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It had been years since the war began. They had been no closer to victory, only getting by with fending off the Korschey's attacks. Supplies came mostly from the West.

They'd gone out as a group of ten men in total. They had done five recon campaigns together over the years.

Ivan had grown so tired of the administrative job of a scoutmaster.

Although he remained within a day or two ride from his family, he longed for the open air and the roads less traveled, mapping, listening, and sculking about.

In truth, it was simply his personable nature that earned him the job. Sure, he was skilled and exceptional in his navigations, but he had proven to do well with boosting the men's morale and recruiting scouts. It was his campaigns that had located Korschey's battalion hidden in the forests southwest of the main road. It was he who found the enemy's men in the farms bordering the East. At that time, he had built a good relationship with General Asim.

The men trusted him, and he had trusted them.

They were already on their return trip, the winters having taken their toll. They did not locate the horde, but the frigid conditions no longer allowed travel. They would take the maps they were able to draw up and return to the North closer to spring.

So it was a grave disaster when they were caught in a snowstorm midwinter before ever crossing the pass between the Deep Wood. They were forced into the trees to weather it out.

It was there that two of the men perished when they left the light of the campfire, a beast taking them into the woods.

And then they were only eight.

The outfit came upon them shortly. The men were exhausted and their supplies worn so thin that rations were only hardtack and water; they let down their guard and the archers spotted their fire in the outcropping. Two were killed.

And then they were only six.

Five turned to four as the soldiers tied them to poles meant to tie up horses for the night. One was beaten to death, a man Ivan had known to have served for twelve years. The soldiers were drunk, their hands unrestrained. They wanted to punish and did not wish to take prisoners with them in the middle of winter.

Ivan had been lucky. He had fallen ill only three days prior, and when one of the captors went to tie his hands, he felt how hot Ivan’s flesh had been. They’d panicked, and they immediately separated him from the camp - leaving him without a coat and tied up away from the tents.

The soldiers did not approach him, and the only bruises he suffered were those he received earlier in the day. He could hear the screams of his companions as the Northern men got drunk. Eventually, they would kill them - and be too intoxicated to remember to leave him be.

It was by sheer luck that the rope was too slack. The man who tied him up had been in a hurry to get away from the disease. Ivan’s hand slipped out, and he hurried to get the other. His feet were also bound, and as a guard came by, he grabbed onto the pole to appear restrained still. The guard remained until morning, and upon leaving to switch - Ivan ran.

He’d picked up the scimitars taken from one of his men and ran.

The pursuit of horses did not sound for a while. The Deep Wood wasn’t far; he would have rather faced the Nothing-beasts than man's cruelty.

He hadn’t even tried to return for his men, a thought that ate at him every single day since.

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“It was benevolent of Your Majesty to bestow such a title on the Westerner.”

General Asim sat across from King Batyr in the war room. No one else had been present; this meeting was of a private nature.

“Asim, of all people.” Batyr sighed, running his hand across his eyes and pausing to rub his brow. “And who would you have preferred I promote? A captain that pissed his pants as a part of his ‘Misfortune’? With Iros gone south, there is little choice.”

“Forgive me, but it seems I am the only Southerner left in the war room these days.”

“You would speak to me in this way?” Batyr’s face reddened, and words slowed.

Asim regretted having said anything at all. Sometimes, he would forget himself, as his friendship with Batyr had spanned long before the man had sat on the throne. But they were alone. And the threats that faced them more than warranted being candid.

“It is just my fear that Typhonos is beginning to be the guiding hand of the South.” He said, no less bold.

The threat that Batyr had intended in his words had not worked, and instead of pursuing it, he simply gave up - leaning back in his chair, his eyelids drooping. He allowed himself to be as tired as he felt.

“It is a fear well founded.” He said. “But I will not have a Westerner here with me. I need you to remain in Barzah. And he…”

Batyr made a dismissive gesture.

“You would have him lead the entirety of the Southern armies?” Asim asked before he could continue.

“Of course not. He will be granted a battalion. If Korschey comes again before spring - a regimen.” The King sighed. “I did not choose him for his skill or leadership. He’d gotten lucky, and he’d gotten popular very fast. These people do not need competent military heads hiding in the citadel. They need a hero to look to and give them hope. Let us deal with the back rooms. The Ember Sword is more harmless than Iros would have been.”

He grinned, “Were I to name Iros ‘Lord Commander, ’ he would likely believe me, and then we would have a disaster on our hands.”

“I just wish that the face you’d chosen for your champion was not… that face,” Asim said. “There is an air there, especially since the woman arrived. Perhaps what the people say is true. She is a witch and has secretly been playing us all through this man.”

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“If you looked like he, would you not bend a knee to her too?” King Batyr laughed genuinely, taking Asim by surprise. “It is not as if he could do better!”

“It seems that all who are in her path get bewitched in one way or another,” Asim observed, ignoring the jape. “You should have seen how fast the scoutmaster went to flee the second he had been freed of her.”

“Perhaps we can sic her on Korschey,” Batyr observed, still grinning. “But that would imply he had ever in his miserable life been interested in women.”

“Interested in parts of women, I’m sure.” Asim said grimly, “so much so that he would hang these parts on display in the middle of his court.”

“Rumors.” Batyr waved him off. “You know the North and their fondness for spreading misinformation. Anything that makes them look crueler, scarier, and more capable than they are.”

