The moon hung high in the night sky, casting a cold, pale light over the shadowy forest. Each tree stood like a sentinel, black silhouettes etched against the silver glow. The air was unnervingly still, thick with the tension of what was to come. Only the faint rustling of leaves, a distant owl’s call, and the deliberate movement of something unnatural disturbed the quiet. Crouched low to the ground, a figure slipped through the darkness, its silhouette sharp and predatory, moving with a purpose that could only be described as malevolent.
The Darkborn lieutenant growled softly, the sound more a rumble in its chest than anything vocal. Its jagged claws sunk into the damp earth as it paused, scanning the darkened woods with glowing eyes like dim embers. Those eyes, burning with cold hatred, caught every shadow, every flicker of movement. Its body was marred by deep, vicious gashes—wounds from a battle it could not forget, nor forgive. The gashes carved across its twisted form were still raw, the flesh still knitting together. Its blackened, leathery skin twitched as it limped forward, each step a reminder of its failure.
Weeks ago, it had faced a human—an insignificant, frail creature compared to the darkness it served. And yet, that man had fought with such fury, wielding a blade that had ripped through the lieutenant’s flesh with the searing heat of an inferno. The sword, Noctisbane, a weapon of magic, a weapon of light—a weapon that burned with a power the Darkborn had never encountered. The sword had cut deeper than any physical wound. It had left the lieutenant humiliated, scarred not just in body but in pride.
The memory burned as hot as the blade itself. The man’s face, contorted in battle, haunted its every thought. There had been no fear in his eyes, only relentless fury. The lieutenant growled again, low and menacing. It had underestimated Alex, and that mistake had nearly cost it everything.
But now, it was healed enough. The time had come to exact its revenge, to reclaim its lost honor, to destroy not just the man’s legacy but everything he had ever touched. The scent of its quarry lingered on the breeze, faint but unmistakable—blood, metal, and the lingering essence of Alex. The lieutenant inhaled deeply, savoring it. Alex was dead, but something of him remained in the air, like a ghost. And more than anything, the scent of Noctisbane lingered like a poison in its senses.
Behind the lieutenant, two Darkborn minions slinked through the undergrowth, their forms twisted and hunched, nothing more than beasts driven by primal hunger. The Voidlings, corrupted by abyssal energy, followed the lieutenant’s every command with mindless obedience. They twitched and fidgeted, their glowing eyes flickering as they glanced toward the village’s outskirts, where a small cottage nestled at the edge of the forest. That was their destination.
---
Miles away from Glenhaven, Sir André Barker urged his steed forward, the rhythmic pounding of hooves reverberating through the air as the day waned. The cool air sliced across his face, but it did little to clear his mind of the heavy thoughts that clung to him like shadows. His mind lingered on Jonny and Helena, their faces burned into his memory. He had visited their humble cottage only two weeks prior to deliver Alex’s sword and locket—mementos of a husband lost in battle, relics he thought might grant her some semblance of closure. Yet, he had seen the deep well of grief in Helena's eyes, grief that no keepsake could mend.
His horse, sensing the urgency in its rider, moved swiftly, hooves barely touching the ground along the forest path. André’s thoughts were fractured—caught between the memory of Helena’s pained expression and the fresh wounds of his own guilt. He had survived because of Alex’s sacrifice, yet it felt like a hollow victory when he saw the emptiness it left behind in those who loved him.
Suddenly, the horse's pace faltered. André tugged the reins gently, slowing the animal to a trot. His sharp eyes scanned the earth, and something caught his attention. There, in the disturbed soil, were tracks—fresh ones, cutting across the narrow trail. He leaped from his horse without a second thought, dropping to his knees. His fingers traced the indents in the ground, cold fear creeping up his spine.
The tracks were unmistakable.
Darkborn.
His breath hitched. Not one, but several. Their irregular gait and the jagged shapes pressed deep into the earth told him all he needed to know. These weren’t the usual minions that patrolled the cursed lands in the east. These were larger, more purposeful. Elite hunters, perhaps. They had moved through recently, their trail still fresh, their destination clear.
A chill ran down his spine as he stood abruptly. This far west? So close to Glenhaven? It was unthinkable. The Darkborn had always been creatures of the east, held back by within their unnatural lands. He couldn’t recall a time when they had ventured this deep into the kingdom’s heartlands. It made no sense.
And then, the realization struck him like a hammer.
Alex’s sword. The locket.
Both had once belonged to the hero who had dealt a deadly blow to one of the Darkborn’s lieutenants, Rylkoth. André's jaw clenched. The sword must still carry Alex’s scent, the essence of the man who had once wounded the lieutenant. Rylkoth had not forgotten. The lieutenant would hunt down anything—anyone—linked to that scent, believing Alex had somehow returned.
André’s chest tightened with panic as the pieces fell into place. They weren’t just aimlessly moving west. They had a purpose—a scent they were following. Helena and Jonny. The cottage.
