“How far do you plan to go?” The Voice returned, its tone unusually mocking, almost amused.

Aron had reached the other side of the village. He paused for a moment, scanning the path ahead before decisively turning to the right.

“To the stream,” he finally said, his voice calm and cold, as his steps carried him toward the watercourse.

He crouched by the water, watching the crystal-clear surface reflect a face he barely recognized. Plunging his hands into the stream, he washed his face. The cold was almost violent, yet invigorating, like a jolt radiating from his skin to his stomach. With a deep breath, he opened his mouth, letting the icy water fill his throat.

“Mmh, now you look more human…” The Voice paused, infusing each word with meaning. “What do you intend to do?”

“I don’t know,” Aron replied without turning. His tone was flat, devoid of emotion, almost tired. “But it definitely won’t have anything to do with this place.”

“What?!" The Voice turned sharp, its sarcasm biting. “This was your home for so long, and you don’t even have a shred of desire for revenge?”

Aron clenched his fists but didn’t react immediately. He took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill his lungs, and then stood up. “Yes, honestly,” he finally admitted, surprising even himself with his sincerity. “Who would I seek revenge for? For my mother? She’s been dead for years. Everyone else… they were just acquaintances at best. They don’t matter.”

Silence followed those words, heavy as the truth he had just spoken. The Voice didn’t respond immediately, as if reflecting on what it had just heard. Aron found himself staring back at the stream, watching the ripples carry away his reflection.

For a moment, he wondered if he truly believed what he’d just said. Were those words a defense or the raw truth?

He was about to climb back up the bank and return to the path when he heard a sound. He froze, holding his breath. It was faint but steady: the rhythmic clatter of hooves. Something was approaching.

Horses, he thought, straining to listen. And not just one. Without hesitation, he moved into the thicker vegetation by the roadside, crouching among the branches and leaves to hide. His heartbeat quickened, slow but forceful, as he waited silently.

Clop-clop.

The horses passed his hiding spot, the sound of hooves echoing on the dirt road. Aron leaned out slightly to get a better look. From the insignias on their armor, he recognized the troops: soldiers of House Cervid, allies, not more invaders.

With a sigh of relief, he slowly emerged from his refuge among the vegetation. He stood still for a moment, listening, then decided to follow the knights to see what was happening.

The sun was setting, and the shadows of the houses stretched across the road, painting it in shades of crimson red and orange. The air grew colder, but Aron didn’t care. Guided by curiosity, he continued until he reached the village square, where the knights had stopped. A crowd was beginning to gather around them, murmuring voices blending with the crackle of torches being lit.

“Why?!” “Where were you?!” “You didn’t protect us!!”

Shouts rose from the growing crowd. Anger and fear mingled, creating a suffocating atmosphere in the square. The knights, at the center of the commotion, seemed to be looking for the village administrator, though someone whispered among the crowd that he’d died during the raid.

Suddenly, a strong voice echoed from the center. One of the knights removed his helmet, revealing a face worn and tired but with a steady gaze.

“Citizens of Bitterthorn, I know you have many questions, but calm yourselves now!”

“And why should we listen to you?! You did nothing for us!”

The shouts multiplied, and the crowd seemed on the verge of exploding, roiling like a stormy sea.

“SILENCE!”

The word, deep and commanding, thundered over every other voice. It came from a man at the center of the group of knights. His hazel eyes seemed to scrutinize every face, his thick chestnut hair and unkempt beard framing an austere visage. He hadn’t shouted, but the power of his voice drowned out the chaos, and for a moment, everyone fell silent.

When the quiet settled over the square, the first knight resumed speaking. “As I was saying, what happened to you today was not an isolated incident. Northern tribes have attacked every village along the border, pushing into the heartland and leaving destruction wherever they passed.”

He paused for a moment, letting those words sink in, then continued in a heavy voice. “It seems that four groups, similar to the one that struck here, crossed the Dragonspine. They passed through the mountain range, destroying our forts and observation posts. Their speed outpaced every effort to warn us.”

A murmur of fear spread through the crowd, but the knight didn’t stop. “After over sixty years, they had the audacity to attack, celebrating their vile rituals. But know this: House Cervid will bring vengeance for you all. The Empire will not let these atrocities go unpunished.”

