Carl kept his gaze fixed ahead, eyes piercing the darkness like arrows.

Corslin had retreated to the squad's left flank, his face burning red as a baboon's hindquarters, the flush refusing to fade even as they rode on.

He seemed to have forgotten how to blink.

"We've been riding for hours to finally see farmland," said a knight beside him, torch held high. "But something's wrong with these fields."

Carl took the torch, guiding his horse toward a patch of farmland to his right. "All burned... utterly destroyed," he whispered. The vast fields before them lay ravaged by flame, their charred surface reflecting the night sky like a dark mirror. The knights gathering behind Carl gasped at the sight. "By the Triad of Destiny!" Bechi cried out. "What manner of destruction is this? And look - it's not just this field!" He raised his torch, illuminating another expanse of scorched earth, this one somehow darker, more absolute in its desolation.

"The Cynthians did this themselves," Carl said to the other knights, gesturing toward a wooden hut by the fields, its thick redwood bearing the scars of flame. "We've heard tales of Cynthian resilience, but this..." His pale gray eyes reflected a mix of admiration and concern. "They'd rather destroy what they cherish than let it fall to enemy hands. This shows what kind of army we face."

A heavy silence followed Carl's words. He dismounted to examine the soil and inspect the hut. These marks aren't fresh, he thought. They've abandoned this place for some time. The evidence suggested the enemy wasn't nearby—at least for now. "Mount up," he ordered, his spirits lifting slightly. "We need to increase our pace."

As he approached his brown horse, he noticed its nervous glancing. Only then did he realize that his earlier preoccupation had prevented him from properly assessing his vanguard squad. Yet Carl's memory was sharp as a blade - from the moment of his appointment as captain, he'd memorized every face and name: Piatt, Tolled, Mano, Corslin - that "Troll Boy," he smiled to himself, continuing his mental roll call. Even chattering Simon was here... How strange it all seemed. He shook his head with a quiet laugh and mounted his horse. But as he prepared to lead the group back to the main road, he froze.

"Tyler!?" His eyes widened as he scanned the group. "Where's Tyler!?"

The vanguard knights exchanged glances in the torchlight.

No one had seen Tyler.

Carl rode through the group like a man possessed, checking each knight one by one, nearly dragging some from their saddles. Nineteen, including himself. Tyler was missing. "Before we reached these fields," he shouted, "who was riding with Tyler, son of Ternence?"

"I... I was," Simon of Elselar's voice wavered. Carl leaped from his horse, striding to Simon and pulling him down. "Then where is he!?" Carl's grip tightened on Simon's collar as if he could tear through the polished armor. "If he was with you, why are you alone now!?"

"Please, let me explain, Carl, son of Cornell!" Simon broke free. "I rode with Tyler, son of Ternence, but his black mare kept balking. He told me to continue while he dismounted to lead her." Simon turned, pointing back along their path. "He shouldn't be far—perhaps two hundred yards back. We should easily see... damn!"

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All eyes followed Simon's gesture. Someone raised a torch higher.

The road stretched empty before them, bare as fresh parchment.

"Gods above... he couldn't have..." Carl's voice trembled as his mind raced through every brutal possibility. "We're turning back!" he shouted, hysteria edging into his voice. "Everyone alert! We find Tyler, son of Ternence!"

The squad erupted in confusion. "That's hardly protocol, is it?" Bechi's smile carried malice. "Our orders are to scout for enemy activity, not retrieve stragglers." His grin widened. "Perhaps he simply needed solitude? Our captain can be rather... dull."

Carl, son of Cornell, stood caught between fear, grief, and fury. His hand moved to his sword hilt, ready to strike, but before he could draw, Bechi's voice cut off abruptly, replaced by the thud of a falling body.

Carl turned toward the sound, unsurprised. The black arrow protruding from Bechi's throat told the whole story.

He drew a sharp breath, the cold air freezing his words. Only when more knights began falling did reality snap back into focus.

He shoved Simon aside and sprinted for his horse. "Retreat!" he roared. "It's an ambush!"

His horse whinnied in terror as chaos erupted around them. Carl fought his reins, struggling to control his mount as silent arrows continued their deadly work. This time he caught it - a pattern of knocks, two short, one long. Damn them! They've been watching all along!

"Fall back!" Carl spurred his horse forward, taking the lead. "Fall back! Stay on the road!" The surviving knights finally responded, their mounts thundering after him.

Hoofbeats echoed in chaos. Carl counted the riders near him - far fewer than had gathered by the burnt fields moments ago. Gods! He cursed himself. The fields - they were part of the trap!

The formation began to break. Knights veered off the road, their terrified mounts no longer under control. Those who maintained the path lived; those who strayed vanished into darkness. "Hold the road!" Carl shouted to those still with him. "They're on both flanks! Stay together!"

His chest heaved with each breath. Though his horse did the running, he'd never felt such exhaustion. Will I die here? The thought intruded. But will it be me first, or you, Tyler?

Movement ahead forced his attention back. Dark figures emerged from fields, trees, and huts, converging with unnatural precision. Carl whipped his head around. Are there more riders? Something felt wrong - their numbers seemed to have grown. Impossible. Then understanding struck like ice in his veins.

The new riders moved with military precision, maintaining perfect intervals. Black cloaks rippled in the night wind, seeming to drink in the torchlight. Their movements flowed like water as they drew and fired. These cloaked riders had infiltrated their group, forming a deadly circle around them.

Carl understood their strategy too late - again. The trap closed like a noose. "They're surrounding us!" he shouted as bowstrings sang. "Keep low! And—" he watched the trailing fire of arrows. "Douse the torches!"

Knights hurled their torches to the ground. Horses stumbled and shied from the flames, adding to the chaos. The cloaked riders reformed behind them, maintaining their deadly formation. A command rang out in Cynthian, followed by the whisper of arrows taking flight.

Even pressed flat against his mount, Carl felt death's cold fingers brush past. The enemy commander was already calling for another volley. We're nothing but targets... He gritted his teeth. Though the darkness had hurt their accuracy, each volley still claimed lives. I must get them out... And find Tyler.

"What do we do?!" The cry beside him cut like a whip. Carl turned to find Corslin, the "Troll Boy," his voice stripped of all its usual humor and warmth, replaced by raw terror. "They'll kill us all!"

"Reinforcements—we need reinforcements!" Carl slowed slightly to match Corslin's pace. But we're trapped prey... His mind raced. Please! Triad of Destiny! Show us a path!

In his desperation, memory flared like blue flame. "The signal torch!" he called to Corslin. "Before we left, who carried the blue signal torch!?" Hope flickered fragile as a candle. If that knight already lay dead in the fields...

"Thank the gods!" Corslin's words rekindled hope. "Carl, son of Cornell, I have it!"

Carl's relief rushed out like a held breath.

"But—" Corslin's next words extinguished that brief flame. "We threw away all our torches. How can we light it now?"