moment, the corners of my mouth tugging into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Most religions stem from fear—of death, of what waits beyond it. For creatures who don't even truly understand the concept of fear, piety seems a waste of time."
I shifted slightly in the saddle, adjusting the weight of the armor as Épine's hooves sank softly into the damp earth. "But to answer the question you really want to ask—my parents were human. And so was I. My… condition was afflicted upon me, by forces I still don't quite understand."
"You were human?" she asked, surprise sharp in her voice. She nudged her horse forward, catching up to ride alongside me.
Her face was brimming with curiosity, eyes flicking between my armor, my horse, and my helm.
She's surprisingly tactless for a princess… or perhaps she simply doesn't care. Either way, it was the sort of question that required more than a casual response, and I had little interest in discussing it.
I'd been trying to avoid that part of my story — letting her think I was born like this. It made things simpler. Monsters are easier to deal with when they've always been monsters.
But pretending, as I've quickly come to find out, gets old fast. And maybe, deep down, I just wanted someone to hear it — to say it out loud, if only once.
When I didn't answer right away, she pressed on, words tumbling out faster than thought. "What happened to you?"
I kept my eyes on the trail ahead, feeling the rhythm of Épine's hooves beneath me, the soft thud of Rhenawedd's horse beside us.
The mist clung to the hollows, heavier now, curling low along the path like pale smoke. A bird cried somewhere unseen, breaking the quiet. I could hear the tension in her question, the way curiosity had overridden caution.
At the tone of her voice, I could already guess the theories forming in her mind: a centuries-old vampire, cursed by some forest spirit, forced to haunt a forgotten corner of the world, only to stumble upon a camp of humans by some twist of fate. I couldn't help but let out a short, humorless chuckle. Knowing her—maybe not.
"How old do you think I am?" I asked, letting the question hang, soft but deliberate, a test more than anything.
She frowned, considering, eyes narrowing at the question in place of the answer to hers. She studied me like one might a curious artifact. "I… I don't know," she said finally, voice cautious. "Centuries, perhaps? You don't look it, but I assume you're immortal like the others."
A faint breeze stirred the mist ahead, drawing thin trails of white across the forest floor before it thickened again, swallowing more of the road with every step.
I let her words hang for a moment, the forest around us filling the space with soft rustling and the occasional creak of branches. Centuries, huh? Not even close. 26, and barely two days into this cursed life, yet here she was sizing me up like I'd been walking the world for hundreds of years.
I kept my expression neutral, letting the shadow of Épine's head and the quiet rhythm of her hooves lend weight to my silence. "Centuries… I'll take that as a compliment," I said finally. "And to answer your question: I don't know what happened to me. I awoke in a cave, already in the midst of my transformation. As I've said, I was cursed by something I don't know."
"Curse—you keep calling it that."
"And what would you call it?"
She didn't break her gaze, voice steady as Épine's hooves crunched over the damp undergrowth. The air was cooler now; even her breath came in faint puffs of white.
"I'd like to remind you—I was there in that clearing. You tore through three knights as if they were half-starved peasants with pitchforks, not men trained in swordplay since they could first walk. You've admitted yourself you're immortal, and I doubt you've always looked… as ethereal as you do now."
"Ethereal?" I interjected, glancing at her briefly, catching the sunlight glinting off the metal fittings on her saddle. She ignored me, eyes fixed on my helm as though she could look upon my face through it.
"Strength, endless life, and an inhuman beauty," she continued, voice sharp, "and you call it a curse."
I let the words hang for a moment, listening to the distant drip of water from a low-hanging branch and the soft rustle of leaves stirred by the morning breeze.
The fog was crawling higher now, brushing at the horses' knees. My armor shifted with me as I adjusted my weight in the saddle, considering—a little irritated by her rant, I stressed my voice a bit.
"I ask you again—what would you call it?"
Sylvia Anna Henrietta
"Power! A gift—strength enough to never be beholden to anyone else but yourself!" I near screamed it at him, the words sharper than I intended.
The forest swallowed the echo, leaving only the sound of hooves and the creak of leather between us. I exhaled, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. Listen to yourself, I thought. Arguing philosophy with a creature that could snap you in half without breaking stride.
Still… I couldn't help it. The way he spoke of his condition—curse this, affliction that—it grated on me. Most people would kill for a fraction of the strength he carried, yet he wore it like a chain.
The fog had grown thicker. The trees ahead were little more than silhouettes, their outlines melting into the haze. The horses grew uneasy, their ears twitching, steps slowing.
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. He hadn't so much as turned his head, but I could tell he'd heard the tremor in my voice. His posture was calm, composed, almost detached. It made me want to shake him, to demand he acknowledge the truth of the matter.
