Time seemed to stretch endlessly for Artemis as she watched her arrow soar through the night sky. The moment it connected with the enemy trench, a magical explosion erupted, shaped like a brilliant moon. Debris and bodies were sent hurtling into the air, a chaotic ballet of destruction illuminated by the soft, ethereal glow of her power. A triumphant smile briefly graced her lips, the satisfaction of a well-placed shot flooding her veins.
But the victory was short-lived. Almost immediately, her body weakened, her limbs going limp as the flaw of her spell, Lunaris, took hold. She crumpled to the ground, the strength drained from her small frame. "Polo... Haya," she whispered, her voice fragile and frightened. "Help."
Without hesitation, Hyakinthos scooped her up, carrying her tenderly as they made their way back to the safety of the walls. The night was still, the distant sounds of the enemy camp a faint echo in the distance. As they reached the base of the wall, Hyakinthos, with Artemis clinging weakly to his back, began the arduous climb. His muscles strained, but he moved with determination that had always defined him. Once they reached the top, he gently set Artemis down before extending a hand to Apollo, pulling him up with a reassuring smile.
"Did we get them?" Artemis asked weakly, her voice laced with both hope and exhaustion.
"Probably," Apollo replied, his tone contemplative. "We probably just annoyed them."
Artemis frowned, confusion knitting her brow. "What? How can that be? We must have at least killed one of them."
Apollo shook his head gently. "Arty, they’re adults. Their ranks are probably much higher than ours. We’re just rank 1, and they must be rank 3 or 5. Plus, we have to consider their equipment. Their armor likely protected them from the worst of the blasts... but we did hurt them."
Artemis let out a soft sigh, her earlier excitement dimming into resignation. "Oh... so we hurt them... then that is fine with me."
With that, they quietly made their way back to the noble’s district, the once tense atmosphere now settling into a somber calm.
Hyakinthos busied himself in the small kitchen, his hands methodically peeling and slicing potatoes, their earthy scent filling the room. He boiled them over a small fire, the simple task grounding him after the chaos of the night. As the potatoes softened, he set some aside, carefully planting them in his mother’s garden.
Meanwhile, his siblings had already drifted off to sleep on the cold stone of the castle wall, their exhaustion overpowering any discomfort. The night air was cool and soothing, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of the garden as Hyakinthos finished his meal.
When he finally joined them, the events of the night played on his mind.
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That night, the man in golden armor lay motionless on the cold earth, his body battered and broken, yet his spirit aflame with a seething rage. Around him, the remnants of his forces worked tirelessly, digging a new trench further from the devastation that had befallen them. The apothecaries hovered over him, their hands glowing softly as they channeled healing magic into his wounds, but even their efforts couldn’t soothe the tempest raging within.
As the apothecaries worked, a man in gleaming armor approached, the wings on his helmet catching the faint light of the distant moon. He knelt beside the fallen leader, his posture respectful, but his eyes betraying a deep concern. "My Lord," he said, his voice low and measured, "What are your orders?"
The man in golden armor turned his head slowly, his gaze locking onto the other with a fury that seemed to burn through the slits of his helmet. The air around him thickened with an almost tangible malice, a bloodlust so potent that even the apothecaries felt a chill crawl down their spines.
"Tomorrow," he rasped, his voice weak and strained, but the authority in his words undeniable. "Tomorrow you attack the town with the hippogriffs and the gryphons."
The general hesitated, his concern deepening. "But sir, their defenses are still—"
"That is an order, General," the man in golden armor interrupted, his voice little more than a whisper, yet laced with an edge so sharp it cut through the night air. His bloodlust was palpable, a dark aura that seeped from every inch of his being. "Avenge us, General. Avenge us! Kill them! Pillage them! Assault them! Do whatever it takes to hurt them! Make them suffer!… Do you understand?"
The general, feeling the weight of his lord’s wrath pressing down on him, bowed his head, his voice steady as he replied, "Yes, my Lord, your will be done."
