Written by: Chris Chret © 2026
The forest was quiet.
Too quiet for people who knew they were being hunted.
Rhydan and Lorian moved between the trees like shadows — separated from the others, but still close enough to hear the voices, the laughter, and the whispers of the criminals they once called their own.
Once.
Rhydan had been their leader for years. The man who led them through starvation, blood, and battles.
Now… he was nothing.
There was a new leader.
And Rhydan was seen as a threat.
An enemy.
He felt it. In their looks. In the silence that formed when he passed by. In the hands that were never far from weapons.
He sat with Lorian by a small fire, far from the others.
"If something happens to me…" Rhydan said quietly, staring into the flame. "I want you to know that I trust you."
Lorian stayed silent.
"One day," Rhydan continued, "you will be a better leader than me. But right now… it's still too early."
He looked at the boy.
"Don't trust everyone. Most often the knife comes from behind — from the one you think is protecting you. If something happens… don't do anything. They will kill you too if you rebel."
Lorian pressed his lips tightly.
"If I manage to escape…" Rhydan said, "you won't come with me. That would be a death sentence for you."
Lorian's eyes filled with tears.
"I want us to go together," he whispered. "I don't want to lose you… like I lost our whole village."
Rhydan clenched his jaw.
"I will leave you," he said. "And I know you may hate me for it. But this is for your own good."
Silence.
"Where do I find you… when I grow up?" Lorian asked with a fragile voice.
Rhydan lowered his gaze.
"I don't know where the road will take me."
That was the last conversation.
The plan was simple — to leave at midnight, when everyone slept.
But Rhydan knew.
Something was coming.
When night fell, the criminals began searching for him.
Rhydan immediately moved away from Lorian — fast, quiet, without drawing attention. The boy must not be killed with him.
Deep in the forest, six men emerged from the shadows.
They surrounded him.
Rhydan drew both swords.
He took a deep breath.
Slowly exhaled.
"So… it came to this?" he whispered.
They attacked.
Steel rang through the night forest.
With one brutal move, Rhydan stabbed a man straight in the chest — with both swords. The body fell without a sound.
He rushed the second, cut his face with the sword and pushed him to the ground, leaving him with a deep bloody wound.
Four remained.
Arrows flew from the bushes.
Two fell immediately.
Rhydan stabbed the third from behind, piercing through the ribcage.
The fourth turned — and with one swing his head was gone.
"Lorian?!" Rhydan shouted.
But from the shadows another man came out.
"It's not him," he said. "Run. They're all looking for you."
Rhydan looked at him.
"Thank you. Take care… and protect Lorian."
He ran.
The man who helped him quickly removed the arrows from the dead and stabbed them with a knife where the arrows had hit to hide the traces, then fled the scene.
As Rhydan ran, two more men blocked his path.
One lost his throat.
The other lost his arm — then his life.
"Goodbye, Lorian…" he whispered as he disappeared into the forest.
When the sun rose, he was already far away.
Back at the camp, people gathered.
Five bodies were found dead.
Two more — not far away.
The man with the arrows fell silent when he heard the number.
"Don't look for him," the new leader said. "One day he will return. Then we finish it."
Lorian sat alone.
His eyes full of tears.
The others looked at him with hatred.
The man with the arrows approached and whispered:
"He escaped. He's alive. I will protect you."
That morning the survivor of the fight was brought back unconscious.
Meanwhile…
Rhydan walked toward Serpentis.
With one purpose.
To kill the heir.
To destroy the kingdom at its roots.
Rhydan reached the gates of Virellion late at night.
The walls rose high, old and worn by time, but still dangerous. Torches burned on the towers, and shadows moved slowly as if the city breathed.
The gate opened.
Two guards stepped out with swords in hand.
Above, on the wall — two archers, careful, bows ready.
Rhydan stopped a few steps in front of them.
He didn't speak.
One guard frowned.
"Who are you and what are you doing here this late?" he asked.
Rhydan raised his eyes.
His face was smeared with dried blood. His hands — red up to the wrists.
In a moment, without warning, Rhydan pulled the dagger from the guard's belt and stabbed him directly in the throat.
The man fell without a sound.
The second swung his sword — but Rhydan already had the first guard's sword and with one quick move stabbed him in the eye.
Two archers were on the wall.
Arrows flew.
Rhydan lifted the dead guard's body and used it as a shield. The arrows thudded into flesh and armor.
With one motion, he pulled the dagger from the throat and threw it upward.
Hit — in the forehead.
The first archer fell from the wall.
Rhydan took a dagger from the other guard, moved forward, pulled the arrows from the shields and threw the dead guard's body, and at that moment the arrow hit the corpse in the head.
The archer sighed in relief — thinking he killed the intruder.
Rhydan stepped out slightly and threw the dagger at the archer.
The dagger pierced the archer under the chin.
The body fell hard.
The gates were closed.
Rhydan dragged the bodies to the gate, hid them in shadow, and quietly entered the city.
The castle rose in the heart of the city.
Guards circled the walls, and two stood at the entrance.