"Power's not the same as freedom. You think it makes you untouchable, but it just changes what owns you." His tone was disapproving, like a parent trying to teach their child.
"I still have to feed," he went on. "To live, I have to take that from someone else — their heartbeat, their warmth. You can't call that freedom. You can't call that a gift. Every day I stay alive, someone else doesn't. That's not power, it's debt."
"Tha—" The word barely left my lips before he raised a hand, sharp and silent, the gesture commanding enough that even my horse slowed without a tug on the reins.
"Wait," he said, his voice low but steady. "There's something up ahead."
The tone of it made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. He leaned forward slightly in the saddle, eyes fixed on the path ahead. The fog had swallowed the trail entirely now — a pale, shifting wall that moved like breath.
The forest seemed to tighten around us, the air thickening, sounds dulling — as if the trees themselves were holding their breath.
I followed his gaze, but all I saw was mist and the faint glint of sunlight on wet earth. Whatever he sensed, I could not see it.
Matthias Harlow
The fog had been thickening for some time now — too thick. Even before I raised my hand to halt us, I could feel it pressing in, heavy and damp against the skin under my armor. It wasn't just mist — it was a presence, creeping into every sound and thought.
I'd been aware of everything since we'd left camp — the rhythmic pulse of Rhenawedd's heart, the shifting of leather under her saddle, the faint tremor in Épine's muscles when the wind changed.
The forest spoke in whispers to me — every creak, every heartbeat, every thread of life clear as daylight.
But not here.
Here, it was as if the world had gone under water. Sounds bled together, hollow and muted. My hearing — sharper than any human's, sharper than it should ever be — couldn't reach past the curtain of fog.
Smells came twisted too — metal, damp earth, and something else. Something wrong.
It had started miles back — a faint prickle at the edge of my awareness. Like static. Something old, lurking beneath the surface of the world, keeping just beyond the reach of my senses.
I'd felt it watching us from the tree line, but every time I turned, it slipped away, swallowed by the mist.
For the first time since waking as this… thing, my instincts were failing me.
I didn't like that feeling.
Rhenawedd's horse snorted uneasily. She whispered something under her breath, a prayer maybe, but it came out muffled — the fog swallowing it whole.
I reached for the hilt at my side without thinking. The steel felt colder than usual, heavier. My fangs ached faintly against my gums — not hunger, but warning. Something out there was wrong, and my body knew it before my mind did.
The road ahead was barely visible now, a pale ribbon vanishing into the white. The trees had become silhouettes — black and twisted, distant but close all at once.
Then I heard it. Soft at first — a dragging step, half-slithering, half-walking. One… two… another, farther off to the left. The fog thickened with each sound, like it wanted to hide whatever made them.
And underneath it all, that whispering hum in my skull — the same one that had followed us since we entered this cursed fog. But louder now. Hungrier.
"Wait," I said, raising a hand. My voice barely carried, the mist swallowing it whole. "There's something ahead."
Rhenawedd drew her horse to a stop beside mine, eyes darting through the white. "What is it?"
I didn't answer. My senses were trying to reach past the veil, to see what my eyes couldn't — and for the first time, they failed me. All I could hear was breathing. Not hers. Not mine. Something else.
"Something's wrong," I murmured, I dismounted, boots sinking in the sodden ground. "Stay on your horse," I told her. "If you see something glowing — don't follow it."
The fog shifted, curling low around my boots. And then, through the white — faint, flickering, like a dying lantern — a glint of blue light.
I exhaled slowly, hand tightening on the hilt. "We're not alone."
I drew my sword, the sound of steel cutting through the silence sharper than it had any right to be. The mist seemed to recoil from it — then closed back in, thicker than before.
Shapes flickered at the edges of my vision, half-formed and melting away before I could focus on them. Foglets — bending the light, making ghosts out of shadows. Every movement looked wrong. Every echo lied.
A low hiss came from somewhere ahead, answered by another, closer. Then came the soft, wet rhythm of footsteps circling. One, two… no, three.
They were toying with me.
The first came from my left — emerging from the fog like a thought made flesh. Its body was wrong, gray and sinewy, skin stretched over bone as though it had been starved of life for centuries.
Its eyes burned faintly blue, two dying embers in a skull that shouldn't move.
I pivoted fast — faster than thought — slashing low for the gut. The blade hit something solid, flesh and sinew, but not deep enough. Steel that should've cleaved clean through met resistance — like cutting through wet leather.
The thing shrieked and staggered back into the fog, its scream echoing and doubling until it sounded like a dozen voices crying out at once.
The air shifted — cold against the back of my neck. I ducked without thinking. A claw whistled past where my head had been.