With that, the general rose to his feet, the weight of his lord’s command heavy on his shoulders. The night around them was still, but the promise of bloodshed hung in the air, thick and foreboding. As the man in golden armor lay back, the apothecaries continued their work, their hands trembling ever so slightly as they tended to their master, knowing that the dawn would bring with it a storm of vengeance.
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A young guard stood at his post atop a tower, his armor ill-fitting and too large for his slender frame. The first light of dawn began to crest behind him, painting the sky in soft hues of pink and gold. He rubbed his tired eyes, squinting into the distance as something caught his attention. At first, it was just a speck on the horizon, but as it drew closer, his heart sank with a cold dread. Gryphons and hippogriffs—winged beasts of war—were soaring toward the town, their majestic forms casting ominous shadows on the ground below.
Realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. His pulse quickened, and he turned, lunging for the bell. The sound rang out, sharp and urgent, echoing across the town. "ENEMY ATTACK!" he cried, his voice breaking with the strain. "ENEMY ATTACK! WATCH THE SKY! WATCH THE SKY!"
Above, the gryphons and hippogriffs climbed higher into the morning sky, their powerful wings beating rhythmically. In their claws, they carried massive boulders, the weight straining even these mighty creatures. The boy’s heart pounded as he watched them ascend to heights beyond the reach of arrows or magic. If not for the previous night's attack by Apollo and Artemis, those boulders would have been even more deadly, filled with explosive pots that could have rained destruction upon the town. But now, they were reduced to mere stones—dangerous still, but far less destructive.
The boulders began to fall. They hurtled toward the earth, but their altitude made accuracy nearly impossible. The heavy stones crashed down onto roofs, smashing through the tiles and timbers, or thudded against the town’s walls, where they ricocheted off the fortifications, their impact absorbed by the Aegis shields raised by the defenders. The townspeople, initially gripped by fear, soon found themselves more annoyed than terrified. The boulders, while destructive, did little more than inconvenience the defenders, leaving the real strategic targets untouched.
But the enemy’s assault did not go unanswered.
From the noble district, the warrior monks of Juno took to the skies, their steely resolve evident as they mounted their giant birds. These magnificent creatures, with their long, graceful necks and vibrant plumage of blues, greens, and pure whites, cut through the air like arrows. The warrior women, fierce and unyielding, rode them with practiced ease, their eyes locked on the incoming gryphons and hippogriffs.
The sky became a battlefield, a chaotic dance of feathers and claws. The giant birds of the warrior monks clashed with the armored gryphons, talons raking against feathers and beaks snapping with lethal precision. Soldiers from both sides leapt from their steeds mid-flight, landing on the backs of enemy mounts in a desperate melee. Steel met steel in vicious skirmishes, the air filled with the clang of swords and the cries of battle.
The gryphon riders, worshippers of Jupiter, held the advantage in the skies. Blessed by their god, they moved with unparalleled agility, leaping through the air as if defying gravity itself. Each jump was precise, each strike calculated. But the warrior monks of Juno were far from defenseless. Juno’s blessing flowed through them, their weapons imbued with divine power. Their swords pierced armor that should have held fast, and their hammers fell with the force of a thunderclap, shattering shields and bones alike. The monks' strength was unmatched, especially against the men who sought to bring them harm.
Blood began to rain down from the heavens, droplets spattering the ground below like the first drops of a storm. Bodies followed, tumbling from the sky like broken dolls, the once proud warriors now lifeless as they fell to the earth. The beasts, too, began to drop, their wings battered and torn, unable to sustain flight. The battle above raged on, a brutal and unrelenting struggle for dominance, the outcome far from certain as the sun rose higher, casting a grim light on the carnage below.
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Then the horns of war were blown, their mournful sound echoing across the battlefield, signaling the enemy’s advance. The soldiers, clad in their war-worn armor, began their march forward. The ground trembled under the weight of their boots as they moved in a tight, disciplined formation, their shields raised high, their banners fluttering in the wind, casting protective Aegis shields over them. There were no siege weapons, no ladders—just sheer determination as they chanted the names of their gods, their voices rising in unison like a hymn to war.