Rhydan hid in the bushes. He waited. Followed the rhythm.
When the patrol passed — he climbed.
High window. Cold stone. His hands slipped from the blood, but he made it.
He entered.
Behind a curtain.
Two guards passed.
One stopped.
"Something's wrong…" he whispered.
He stared at the curtain.
Suddenly, a sword pierced him in the chest.
The body fell.
Rhydan pulled it behind the curtain.
He continued.
Another guard saw him.
"YOU—"
Rhydan pushed him, wrapped him in the curtain and began choking him.
He pulled the small sword and stabbed his throat.
Another appeared.
Rhydan threw the sword — hit him in the shoulder.
The man turned to run.
He didn't make it.
Strike in the back.
Bodies were hidden in some room.
At that moment the king passed by and entered one of the rooms, but his guards remained in front of the door.
Rhydan continued searching for the heir's chamber.
Two guards stood at the door.
Rhydan threw a dagger from afar — right into the first guard's throat.
The second turned — and received a strike with the sword's hilt to the head.
He fell.
Rhydan slit his throat.
He opened the door.
Inside — a child.
Sleeping.
Rhydan's hands trembled.
With one clean swing — the end.
His eyes filled with tears.
He stepped onto the terrace.
He could escape.
But he remembered.
One move. Two lives. A whole kingdom destroyed.
He crossed from terrace to the king's chamber and entered.
Only one guard was there — old, strong.
The king was there.
"Wait," the king said.
Rhydan spoke quietly:
"Sorry… I must."
"Defeat him," the king said. "Then come for me."
Swords clashed.
Two legends.
They fought hard, and the sound of blades echoed far.
But Rhydan felt — time was running out.
"Sorry… this will have to wait."
He jumped from the terrace.
Vanished.
At that moment the guards entered but it was too late — the man had escaped, but the king remained alive.
The night did not bring peace.
Deep among the trees, fires still smoldered, and shadows of men moved slowly, heavily, as if dragging guilt with them. Lorian sat alone, a little away from the others. No one approached him. The looks were enough — sharp, cold, filled with contempt.
He did not cry. His tears had long dried.
Not far from him, the archer who helped Rhydan moved quietly like a ghost. He knew the terrain, knew the steps, knew where to step and where not. His eyes were fixed on the tent where the survivor of that night was brought — the only one left alive.
It had to end, he told himself.
Not out of hatred. Out of fear. He knew that if the survivor spoke, he would be in danger.
He crept toward the tent. The cloth swayed lightly in the wind. Inside it was dark.
He entered.
At the same moment, something heavy crashed onto his back. A hand twisted his arm, another covered his mouth. Before he could pull the knife, he was already on the ground. Knees on his chest. Elbows on his neck.
He didn't shout. There was no time.
They dragged him outside, bound, face pressed into the mud. When they raised him, he saw their faces — not surprised. Prepared.
They brought him before the new leader.
He stood still, hands behind his back, eyes staring into the darkness as if seeing something the others could not. When the archer lifted his head, the leader already knew.
"I knew someone helped him," he said quietly.
His voice was not loud, but everyone fell silent.
"At first we thought it was the boy."
Several men looked at Lorian.
"But the boy is only a shadow. Someone else helped him."
The leader turned toward the gathered criminals. All were there. No one missing.
"In this group," he continued, "there is no place for traitors. There is no forgiveness. There are only consequences."
He did not shout. He did not command. He simply nodded.
The rope was already prepared.
They dragged the archer to the tall tree in the center. He did not resist. Only once he turned his gaze — not to the leader, but to Lorian.
The boy stood frozen.
The rope was placed around his neck. His hands were bound. Several men lifted him, rough, without ceremony. The body swung while air ripped from his throat.
No one spoke.
Only the creaking of the rope and the muffled choking were heard.
Someone turned away. Most just watched.
Lorian could not look away. His legs were heavy, as if rooted into the earth. When the body finally stopped moving, something inside him broke — quietly, without sound.
The leader spoke again:
"Let this be the last warning to traitors."
Then he turned and walked away as if nothing had happened.
People slowly dispersed. Fires faded. Shadows vanished one by one.
Lorian remained alone.
Staring at the tree.
With emptiness in his chest.
With a world that from that night was no longer the same.
Far away in the kingdom of Skeldor, in the capital Frosthelm, the fortress held a prisoner.
Alaric lay in chains, making sounds like he was unwell.
A guard entered and began shaking him and asking — are you alright.
Alaric grabbed him with the chains and began choking him.
The body fell.
He took the key.
He changed clothes.
He tied the guard in chains so no one would notice he was gone.
He cut out his tongue.
He disfigured his face.
He went out onto the walls.
But his gaze betrayed him.
"Who are you?" two guards asked.
He attacked them — cut the first one's throat and pushed the other from the walls, and he fell into the city below.
Guards saw a body fall and noticed the man who threw it, and all guards began running after Alaric.
Alaric had no choice and looked down.
He jumped from the wall.
Snow. Rocks. Darkness.
End of Chapter 8.