The gates closed behind them with a heavy, echoing thud.
Rowan didn't turn back immediately.
He rode forward a few paces before something pulled at his attention
And he looked.
The estate stretched far beyond what he had imagined.
What he had seen from within had been nothing just fragments. Walls, corridors, training grounds. Pieces of something much larger.
From the outside
It was a fortress.
Massive stone walls rose high into the air, reinforced with layered battlements and narrow watch points. Towers stood at measured intervals, each one manned, each one watching. Guards lined the upper edges, their silhouettes sharp against the sky, bows and spears at the ready.
The gates alone were enormous thick, iron-banded, built to withstand more than just time.
Rowan's grip tightened slightly on the reins.
This place…
It wasn't just a noble estate.
It was built to endure war.
His eyes scanned the perimeter as they rode further out. Patrols. Rotations. Positioning. Everything deliberate. Everything controlled.
No blind spots.
No weakness he could see.
And then
A thought cut through it all.
Cold. Immediate.
…Then how did he get in?
Rowan's expression stilled.
The image surfaced without warning
A hooded figure.
Blood soaked into the cloak.
Standing where they shouldn't have been. Moving through a place that now, from this vantage point, seemed almost impossible to breach.
No alarm.
No resistance.
No trace.
Rowan's gaze lingered on the walls a moment longer.
The guards hadn't reacted that day.
No one had.
As if the figure had never been seen
Or had never needed to be.
A faint unease settled into his chest.
If someone can walk into a place like this…
His fingers tightened slightly around the reins.
Then what exactly am I riding out into?
"Keep moving." Colin's voice cut across the formation without looking back.
Rowan blinked once, pulling his gaze away from the fortress.
The road stretched ahead.
And whatever answers waited
They weren't behind those walls anymore.
The road began to change as they rode deeper into the land.
The emptiness gave way to life scattered homes, small fields, and villagers moving about their day.
At first, it was just glances.
Then murmurs.
"They're knights…"
"House Velryth…"
Rowan caught the words as they passed, quiet but unmistakable. Heads bowed slightly. Some stepped aside entirely, clearing the path without being asked.
But it wasn't fear.
That was what struck him.
It was… relief.
A woman pulled her child closer, whispering something as the boy stared wide-eyed at the passing formation. An older man straightened where he stood, placing a hand over his chest in a subtle show of respect.
Rowan's gaze lingered.
They're… glad we're here.
The realization settled quietly.
Not just tolerated.
Welcomed.
Trusted.
It felt strange.
Unfamiliar.
Around him, the knights reacted in their own ways.
Colin didn't acknowledge the villagers directly, but his posture straightened slightly, his presence sharpening as if their expectations were something he carried without question.
Enzo let out a faint scoff, though the corner of his mouth lifted just a little. "Hah… look at them," he muttered, not bothering to lower his voice. "You'd think we were saviors."
Despite the words, he didn't look away.
If anything, he seemed to enjoy it.
One of the other knights gave a small nod toward a passing villager, subtle but deliberate an acknowledgment returned without breaking formation.
Another adjusted his grip on his weapon, eyes scanning more carefully now, as if the presence of civilians made him more alert, not less.
And then
Sir Wolfe.
He swayed slightly in his saddle, squinting down at the villagers as they passed. "Mm… good folk…" he muttered, voice thick, barely coherent. He lifted a hand in what might have been a wave too slow, too unsteady l before letting it drop again.
A child giggled softly as they passed him.
Wolfe blinked, as if confused by the reaction, then grinned lazily to himself.
Rowan looked ahead again, but the feeling stayed with him.
These people saw them as protection.
As something dependable.
And yet
He tightened his grip on the reins slightly.
I barely know what I'm doing.
The armor on his body, the sword at his side, the charm against his chest
All of it felt heavier now.
Not just because of what lay ahead
But because of what they already believed him to be.
The further they rode, the thinner the signs of life became.
The scattered homes faded.
Fields gave way to open stretches of land, uneven and quiet.
Too quiet.
Even the wind seemed to lose its voice.
Rowan noticed it first in the small things.
No distant chatter.
No movement in the fields.
No animals.
Just the steady rhythm of hooves pressing into dry earth.
His gaze shifted slightly, scanning without turning his head.
Something felt… wrong.
Not obvious.
Not something he could point to.
But it lingered.
Like something just out of sight.
The formation tightened subtly as they rode on. The earlier ease what little there had been was gone now. Even the more relaxed knights sat straighter, more alert.
Enzo's smirk had faded.
Sir Wolfe was quieter too, his usual muttering replaced with a low, unfocused stare ahead.
That alone was enough to unsettle Rowan further.
They crested a slight rise
And the village came into view.
Small.
Still.
Too still.
No smoke rising from chimneys.
No movement between the structures.
No sound carrying across the distance.
Rowan's grip tightened around the reins.
Something's wrong.
This time, the thought came without doubt.