From atop the walls of the noble's district, an old man watched the advancing army with a calculating eye. A smile crept across his weathered face as he observed the approaching force. "This is perfect," he muttered, his voice filled with grim satisfaction. He turned to the warrior monks and the squires gathered nearby. "Go to the commoner's district!" he barked, his tone sharp and commanding. "Earn your glory and honor!"
The enemy continued their advance, undeterred, their formation tight and impenetrable. Their banners, held high in the center of their ranks, shimmered with the protective magic of the Aegis shields, rendering them nearly invulnerable to projectiles and spells. But the children on the walls—the young defenders of the town—did not stand idle.
At the ballistae, the children worked with a practiced efficiency. They loaded the massive bolts, their hands steady despite the weight of the task. "Help me load the banner slayers," one child called out, his voice firm. Together, they heaved the heavy bolts into place, the metal gleaming in the morning light. These bolts were no ordinary weapons; they were crafted from a dense, heavy metal, so much so that it took two of them to reload each one. But they had trained for this moment, and they moved with the precision of seasoned soldiers.
One of the young defenders, a boy with a fierce determination in his eyes, placed his hand on the bolt, channeling his mana into it. The bolt began to glow, infused with his energy, and he took aim, his focus narrowing to the distant banner holder. With a single, smooth motion, he released the bolt. It flew straight and true, slicing through the air with a deadly whistle. The bolt struck its target—not the banner carrier himself, but the banner. The force of the impact shattered the banner’s shaft, and the Aegis shield protecting the enemy ranks flickered and died.
"Damn," the boy muttered, frustration tinging his voice. "I missed."
"No, you didn’t!" another child exclaimed. "We can hit them with normal bolts now."
Encouraged, the young defenders quickly reloaded and unleashed a volley of bolts. The air hummed with the sound of their flight, and the bolts found their marks with deadly accuracy. The enemy soldiers, once confident in their invulnerability, began to waver. Fear crept into their ranks as their banner carriers fell one by one, the magical bolts ignoring the Aegis shields and piercing through armor as if it were paper. The formation began to break apart as more and more soldiers fell, their cries of pain and panic filling the air.
Then, as if fate itself were against them, a bolt struck another banner, shattering it and leaving the group vulnerable. The soldiers hesitated, their steps faltering as they realized their protection was gone. The ballistae continued to fire, each shot a harbinger of death. Comrades fell beside them, and then, from high above, a massive boulder came hurtling down in a wide arc. It crashed into their ranks, scattering the soldiers like leaves in a storm.
Panic spread like wildfire. The once-disciplined ranks of the enemy began to dissolve into chaos as they scattered, seeking cover from the relentless onslaught. Banner carriers, the lifeblood of their defense, were cut down in droves as the glowing bolts found their marks. Without the protection of the Aegis shields, the soldiers were easy prey for the defenders’ projectiles.
As the enemy drew closer to the walls, their mages began their assault, raising their wooden staffs and unleashing a barrage of spells. Flames roared to life, swirling into a hurricane of fire, and spears of lightning crackled through the air, all aimed at the defenders. But the town’s banners held firm, their own Aegis shields absorbing the brunt of the magical assault.
The two forces clashed, their Aegis shields colliding in a brilliant flash of energy. Inside these protective domes, the militia unleashed their own counterattack, pelting the soldiers with stones, arrows, and even explosive pots. The defenders fought with a ferocity born of desperation and the will to protect their homes.
The worshippers of Vesta, their hearts aflame with the goddess’s blessing, hurled their stones with deadly accuracy. Their slings sent rocks flying through the air with such force that they crushed the helmets of the invaders, felling them where they stood. The soldiers who fell did not rise again, their lifeless bodies littering the battlefield.
The followers of Vulcan, the god of fire and forge, flung pots of burning oil into the enemy ranks. The flames clung to shields and armor, igniting them with a fire that could not be quenched. Those unfortunate enough to be caught by the flames were consumed, their screams a testament to the grim death that awaited them.
Juno’s worshippers, the women who had taken up bows, loosed their arrows with precision. Each arrow pierced through the invaders' armor, striking with the unerring accuracy of divine intervention.