The crowd seemed to understand those words, but their meaning might have been too overwhelming to fully grasp. Now, however, they knew who their enemy was and where they came from. And for many, that was enough. Enough to give them something to hate and curse, someone on whom to pour their anger and grief.

Aron stood apart, watching the scene with a mix of detachment and interest. “It’s worse than I thought. It seems Brandon’s fears have come true…”

The Voice responded, as sharp as ever. “Yes, perhaps. But did you see the man who spoke just one word?”

Aron nodded. “Yes, he’s very strong.”

“Not just strong,” the Voice continued. “Look closer: his armor, his horse… they’re different from the others.”

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At those words, Aron’s eyes focused on the warrior. He was tall and robust, but not bulky. His bearing conveyed an air of authority, unlike the knights surrounding him. His armor gleamed in the fading sunlight, clearly made of superior material. But it was the horse that truly caught Aron’s attention: taller and more slender than the others, with long, muscular legs built for effortless galloping, even on the harshest terrain.

“He’s a Flying Stag Knight, isn’t he?”

The Voice turned mocking. “So, you do know how to use your eyes.”

The Flying Stag Knights were the pride of House Cervid, feared and respected throughout the Empire. Each one was a Grand Knight, a formidable warrior of unmatched prowess.

But what truly set them apart were their mounts: the stag-horses. These creatures, classified as first- or second-level beings, combined the strength and endurance of a horse with the agility of a stag. Equipped with sharp hooves and a natural elegance, they could traverse mountainous terrain and dense forests with ease, where ordinary steeds would falter.

Every detail about these knights—their proud demeanor, their masterfully crafted armor—exuded excellence. They weren’t merely soldiers; they were a living symbol of the power and determination of House Cervid.

Suddenly, the knight who had spoken earlier stepped forward again, breaking the silence that had fallen after the Flying Stag Knight’s commanding presence.

“Citizens, we’ll camp here tonight,” he announced. “The administrator’s house is unusable. Where can we find a place that will accommodate us all?”

A brief hesitation rippled through the crowd, followed by an unexpected wave of enthusiasm. It seemed everyone wanted to volunteer a solution. Voices overlapped, offering suggestions, each louder than the last.

The knight raised a hand, motioning for silence. This time, the crowd had learned and quieted quickly.

“Speak,” the knight said, pointing to a man at the front of the gathering.

“Sir knight,” the man began, his voice trembling slightly, “most of the structures that could have housed travelers were destroyed this morning. But, if it’s not an offense to you, I can take you to a warehouse we use for lumber. I assure you, it’s well-insulated and spacious.”

The man’s nervousness was palpable, as if he feared his offer might be seen as a grave insult. He spoke cautiously, as though his words were on the verge of breaking.

The knight turned his head toward the Flying Stag Knight, seeking his approval. A slight nod from the latter sufficed.

“Lead us,” the knight commanded, addressing the man.

The crowd parted like a wave, making way for the knights. With silent precision, the group of thirty or forty riders began moving toward the northeastern part of the village, following their guide.

As the crowd dispersed, returning to their grief and shattered lives, Aron lingered in the shadows of the square, his gaze fixed on the departing knights.

“And now?” The Voice broke the moment of quiet, its tone almost lazy.

Aron shrugged, his eyes still on the figures vanishing toward the northeast. “I’ll rest. I need it. I’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”

The square, now silent and cloaked in darkness, bore witness as Aron made his way toward the northeast, through the ruined houses and desolate streets. Each step echoed faintly against the ghostly quiet of the village.

After a few minutes, he found an abandoned house. The door hung ajar, and Aron pushed it open cautiously, the creak of its hinges cutting through the night. He stepped inside, and the smell of blood hit him immediately—sharp and metallic. A shiver ran down his spine, but he pressed on.

In the dim moonlight filtering through a broken window, he saw the bodies. A small family, torn apart: two adults, perhaps two children. Blood stained the floor, the walls, and the furniture—a chaotic scene that told of a brutal end.

Aron averted his eyes, his face impassive but his breath heavy. He approached the pantry, finding it miraculously untouched. He took what little food he could find—stale bread and a few roots—and ate quickly, never glancing back at the corpses.