He could almost see the twisted, feral creatures barreling through the woods, their dark eyes gleaming with malice, drawn inexorably toward their prey. If they reached the cottage before him...
His heart pounded wildly as he scrambled back to his horse. He had no time to waste. Cursing under his breath, he spurred the animal into a full gallop, the dusk around him a blur as the trees rushed past. The wind whipped through his hair, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Every second counted. Every heartbeat echoed in his ears like a drumbeat driving him toward the inevitable.
The memories of Alex’s final moments came flooding back. He had watched as Alex stood against an impossible foe, defying death itself to protect them. To protect him. And now, Helena and Jonny—two innocent souls—were caught in the crosshairs of a battle they didn’t even know was upon them.
He grit his teeth, pushing his steed harder, faster. The horse whinnied in protest, but André could not afford to slow down. Not now. His mind was racing, calculating, trying to think of any way he could get ahead of the Darkborn. But they had a head start, and he was alone.
---
The Darkborn lieutenant raised its head again, sniffing the air. It had spent roughly two weeks tracking, resting only when necessary. The scent grew stronger now, more concentrated, but something was off. Two trails? It halted, snarling in confusion. Impossible. No human could split in two, yet the scent told another story. One trail, weak and fading, led deeper into the forest. The other, stronger, pulled toward the cottage.
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The lieutenant’s glowing eyes narrowed. The scent wasn’t just Alex’s—it was Noctisbane. Somehow, the sword carried his essence as though Alex's soul was bound to it. Now, something inside that dwelling reeked of his presence.
A guttural growl built in the creature’s throat as it gestured sharply toward its minions, the Voidlings. The weaker trail belonged to them. With a flicker of motion, they darted into the deeper shadows, vanishing into the thick of the forest to follow the trail that led away. Their low growls faded into the distance, leaving the lieutenant alone to hunt what truly mattered.
It crept closer to the cottage now, each step calculated, every movement deliberate. The scent of Noctisbane grew overpowering as it neared the small dwelling. The blade’s essence burned in the air, its presence tangible. The lieutenant’s body pulsed with the memory of the sword tearing through its flesh, a phantom pain throbbed with every breath. Hatred dulled the pain, driving it forward as it prowled through the shadows.
The cottage came into view, lit by the soft glow of a lantern flickering through the window. Small, unassuming, surrounded by a garden and tools scattered about—yet to the lieutenant, it was a beacon of everything it sought to destroy. Inside those walls was something tied to Alex, something that connected to Noctisbane and its own failure.
It paused, crouching low, studying the structure. No signs of life—no movement, no sounds—but the scent was undeniable. Slowly, it circled the dwelling, keeping to the shadows. The first thing it saw was the stable, a weathered enclosure holding a single mule.
Willow.
The mule snorted, sensing the lieutenant’s presence. It brayed a warning, shifting uneasily. The lieutenant sneered, recognizing the animal as a loyal servant of the human it had tracked. In one swift motion, it approached Willow, its hand raised, tendrils of dark energy coiling from its fingers. The mule froze, its eyes wide with fear, before the creature's grip clamped down on its snout, silencing it in an instant. The dark energy surged, draining the life from the animal in a matter of moments. Willow collapsed, its body crumpling in the dirt.
The lieutenant left the mule's lifeless form and moved on. A few chickens rustled nearby, startled by the movement in the darkness, but they, too, were silenced swiftly, their necks snapped with brutal efficiency. There could be no distractions, no witnesses, no interruptions. This time, it would ensure there were no mistakes.
The cottage loomed larger now as the lieutenant prowled closer. Inside, Alex’s scent permeated everything—his presence clung to the air, thick as blood. The sword was near. The lieutenant’s hatred flared, and it pushed forward, preparing for what awaited inside.
A sudden memory surged through the lieutenant’s mind once more: the moment when Alex had plunged Noctisbane deep into its flesh, the magic flaring bright, burning away the darkness within. The pain had been excruciating, but it was the humiliation that had nearly destroyed it. A human had wounded it. A mere mortal had bested it in combat, and it was time to wipe away the disgrace and dishonor.
The lieutenant’s claws dug into the earth as it stalked closer, readying itself. This time, it would not hesitate. This time, it would tear apart anyone and anything connected to that cursed sword. The scent of Noctisbane was overwhelming now, so close, so tangible, that the lieutenant could almost taste the metal on the air.
And then, it heard something—a faint sound from within the cottage. A breath, soft and steady, barely audible. Someone was inside.
The lieutenant’s lips curled into a snarl as it crept toward the door, its massive form hidden in the shadows. Its pulse quickened, the thrill of the hunt coursing through its veins. This was it. The final step. One last obstacle stood between it and the obliteration of Alex’s memory. All it had to do was strike.
The door creaked as the lieutenant pressed against it, a soft groan of wood bending under its weight. For a moment, the night was still again, the only sound the quiet hiss of the wind through the trees. The lieutenant froze, every muscle coiled, ready to spring.