Yet, the invaders were not without their own blessings. The soldiers, devotees of Mars, felt their god’s strength coursing through their veins. Their muscles bulged with power, their bodies toughened against the onslaught. Even as rocks and fire rained down upon them, they stood firm, their determination unbroken. One soldier, his armor battered and aflame, threw a grappling hook with all his might, the iron claw catching on the wall. With grim resolve, he began to climb, his eyes fixed on the battlements above.
Arrows from the invaders arced through the sky, forcing the defenders to take cover behind the walls. The mages, now within the Aegis shields, switched to smaller, more controlled spells, aiming to break through the defenders' ranks without harming their own.
The battle intensified as the invaders reached the walls, their grappling hooks finding purchase. They began to scale the walls, only to be met by the warrior monks, their faces set in grim determination. With axes and hammers, they struck down the invaders, crushing helmets and skulls with brutal efficiency. Blood splattered across the stone walls as the bodies of the fallen tumbled back to the ground below.
Losses mounted on both sides, the ground beneath the walls turning red with the blood of the fallen. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, blood, and the acrid tang of magic. The battle raged on, each side fighting with everything they had, knowing that the outcome of this day would determine the fate of the town.
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As the chaotic battle raged on the walls, three misfits slipped away from the intensity, their figures moving stealthily along the farthest edge where the fighting was less fierce. Above them, the sky was a swirling mass of wings, claws, and steel as the aerial battle raged. Occasionally, droplets of blood rained down upon them, but they tried to block out the gruesome reality of it all, focusing instead on their mission.
Hyakinthos, with his large bag slung over his shoulder, trailed behind his siblings. He frequently reached into the bag, pulling out food to satisfy his voracious appetite. Artemis and Apollo, aware of their brother's unique condition—his immense strength tempered by an equally immense hunger—kept silent. They knew that judging him for something beyond his control would be pointless. Hyakinthos, after all, was a force to be reckoned with, his power multiplied tenfold, though at the cost of needing to consume food as though he were feeding ten men.
They moved swiftly, their forms darting from tree to tree, using the cover of the ever-resting forest to remain hidden. The enemy's attention was fully on the walls, their forces committed to breaking the siege once and for all. The misfits had chosen their moment well.
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Apollo climbed up a tall tree, bow in hand, and began surveying the enemy trenches below. His keen eyes traced the paths of the wounded as they were carried into underground tents. His mind raced, trying to locate where the enemy stored their food supplies, but there was no sign of it. The realization struck him: the reason for this all-out assault was likely desperation—Apollo and Artemis’s previous attack must have destroyed the enemy's provisions.
From his vantage point, Apollo watched the trenches, seeing the wounded disappear into the earth. Then, among the chaos, he spotted a figure that stood out from the rest. A man clad in the most brilliant plate armor, shining even amidst the blood and dirt of the battlefield. Apollo’s breath caught in his throat. This was no ordinary soldier; this was the enemy’s leader.
Apollo’s grip tightened around his bow. His heart pounded in his chest as he focused on the man below. This shot could end the siege. It could cripple the enemy's command and save countless lives. But with that thought came a wave of pain, not just physical but emotional. He gritted his teeth as he summoned his gift, Solaris, the power that made him glow like the sun itself. The pain was excruciating, searing through his veins like molten fire. He bit down on his lip, tasting blood, but forced himself to endure.
He only had one shot. It had to be perfect.
As he aimed, thoughts of Pacificus flooded his mind. He remembered his mentor's strength, his unwavering respect for life, his belief that true kindness could only come from those with the power to choose it. If only Apollo were stronger, perhaps he could have found a way to subdue the enemy leader without taking his life. Perhaps he could have negotiated, forced a stalemate, and found some way to spare everyone. But Apollo was not strong enough—not yet. And now, here he was, preparing to end a life in the hopes of saving others.
One life for his family. One life for his home. One life for those he loved.
His resolve hardened as he focused all his energy into the shot. His form grew brighter, glowing with the intensity of a second sun being born on that battlefield. Artemis and Hyakinthos watched him with anxious faces, their worry palpable, but they knew they could do nothing to stop him.