“What would you have him do now that the second White City has fallen?” General Asim’s words changed the atmosphere in the room as both had been avoiding the topic.

“Stall,” Batyr said after a moment. His face again looked defeated, any semblance of self-respect hanging by a thread. “Until we can get the word West. Beg Daddy Typhonos for more men and more weapons. What more choice do we have?”

“They will take the Eastern fleet and cut us off,” Asim observed dryly.

“Then I suppose you should beg the All-Father on your knees that Iros makes a competent naval commander.”

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The deliberate pounding on the door boomed through the room. Iros was on his feet before sleep had even left his eyes. A soldier stood waiting for him.

“General,” He said, “Forgive me. The scoutmaster has come from the port and has insisted on your audience.”

Iros nodded, although begrudgingly. He was sure the pathfinder was doing this to get back at him for their last conversation… and perhaps the stack of papers they spent hours filling out.

What could be so urgent in the middle of the night that it did not warrant alarm - yet could not wait until the morning?

He threw a coat over his sleeping clothes and pulled on his boots. When he exited the room, the soldier led him to his office. A lantern was lit inside; he could see its radiance underneath the door as they approached.

Ivan was waiting for him there. He was armed and dressed for the chilling nights on the coast - they had never gotten warmer, even when the days grew hot.

“General.” He greeted him, although formality disappeared when the door shut behind the guard. “We have to speak.”

“Pathfinder, to what do I owe the late hour of your company?” Iros sat in his seat across the desk, but as he did, Ivan shook his head.

“Not here.” He said. “I did not wish to alert the men, but… I feel there is something you must see.”

Iros was intrigued. The look on the man’s face was still rather cheerless, but there was an official tone to his words.

“I think perhaps you should tell me what it is before we go off into the night.” He said. “As much as I trust you, Ivan, you are well aware that this is not protocol.”

Ivan glanced at the window and frowned.

“I do not come to you as scoutmaster.” He said, hesitating but for a moment. “I come to you because I think you know of these things more than I. If you know her… and him… perhaps…”

This caught Iros’ attention. He studied the man for a moment, then stood up.

“How far?”

“Down the coast, not so far that we cannot walk.”

Iros indicated for Ivan to lead the way, and the two men quietly left the building.

Ivan led them down streets and to the docks. There, they took a turn and followed the shore for an hour before their pace slowed.

“I saw it while I was out,” Ivan told him, his eyes scanning the waters. “I would not have noticed, but it was strange to see a rider out here in the night. This is not a populated area.”

“I should hope that you have not brought me far from port to show me a man on a horse.” Iros was beginning to regret his agreeableness.

Ivan did not react to his words.

“I remembered, before, when I was in the North.” He continued. “When those things were near, it felt as if your skin crawled - but it was sharp, scratching at the back of your skull.”

“Mhm.” Iros’ eyes were on Ivan, who walked ahead. Whatever had been here. It had clearly made an impression. He was speaking of the Deep Wood.

“That thing, I had gotten as close as I could without being seen.” Ivan stopped.

He looked out onto the shore where the waves crashed against rocks, carrying with them pebbles and pieces of driftwood among tangles of seaweed. The air was salty and smelled as the sea always had - brine and marine life.

“What did it look like?”

“It was a man atop a horse,” Ivan said. He did not walk further but instead motioned for Iros to crouch. “But at the same time, it was not. He had no legs; he was not holding on - by the looks of them, I did not think they were even alive. But, they had moved. And the air seemed to shift somehow.”

The High Templar thought carefully about the description. It was not anything he recognized. There was still a good chance that Ivan had been putting him on.

“The Witch…” He began but caught himself, “Valeria. She always felt them before I saw them. This had been just like that.”

“Is there a hunter here?” Iros asked, “in the city?”

Ivan shook his head.

“The All-Father’s church prohibits dealing with the devils as a sport, and it is heavily enforced here. The closest you will come is the navigators taking the Iron Claws out to the Dark Waters.”

“How often does this happen?”

“Now and then.” Ivan shrugged. “The sea serpent appears rarely, but they still patrol for it.”

“Is the serpent not as large as a ship?” Iros had heard folktales of the serpent in the Southern seas.

“Shh–”

Ivan grabbed his arm and dragged him closer to the ground. They were atop a grassy hill littered with boulders. The shore was rocky, and Iros immediately heard the clanking of a horse’s hooves. It walked slowly and close to the water. There was a slosh as its step crushed bits of stones into the retreating wave.

There were no clouds, a rare occasion for the coast. This clear moonlit night showed the men the creature on the horse.

Or the creature that was the horse.

It was taller than a normal mount by at least two feet, but the man’s posture had been slumped back as if he was just a corpse dragged along on its back. Where his legs should have begun was only smoothness and curve of muscle as his thigh was growing directly into the horse’s shoulder and stretching all the way through to its triceps. The worst of it was that none of this had been concealed by any skin. Even from a distance, Iros could make out the random strings of black veins running across its body.

The horse’s head itself was wrong; instead of a muzzle, it was hardened as bone in the shape of a beak. Its hooves protruded from webbed fin-like flaps, and its ribs slit open like gills with every breath.

The smell that wafted to them had been sickly. It smelled of infection and disease.

It walked forward without any indication that it had known where it was going. They waited as it passed.

“No good will come of this,” Iros muttered.

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