Another came from behind. I spun, faster than any human could follow, caught the creature's forearm mid-swing, twisted until bone cracked, and drove my sword through its chest.
The sensation was wrong. Too soft. Too light. I wrenched the blade free, and the creature's body collapsed inward — collapsing into vapor, gone before it hit the ground.
"Matthias!" Rhenawedd's voice cut through the fog, sharp and panicked.
"I said stay put!" I barked, scanning the mist. I couldn't sense her heartbeat anymore — or anything beyond a few paces.
The fog swallowed every sound, every breath, every trace of life. For a creature built on instincts sharper than steel, it was like fighting blind.
The mist thickened again, pressing in until it felt alive — heavy, wet, pulsing with something old. A new hiss rose behind me. Then another. The air reeked of rot and wet iron.
They were close.
I moved — fast enough that the world blurred around me, the ground cracking under the force of my step.
The nearest Foglet lunged, claws slicing through air where I'd just been. I turned on it, driving the sword through its side. The blade bit halfway before it jammed in gristle.
I snarled, pushed harder and felt it give at last, tearing through with a spray of dark vapor.
The second came low, crawling through the mud, too fast and too quiet. I barely saw it before it was on me. I kicked, hard.
Its body hit a tree with a wet crunch. Before it could vanish, I was there, bringing my blade down in a brutal arc. The steel split its skull, not cleanly but through sheer force, like hacking at stone with wood.
The fog pulsed once — like it was breathing — then went still.
For a moment, all I could hear was the slow, ragged rhythm of my own breath. My hand tightened on the hilt, the blade trembling slightly from the exertion.
My senses were still clouded, dulled, like something had crawled inside my skull and wrapped its claws around my instincts.
Then it hit me — that was only two. There should have been three.
A sharp, terrified whinny cut through the fog, high and urgent. I spun, following the sound, and my heart sank before my eyes even registered the scene.
Rhenawedd's horse had bolted back a few steps, hooves skidding in the mud. She hadn't been harmed, but Duval, one of the riderless mounts trailing us, was on his side, gutted, still alive, thrashing weakly.
Blood soaked the mud beneath him, bubbling and blackened in the thick fog.
The last Foglet circled him, vapor twisting, claws glinting wet in the dull light. Its hiss was low, hungry — patient, as though savoring its prey.
I bolted towards them, sliding across the soil and rocks to situate myself properly, my sword came up in one smooth motion.
My vampire reflexes kicked in, every muscle taut, every sense straining, but the fog muddled everything — its usual clarity, its ability to filter life from mist, was gone.
I caught the creature mid-lunge, the steel biting halfway through its chest before resistance slowed me. I had to push, twist, drive a not so little amount of strength into the cut.
Its head rolled free, dissipating instantly, leaving only the choking fog and Duval's ragged breathing.
I dropped to my knees beside the horse, hands on the wound, trying to stem the flow as best I could. The beast had torn too deep its death was certain, but I could at least make sure it didn't suffer.
Rhenawedd stayed close, gripping the reins tight, voice trembling. "It… it was coming for me."
"I know," I muttered, voice low, eyes scanning the fog for any movement. I was tensed not with fear, but with frustration.
Speed and strength meant little when your senses were clouded, when even a vampire like me couldn't trust what I saw, what I heard.
I pressed my hands into Duval's side, murmuring quietly, feeling the shallow, ragged breaths. The horse's flanks heaved, eyes wide and glazed with shock. My jaw tightened, cold and certain. Decision made.
I pulled off my helm, coif still upon my head and looked down at the animal. "Rest," I muttered, more to myself than to him. The fog pressed close, every sound smeared and distant.
There was no poetry to it. I reached around the horse's neck, found the hollow just behind the head, and twisted. Bone snapped with a wet, final sound. Duval shuddered once, a soft, miserable whinny, and then went still. The life left him like a sigh.
What a waste, The thought while macabre was true, the horse could have been sold for at least 1000 Orens, not even including its tack and saddle. But atleast the supplies could be salvaged if I spread them between the three still living horses.
Whilst I was putting the horse out of its misery, the mist thinned slowly, as if the forest was exhaling. I stood there, chest heaving, sword dripping a thin line of dark reddish fluid that steamed where it hit the earth.
Rhenawedd's voice came from somewhere behind the haze, small and shaken. "What—what were those things?"
I didn't turn immediately, letting her words hang as I wiped the mud from my blade. "Foglets," I said finally, my tone flat but carrying enough weight to make her pause. "They're very dangerous, as I'm sure you could tell."