Apollo’s lips trembled as he fought back a scream of pain. The arrow in his bow glowed brighter and brighter, a beacon of pure power, far surpassing the light he had summoned when using the ballista. The agony was overwhelming, and he could feel his consciousness slipping away. But just before he succumbed to the darkness, he released the bowstring, sending the arrow hurtling through the air, and collapsed, unconscious.
Hyakinthos, reacting with the speed and strength that were his gifts, caught Apollo in his arms as he fell. Artemis was there in an instant, her heart pounding in fear for her brother. Together, they cradled him, their eyes flicking between his still form and the arrow now flying towards its target.
The arrow flew with blinding speed, a streak of light against the darkening sky. There were no banners left to protect the enemy leader; they had all been deployed at the walls with the soldiers. The man in the brilliant armor looked up just in time to see the glowing arrow descending upon him. His eyes widened in terror, realizing too late that this was not just any arrow—it was a death sentence
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The man tried to leap away, his instincts screaming at him to move, but it was too late. The glowing arrow struck his shoulder with the force of a thunderbolt, sending him spinning through the air. His world became a dizzying blur of sky and earth, his once-proud golden armor shattering under the impact. The yellow tabard adorned with the gryphon, the symbol of his might, was torn to tatters, fluttering like a defeated banner as he tumbled to the ground.
He hit the earth hard, his body skidding to a halt amidst the dust and debris. For a moment, all he could register was the dull roar in his ears, the disorienting whirl of his surroundings. But then the pain came, sharp and searing, ripping through his body with a ferocity that made him gasp. His vision swam, and as he struggled to focus, he felt an odd sensation—a lightness, an emptiness where there shouldn’t be.
His gaze dropped to the ground beside him, and there it was: an armored arm, mangled and lifeless, severed from his body. It was his arm, the ornate plates of gold and silver unmistakable. The sight drove a spike of terror through his chest, followed quickly by a wave of despair so profound it nearly crushed him. His vision blurred, tears of pain and fury filling his eyes, but the reality of his situation was undeniable.
The scream that tore from his throat was one of pure anguish, a primal roar that echoed across the battlefield. It was a sound filled with the agony of loss—not just of his limb, but of his pride, his power, the very symbol of his command. He clutched the stump of his arm, blood pouring from the wound as he struggled to stay conscious, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps.
"MY LORD!" his guards cried out, rushing to his side, their faces masks of horror and concern.
But the man barely heard them. His mind was consumed by a white-hot rage, a fury that blotted out everything else. The pain was overwhelming, but it was nothing compared to the fire burning in his soul. They had dared to strike him down, to challenge his authority, his very existence. And for that, they would pay.
With his remaining hand, he fumbled for his sword, his fingers trembling as he wrapped them around the hilt. The blade felt heavy in his grip, but he forced himself to lift it, pointing it shakily towards the trees from which the arrow had come.
"Kill them!" he bellowed, his voice hoarse but filled with raw, unrelenting hatred. "Kill them! They are in the trees! Kill them!"
His command was met with immediate action. Six of his guards, dressed in the most regal armor, sprang into motion. Their movements were swift, almost inhumanly so, as they charged towards the trees with a single-minded determination. They were his elite, his personal guard, and they would not fail him now.
But as they sprinted away, the man remained where he was, slumped against the earth. The pain was overwhelming, but it was the humiliation that cut the deepest. He had been brought low, made vulnerable in front of his men, and the thought was unbearable. His vision blurred again, but this time it wasn’t just from the pain. It was from the bitter taste of defeat, a defeat that was more crushing than any physical wound.
Yet even in his despair, one thought burned brighter than all the rest: he would have his revenge. They would suffer for what they had done to him. He would make sure of it, even if it was the last thing he did.
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Artemis and Hyakinthos fled in desperate haste, the weight of the unconscious Apollo on Hyakinthos's back slowing their frantic escape. Artemis's voice, strained with urgency, cut through the tense air. "Haya, let's run towards the Ever Resting Forest."
"What? Are you crazy, Arty?" Hyakinthos's voice trembled with fear, but there was no time for doubt.
"Trust me, Haya! Let's go—they must have seen us and are sending people to kill us! LET'S GO!"