Inside, the soft sound of footsteps approached.
The lieutenant’s eyes flared brighter, its claws digging deeper into the wood. It would wait, wait for the perfect moment. It would savor this kill.
---
The trees around him began to thin, and he knew the forest path would soon give way to the open fields that bordered Glenhaven. He could only pray that he wasn’t too late. The image of Jonny’s wide, innocent eyes flashed before him—eyes that had already seen too much pain for someone so young. Helena’s gentle smile lingered in his mind, fragile yet filled with unspoken sorrow. He had promised Alex, in those final moments, to look after them. To make sure they were safe. And now that promise felt like a noose tightening around his throat.
A sudden screech echoed through the forest, high and guttural, the sound of something unnatural moving in the shadows. André’s eyes darted to the side, catching movement in the underbrush. His pulse quickened.
The Darkborn were close.
Panic surged through him, quickening his pace. His mind swirled with possible outcomes, none of them good. If the Darkborn had already reached the cottage... His thoughts spiraled into worst-case scenarios. He needed to get there. Now.
His horse bounded over a fallen log as the forest opened up, revealing the moonlit fields stretching toward Glenhaven in the distance. The cottage was still a ways off, nestled against the edge of the woods, isolated from the village. André's eyes strained to see any movement, any sign of danger ahead. But the night remained deceptively still.
He urged his horse onward, pushing it past the point of exhaustion. The pounding of hooves against the earth mirrored the frantic beating of his heart. Each second stretched into an eternity as the small, familiar outline of Helena’s cottage came into view—dark and silent under the moonlit sky.
A sinking feeling gripped his chest. Too quiet. Too still.
With a shout, André leapt from the saddle before the horse had even come to a stop, drawing his sword in one swift motion. He sprinted toward the cottage, his boots thudding heavily against the dirt. His pulse thundered in his ears, the blood rushing in his veins.
***
Jonny’s arms ached as he drove Alex’s sword through the air in a precise arc. The clearing behind the cottage echoed with the rhythmic sound of steel slicing through the air, punctuated by Jonny’s labored breaths. Sweat glistened on his brow and soaked his tunic, evidence of the hours he had poured from the early morning and throughout the day into mastering the blade that was now more than just a weapon—it was a symbol, a legacy.
Gavin, stationed at the edge of the clearing, observed with his sharp mechanical eyes. The once purely analytical voice of the automaton had taken on a more nuanced quality. His remarks, while still precise, now carried traces of empathy that hadn’t been there before.
"Your form is improving," Gavin said, his voice cutting through the evening air. "But you’re hesitating between strikes. You must commit fully. There can be no pause."
Jonny, chest heaving from exertion, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I thought I was getting it right,” he panted, frustration creeping into his voice. Despite his progress, each swing felt like a battle not just against his opponents, but against his own fatigue.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon casting long shadows across the clearing, Jonny sat on a log, the sword feeling like dead weight in his hand. The day was drawing to a close, and the familiar chill of the evening breeze hinted that it was well past the time to stop.
"Maybe that’s enough for today," Jonny muttered to himself, more exhausted than he cared to admit. "I need to clean up."
He rose, his muscles stiff from overuse, and reluctantly made his way toward the stream that ran through the nearby forest, his usual refuge for washing away the grime of training. In his exhaustion, he left his sword leaning against the cottage wall.
---
Helena stood before the sword, left behind by Jonny. Something about it tugged at her, pulling her closer. The blade seemed to hum with a faint resonance, a whisper of power woven with the mysteries of the past.
Drawn by the sword’s call, Helena reached out, her fingers brushing against the hilt. A shiver coursed through her, the cold, sharp sensation of old magic. "Why now?" she wondered, her brow furrowed. "It feels... alive."
---
Outside, Jonny knelt beside the stream, its cool waters offering relief. He splashed water on his face, the peaceful rustling of leaves and the distant calls of birds calming him—at least for a moment.
But Gavin was not at ease. His sensors, refined for detecting more than the mundane, began picking up something out of place, something dark lurking in the distance causing the birds to flutter away leaving behind an eerie silence. He straightened, scanning the forest beyond.
“Jonny,” Gavin said, his voice edged with concern. “Something’s coming.”
Jonny looked up, alarmed. His gaze followed Gavin’s, and for the first time, he noticed the shifting shadows at the forest’s edge. Shapes moved with deliberate malice, their forms obscured in the growing twilight.
Two figures emerged from the darkness, their twisted bodies cloaked in the gloom of the approaching night. The air around them felt charged with malevolence. Jonny’s heart pounded as he realized what they were—Darkborn minions, corrupted creatures twisted by the void. They advanced slowly, their presence exuding menace.
Jonny sprang to his feet, his mind in turmoil. The familiar chill of dread gripped him. His eyes flicked toward the direction of the cottage, to Helena who was unaware of the danger creeping closer.