I gestured to the shattered forms on the forest floor. "Gray skin stretched too tight over bone, claws like rusty needles, and eyes that burn faintly in the dark. They're not intelligent, not really, but they know how to hunt. They feed on fear, on confusion. They can split themselves into vapor, bend light, and make you see things that aren't there. That fog you felt… that's them. They weren't trying to fight fair."
I let the words sink in, watching her pale expression. The princess's curiosity had dulled into something sharper — awe mixed with something like horror.
"They're the kind of things that make even seasoned hunters pray they never wander into the swamps at night," I added, voice quieter. "And they love the wet, the fog, the shadows."
I crouched beside the Foglets' remains, studying them. The mist curled faintly around the edges, now harmless.
Their forms had collapsed awkwardly, like ragdolls with too-long limbs. The skin was gray and tight over brittle bones, their claws splayed as if frozen mid-attack.
I ran my hand along one of the torsos, noting the ragged cuts I'd left. They were brutal but blunt, almost clumsy in some places.
That wasn't the steel's fault — the sword had met resistance it shouldn't have, the blade barely sinking where it should have cut clean.
I nudged a limb aside, inspecting the joints, the way the bones had fractured under my swings.
Another lay on its side, a split in its ribcage exposing a cavity that would have been organs, if there were any left intact.
I pressed the blade edge gently against the rib — the steel didn't glide; it scraped. I had to apply pressure, levering, twisting. Every incision I'd made was jagged, uneven.
A kitchen knife could have done better in the hands of someone with no skill at all.
I moved to the last, crouching over it, running a finger along the faintly glowing blue of its eyes. The lids were slack now, no ember left, just the dull slate of lifeless stone.
Ever since I'd realized what my gift truly was, the thought had been gnawing at the back of my mind. What would happen if I took from something magical?
I'd taken from an animal and a man, Each time, it was the same: their strength, their vitality, it bled into me for a while, like heat caught in cooling metal.
But those had all been ordinary things. Mortal. Mundane.
I crouched beside one of the Foglet corpses, its flesh already softening, evaporating in patches where the morning light touched.
My eyes traced the faint blue veins that pulsed just beneath the skin — what passed for blood in its kind. It reeked of decay and something else… something wrong.
If these things were born of magic — shaped by it — then by all logic, the same principle should hold. If I fed from one… if I took what little spark sustained it… would I be able to wield it? To twist fog and shadow as they did?
The idea was as dangerous as it was tempting. As long as it wasn't tied to their biology — like claws or fangs or venom — there was no clear reason why I couldn't.
But I didn't move. I just stared at the dissolving corpse, the faint hiss of vapor rising from its wounds. Only one way to find out.
I lift the Foglet's arm to my mouth. It stinks of the swamp — peat and algae, the sour tang of stagnant water — and under that, the visceral reek of rot, like old meat left too long in the sun.
It hits the back of my throat before the teeth touch it: metal and mud and something sweet and fetid all at once.
I bite.
The skin gives with a sick, soggy sound. It's not warm. It's… cool, strangely slick, the flesh tasting of brine and copper and the faint, bitter tang of decaying leaves.
There's a chemical edge to it, like phosphorus and crushed stone. A strand of something like sap threads between my lips and snaps. The Foglet twitches; a little plume of its vapour leaks where I've punctured it.
The feed is less straightforward than an animal's. With men, with beasts, the flow is clear — pulse, heat, life.
This is thinner, a slurry of sensation and memory more than pure life. For a beat I feel the swamp bloom inside my head: the hollowed chest of a drowned alder, the slow slide of fog along water, the tiny, cunning hunger that lives in mist. Images flash — a moon slipping behind a black pond, pale lights bobbing just above the reeds, the pattern of footsteps that never leave a mark.
Smell and sound fold into each other: wet wool, shallow breathing of drowned things, the soft click of claws through mud.
And then — a whisper at the edges of my mind, a pattern, not a spell but instruction: where the fog pools, how it clings to root and hollow, the rhythm it prefers.
It's not language so much as a map made of sensation. I pull back when the tremor runs through the corpse; the Foglet's little life sputters and dies in my mouth.
My head clears in an instant, or at least clears differently. The pounding static that fog had laid over my senses eases; the world snaps back—but it is altered.
I can feel the mist now in a way I hadn't before, as if it's a thing I could read the grain of. Not power, not a command, only a borrowed understanding. A hint. A key that fits only partway into a lock. A piece of a puzzle.
I wipe my mouth on my sleeve, tastes of iron and marsh clinging to my teeth. Slightly disorientated, disgusted, and oddly excited all at once, I rise and move to the other corpses.
Whatever this is, it's dangerous — and useful. Its an edge I couldn't afford to let go to waste.