The children bolted, terror giving wings to their feet as they sprinted towards the ominous shadow of the Ever Resting Forest. Every second was a battle against their own bodies, the hours of running stretching into an agonizing eternity for Artemis. Her heart pounded violently in her chest, each beat a frantic reminder of the danger closing in.
From behind, the chilling shouts of armored men echoed, growing louder with each passing moment. "THERE THEY ARE!" The voice, cold and merciless, sent a jolt of fear through Artemis’s spine.
"They saw us, Arty!" Hyakinthos's voice cracked with panic.
"RUN, HAYA, RUN!" Artemis screamed, pushing her legs to move faster, but her body betrayed her. The daylight sapped her strength, her sides ached as if they were being torn apart. Her breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps. Every step was a struggle, her legs trembling, muscles burning with a searing pain that made her want to scream.
Hyakinthos surged ahead, Apollo still slumped over his back, his speed driven by the sheer terror of the pursuit. But Artemis was faltering, her vision blurring as exhaustion took hold. She stumbled, her body crumpling to the ground as despair crashed over her. She could feel death’s cold shadow creeping closer, her fate sealed by her own weakness. Tears welled up in her eyes, her breath hitching in her throat. "No," she whispered through gritted teeth, each word a plea to the universe. "I don’t want to die like this."
But then, something shifted—a force, raw and powerful, surged through her. Before she could comprehend what was happening, she was yanked from the ground, lifted into the air by a gust of wind. It wasn’t the wind, though—it was Hyakinthos, his strength multiplied in his desperate need to save them. The world blurred around them as he carried both her and Apollo, his speed inhuman, fueled by a fear so intense it twisted reality.
The forest loomed ahead, dark and foreboding, a place of nightmares. But behind them, the nightmare was all too real. The elite soldiers were closing in, their footsteps pounding like the drums of death. Artemis could hear them, could feel their breath on the back of her neck. The trees of the Ever Resting Forest seemed to stretch out their branches, waiting to swallow them whole, to pull them into the abyss where no one returned.
Hyakinthos’s breath came in harsh, ragged gasps, his strength waning under the burden of carrying his siblings. But he didn’t slow down, didn’t falter, even as the soldiers’ shouts grew louder, more frantic, more bloodthirsty.
Artemis clung to her brother, the terror gripping her heart like a vice. The forest was their only hope, but it was also a place where hope died. They were running from one horror into another, and she could feel the darkness closing in on all sides. The soldiers were relentless, their pursuit a promise of death. But Hyakinthos didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
The forest’s edge was just ahead, a line between the world of the living and the unknown. As they plunged into the shadow of the trees, the soldiers' cries faded into the background, swallowed by the dense, oppressive silence of the Ever Resting Forest. But even here, in the depths of the forest, the sense of being hunted didn’t leave them. The fear lingered, thick and suffocating, as if the forest itself was alive, watching, waiting for its moment to strike.
Even as they entered the forest, Hyakinthos did not dare slow down. His legs burned with exhaustion, his breaths coming in desperate, ragged gasps, but the fear gnawing at his mind kept him moving. The Ever Resting Forest was no sanctuary—it was a place where nightmares dwelled, and yet it was their only chance.
The elite soldiers halted at the forest’s edge, their eyes widening as they took in the sight of the towering trees. These trees were ancient, their trunks so vast they seemed to pierce the heavens, their tops lost in the clouds far above. The very air in the forest was thick and oppressive, heavy with the weight of countless forgotten souls.
"Orders are orders," one knight muttered, his voice tense as he charged into the forest with blinding speed, the others following close behind, their armor clinking ominously.
Hyakinthos’s strength was fading. He stumbled into a dense thicket, his body trembling with the effort of carrying Apollo’s unconscious form. With Artemis’s urgent whisper in his ear, he crouched low, hiding beneath the thick canopy of bushes. The silence in the forest was unnatural, so complete it felt like a living thing, pressing down on them from all sides. Hyakinthos felt like an insect beneath the gaze of some unseen predator, his heart pounding so loudly he feared it would give them away.