Colin slowed his horse slightly at the front, raising a hand just enough for the others to follow suit.
His voice came out low but firm, carrying across them all.
"Stay sharp."
A brief pause.
Then
"Be ready for anything."
No one responded.
No one needed to.
Steel shifted softly.
Hands adjusted on weapons.
The air itself seemed to grow heavier as they began their descent toward the village.
Rowan felt it clearly now.
Not just unease
Expectation.
Like something was waiting.
They entered the village slowly, hooves crunching softly over the uneven earth.
The silence pressed down on them, thick and suffocating.
Rowan's eyes darted from house to house, searching for movement.
Nothing.
Even the doors hung open as if abandoned in a hurry, swinging slightly in the breeze.
Colin led the formation, scanning left and right, hand lightly brushing the hilt of his sword.
"Spread out," he murmured. "But stay close. Eyes everywhere."
Enzo rode just behind him, unusually quiet, lips pressed in a thin line as if restraining some thought.
Rowan felt his stomach tighten.
The village smelled… wrong.
A metallic tang, faint but unmistakable.
And then he saw it.
A figure crouched near one of the houses, its wings black and glossy.
A crow.
Not just perched.
Feeding.
On a corpse.
The limbs were twisted unnaturally, skin scorched and burned, clothing ragged.
Rowan's breath caught.
He wanted to look away.
He wanted to pretend he didn't see it.
But his eyes were frozen, glued to the scene.
Colin noticed too. His hand moved instinctively to the hilt, gaze narrowing.
"Keep your distance," he ordered quietly.
Enzo, still smirking faintly, muttered under his breath, "Actual experience… nothing teaches like it, eh?"
Rowan swallowed hard, trying to steel himself, heart pounding, mind racing through possibilities.
What… what happened here?
The formation tightened as they moved cautiously closer.
Every step was measured.
Every sound echoed.
And the crow didn't flinch.
It continued feeding.
Oblivious.
Intent.
Rowan's stomach turned.
The village was silent, abandoned, and now… grotesque.
He realized instinctively that this was no simple raid.
Something had gone very wrong here.
And they were walking straight into it.
The dreadful image of the crow eating on the human's carcus pulled Rowan into a trance
He staggered, senses twisting, vision narrowing. The village, the knights, even the corpse they all faded.
And then the shadows came.
At first, small shapes, like gnawing insects, biting at his hands. He jerked his fingers, trying to shake them off but they were everywhere, crawling, tearing at his flesh.
Panic gripped him.
He dropped to his knees, clawing at his arms as the sensation climbed up his wrists, elbows, shoulders creatures biting, rending, clawing at him.
He screamed inside his head.
It's not real… it's not real… it's not real…
But the gnawing continued, moving faster, sharper, more insistent.
They reached his face.
He flinched, eyes squeezed shut. Tiny teeth or claws raked across his eyelids.
Blind panic.
Everything shrank into white-hot fear.
No… I can't… I can't…
Then a shadow of movement wings snapped through his mind.
The real crow, cawing, glided past him in the open air.
The gnawing vanished.
The trance shattered.
Rowan collapsed to the ground, gasping, trembling. His hands clutched at nothing but air. His eyes watered, his pulse thundering.
The village returned. The corpse remained. The knights continued forward, oblivious.
But Rowan knew… something was coming. Something he hadn't faced before.
And it had just let him see it
The crow had vanished, but the sense of foreboding lingered like a shadow.
The same shadow stretched across the master's office, cast by the Python sigil on the wall.
Maps and ledgers lay scattered across the desk, but his gaze was drawn to the glinting ring on his hand the same sigil engraved on its band catching the light.
A knock sounded at the door, soft but deliberate.
"Enter," the master's voice said, calm and measured.
The door opened, and a hooded figure stepped inside, cloak stained dark, face hidden in shadow. The master's eyes lingered on the figure, unreadable, as if he already knew why they had come.
The room fell silent, heavy with anticipation. Whatever Rowan had felt in the village the unease, the foreboding echoed here, in this chamber.
The master gestured toward a pair of cups resting on the polished table. "Sit. Drink. It's been a long morning."
The hooded figure moved forward silently, settling into the chair without unhooding, and accepted the cup. The cloak shifted slightly, dark stains catching the light, hinting at the grim business that had brought them here.
"The ***** was defective," the figure said, voice low and clipped, almost clinical.
The master's eyes didn't leave the sigil on the figure's hand, his expression unreadable. "Defective, perhaps," he replied calmly, swirling the drink in his cup. "But the operation was still a success. Finally… somebody survived."
There was a pause, heavy with implication. The figure said nothing, only inclining their head slightly, acknowledging the statement without agreeing or objecting.
The figure tilted their head " prepare yourself for what comes next"
As quickly as he had muttered those words he was gone as if he was never there to begin with.
"Somewhere unseen, the wheels of fate had already begun to turn"