Then, he moved to the main bedroom. The bed was still intact, and without thinking too much, he lay down, letting exhaustion overtake him. The mattress was uncomfortable, steeped in smells he didn’t want to identify, but the cold night air forced him to accept it.

He closed his eyes, his breathing slowing. The Voice said nothing, and for the first time in a long while, the silence felt unbearable.

The darkest day of the year was coming to an end.

Morning broke, pale and cold, casting weak light over the ravaged village. Aron awoke slowly, his body heavy with fatigue but his mind surprisingly clear.

“Now that you’ve recovered, have you finally decided what to do?” The Voice sounded impatient, weary of Aron’s constant evasion.

Aron rose from the bed without answering immediately. “Yes,” he said at last, with a calm that seemed to defy the Voice. “I’ll eat something.”

A sharp laugh echoed in his mind, cruel and biting. Then silence. The Voice fell quiet, but its tension lingered, like a bowstring drawn too tight.

After eating what remained of his meager findings, Aron stepped outside. The chill of dawn struck him as soon as he crossed the threshold, but he didn’t stop. He was crossing the street when a sound made him pause: the slow but steady rhythm of hooves. He stepped aside, watching as the group of knights approached.

At the center, the Flying Stag Knight stood out.

Their eyes met. The Knight’s gaze was deep and dark, like an eagle preparing to strike. A chill ran down Aron’s spine, and an oppressive weight enveloped him, as though those eyes could see through his very soul and decide his fate with a single thought.

Aron froze, cold sweat trickling down his back. A primal fear wrapped around him, stripping him of all strength. For a moment, all the courage he thought he’d gained dissolved into nothing.

The knights passed, their steady hoofbeats fading into the distance. Only when the sound had disappeared entirely did Aron recover. His heart still pounded, but something else now stirred within him: an answer.

He turned and began running down the road—not after the knights, but in the opposite direction.

After some time, his pace slowed. Before him stood a large warehouse, simple but sturdy. This was it.

He approached, noting a group of people working to tidy the interior. He entered, drawing the curious glances of some workers. With a slight breathlessness, he addressed a man he recognized from the square.

“You,” he said, trying not to sound too harsh. “Do you know where they’re going? Where are they headed?”

The man looked at him, a mix of surprise and irritation on his face. “That’s none of your business.”

The words hit Aron like a door slammed in his face. His jaw tightened, and his gaze grew cold and sharp. He didn’t want to waste any more time.

“Unless…” The man paused, his eyes darting to the pouch at Aron’s waist.

Aron held his icy gaze steady, reaching into his pouch. He pulled out a coin and placed it in the man’s hand.

A spark.

The man inspected it, his face twisting with displeasure. He seemed ready to protest, but when he looked up and met Aron’s unflinching stare, something shifted. Those eyes were unwavering, sharp as a blade poised to strike.

Swallowing nervously, the man let out a long sigh. “Crescentmoon City,” he finally said, his voice tense and reluctant.

Aron left the warehouse behind, the Voice returning as he walked.

“Let me guess: we’re going there, right?” It was mocking, its tone laced with amusement.

“Exactly. I’m going there,” Aron replied without hesitation.

“Why? You don’t even know where it is.” The Voice’s sarcasm was as cutting as ever.

“I’ll find it. I know it’s south. I’ll ask someone along the way.” His words carried a newfound certainty. Finally, he had a goal.

“But you still haven’t told me why.”

Aron paused, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I have nothing better to do. And if knights that strong are going there, it’s bound to be interesting.”

“That’s it? That’s your grand plan?” The Voice sounded more acidic than usual. “Follow a group of knights because… what? You were impressed by their predator stares?”

Aron didn’t answer immediately. The truth was, he didn’t have an answer. At least, not one he could articulate. He kept walking, the sound of his steps filling the silence.

He had nothing left. No one to protect, nowhere to return to. Bitterthorn was a faded memory, a place that no longer meant anything.

Those knights were the only thing he’d seen that day that didn’t seem dead. Something about them spoke of strength, of purpose. He didn’t know if it was envy or simple curiosity, but for now, it was enough.

And so, he walked on, leaving Bitterthorn’s ruins behind. Ahead of him, the path stretched into the unknown, marking the beginning of a journey far beyond the village’s borders.