As he tried to catch his breath, a wave of paralyzing fear washed over him. Through the foliage, he saw them—six armored figures, their weapons drawn, moving with deadly purpose. They were close, so close that he could hear the leather of their boots creaking with each step. The knights scanned the area with cold, calculating eyes, their movements deliberate and predatory.
Artemis, lying beside him, pressed her hand tightly over her mouth, stifling the scream that threatened to escape. Her eyes were wide with terror, her body trembling as she fought to stay silent.
"Where are they?" one of the men growled, his voice low and filled with menace.
"Look around," another ordered. "Stab and crush every bush you see."
A collective sigh of frustration passed through the group as they turned their attention to the undergrowth. "All right," one of them muttered darkly.
With a savage swing, one of the knights brought his great axe crashing down into the foliage. The force of the blow sent a shockwave rippling through the ground, the sound of splintering wood echoing through the forest. Again and again, the knights hacked at the bushes, each swing methodical, merciless, their weapons cleaving through the thick vegetation as if it were paper.
Hyakinthos and Artemis lay as still as corpses, their bodies pressed flat against the cold, damp earth. The thick bushes concealed them, but barely. Hyakinthos’s heart raced with such ferocity it felt like it would burst from his chest. He watched in horror as the armored boots of one of the knights drew nearer, the great axe raised high, ready to obliterate everything in its path.
The world seemed to slow, every sound amplified in the oppressive silence of the forest. The knight’s boot crunched against the fallen leaves, and the blade of the axe began its descent. Hyakinthos squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable, the finality of that crushing blow.
But then, just as the axe was about to strike, the forest itself seemed to react. A gut-wrenching scream tore through the air, its sound so primal, so filled with agony and terror, that it sent a shiver down the spines of even the most hardened warriors. The scream reverberated through the forest, echoing off the ancient trees, filling the space with an overwhelming sense of dread.
The knight froze mid-swing, his grip tightening on the handle of his weapon. The scream was unlike anything he had ever heard, a sound that seemed to come from the very depths of the forest, from something not entirely human. The other knights stopped as well, their eyes wide with fear, the oppressive silence broken by the lingering echoes of that horrific cry.
Hyakinthos and Artemis remained motionless, their terror magnified tenfold. Whatever had made that sound, whatever lurked in the shadows of the Ever Resting Forest, was far worse than the soldiers hunting them. The forest, it seemed, had its own way of dealing with intruders.
Beneath the bushes, shadowy figures stirred—creatures the size of men, their bodies covered in sleek feathers that seemed to drink in the dim light of the forest. They moved with unnerving silence, their long arms and tails trailing behind them, sharp claws glinting ominously. Their feet ended in sickle-like talons, curved and wickedly sharp, perfect for tearing through flesh and bone. The air around them was thick with the stench of blood and decay, and it was clear that these creatures were not alone.
One of the soldiers, his senses heightened by fear, spotted the movement too late. With a snarl, he swung his great axe at the nearest creature, aiming to cleave it in two. But the beast was too quick, its lithe body twisting effortlessly out of harm’s way. Before the soldier could react, another of the creatures leapt from the shadows behind him, knocking him off his feet with terrifying force. The man hit the ground with a heavy thud, the breath knocked out of him, but there was no time to recover.
With a fluid motion, the creature's sickle-like claw plunged into the soldier’s back, piercing through his armor as if it were nothing more than paper. The man’s scream was raw, filled with pain and terror, a sound that sent chills down the spines of his comrades.
But the creature wasn’t done. Its clawed foot dragged across the soldier’s body, the screech of metal tearing under the pressure reverberating through the forest, followed by the sickening crunch of flesh and bone being torn apart. The man’s scream rose in pitch, a blood-curdling wail of agony that echoed through the trees, making the air seem even colder, even darker.
The other soldiers, their faces pale with fear, rushed to their fallen comrade, their weapons drawn, but the beasts were ready. The creature that had attacked first grabbed hold of the man’s armored arms, its claws digging into the metal, and with surprising strength, it began to drag him into the underbrush. The soldier’s screams grew more desperate, his pleas for help tearing at the hearts of those who heard them. But his comrades could only watch in horror as the shadows swallowed him whole, his form disappearing into the thick, tangled foliage, his screams abruptly silenced.
The soldiers hesitated, their eyes wide with fear as they scanned the darkness, their breath quick and shallow. They had witnessed the unimaginable—their comrade taken in the blink of an eye, his life snuffed out by something far more terrifying than any enemy they had faced before.
Hyakinthos and Artemis seized the opportunity. Moving with agonizing slowness, they began to crawl away, Hyakinthos dragging the unconscious Apollo behind him. Every movement was a battle against the thick underbrush, the rustle of leaves and the snap of twigs sounding deafening in their ears. They moved inch by inch, praying that the soldiers wouldn’t hear them, that the creatures wouldn’t sense their presence.
The tension was unbearable, the air thick with the scent of blood and fear. The forest seemed to close in around them, every shadow a potential threat, every sound a harbinger of doom. Hyakinthos could feel his heart pounding in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears as he inched forward, his muscles screaming with the effort of moving so slowly, so silently.
But they had no choice. To be seen was to die, and they had already come too close to that fate. So they crawled, their bodies pressed low to the ground, praying that they would not become the next victims of the forest’s wrath.
And indeed, the wrath of the Ever Resting Forest was far from over. As if the ancient woods themselves had taken offense at the destruction of their sacred undergrowth, more of the nightmarish creatures began to emerge from the foliage. They came in a startling array of colors—some cloaked in dark greens and browns, perfect for blending into the shadows, while others were strikingly vibrant, their feathers flashing with reds, blues, and yellows as they slithered out of the underbrush. These beasts eyed the five elite soldiers not with fear or even caution but with a cold, predatory hunger. To them, the armored knights were nothing more than prey—food to be hunted, consumed, and forgotten.
The five soldiers instinctively formed a tight circle, their backs pressed together, their massive axes gripped tightly in their hands. The cold metal of their armor felt suddenly flimsy, like paper in the face of these relentless, calculating predators. The creatures circled them, their growls low and mocking, sounding almost like cruel laughter in the eerie silence of the forest. It was as if the beasts were taunting them, relishing in the fear they could smell radiating from the humans.
One of the creatures darted forward, a blur of color and sinew, and the knight closest to it swung his axe with all his might. But the beast was too fast, dodging the blow with effortless grace. Another beast followed suit, testing the knights' defenses, its movements fluid and precise. Again, the knight swung his weapon, and again, the creature evaded him with ease.
Fear clawed at the hearts of the soldiers. It wasn’t just the memory of their comrade’s gruesome death that haunted them; it was the sheer malice in the creatures’ eyes. Those eyes—they stared at the knights with a cruel intelligence, assessing, calculating, looking for the slightest sign of weakness. It was clear that these beasts were not simply hunting for sport. They were toying with the knights, testing their every move, savoring the anticipation of the kill. And behind those predatory eyes, the knights saw something even more terrifying: an utter lack of fear. The beasts saw them as nothing more than an easy meal, a snack to be enjoyed before moving on to the next prey.
Amidst this terror, the three children—Hyakinthos, Artemis, and the unconscious Apollo—continued their desperate crawl through the underbrush. Each movement was slow, deliberate, and silent, their hearts pounding in unison with the ever-present dread that one wrong move would be their last. The sounds of battle and the horrifying growls of the creatures grew fainter as they inched farther away, the dense foliage gradually thinning around them.
When they finally reached the edge of the forest, it felt as if an unseen force had guided their steps, protecting them from the horrors that lurked within. The towering, ancient trees of the Ever Resting Forest loomed behind them, majestic and forbidding, their massive trunks disappearing into the misty sky above.
Artemis, her voice trembling with a mix of relief and reverence, whispered a prayer, "Thank you, Gaia. Thank you, Thanatos."
Hyakinthos, still catching his breath, echoed her words. "Thank you. I promise, I'll protect this forest the same way it protected me."
With one last glance at the trees, the two children turned and began their journey back to their hometown, their hearts filled with gratitude—and a new, profound respect for the ancient, mysterious forest that had spared their lives.