“They took one of our own,” said the first line, marked in red blots.

He traced the red blots, course and crusty under his touch. “Red ink...?” he asked himself. He furrowed his brows but soon after, his eyes shined and looked back at the red blots.

“Nay, it’s blood,” he said. His recent kill and the ensuing carnage still fresh in his thoughts.

Curious on why blood had come upon the pages, his eyes flew by the words. But the scribbling-like handwriting made it hard to read, and the strokes were steep and sharp.

Like he was shaking, as he wrote his piece.

“They took Sonya,” continued the journal, the writing more crude than the line before.

“Those fuckers took Sonya,” it repeated. Discal had read the same line until one page had passed; the writing barbaric and seeped with emotion.

“If only...”, said the journal, regaining some sanity in the writing.

“If only I was there...

“If only I hadn’t failed the last moment she needed help the most.

“If only I saw those skittering fucks before they came down.

“if only...

Discal turned the page over as the words ended once more.

“She was dragged away like cattle for slaughter.

“In mere moments, she was heaving her last breath.

“In mere moments, she was dragged far, her voice choked in blood.

“But only I could hear her scream.

“And before she vanished from our sight, she looked at me with arms outstretched.

“The look in her eyes.

“I could never forget those eyes.

“Help, she said. Her eyes welling up with tears.

“Her eyes asked for my help, begging to save her life.

“I was the closest one from her.

“Even with the gaping hole she had on her chest, she could have been saved.

“If only...

“But I can’t.

“I wasn’t able to. There were too many of them.

“Their dark blades gleaming in her blood.

“We had to leave her and turn back.

“We had to...”

The writing stopped.

Discal’s eyes swept by and a large space occupied the middle-half of the page. His eyes flew to the very end, and found jagged ends, the remaining piece torn off unclean. But a single line remained, just before the page was torn.

“I’m sorry, Sonya,” said the last line. The scholar’s eyes twitched, though slight it was. He shook his head and his eyes flew to the next page, curious of the writer’s fate.

What manner of creatures were they? Discal inadvertently thought. I should ask the leader of what he learned of Huntsman’s Copse. Maybe that would give me some insights of what happened to the writer’s party.

The scholar started on the journal once more.

“We managed to escape from the swarm,” said the journal, the writing more robust and clear.

“But in our haste, we had travelled deeper into Huntsman’s Copse.

“A day had passed since then... Only five of us survived, and we found ourselves farther away from the outpost.

“When day comes, we’ll move out, and hopefully, reach the exit of Huntsman’s Copse.

“I swear I’ll be back for you Sonya.

“I’ll bring you back..."

The words stopped once more, and he flipped the page.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“Must follow the trail of webs,” said the first line, larger in font than the others.

Discal stopped reading, and flipped through the journal until the very end.

“Only a handful left,” he said as his fingers traced the remaining pages, and remarked how new the pages seemed, in contrast to the rugged nature of the journal’s cover. He closed the journal, deigning to read it on another time and kept it in his chestpocket.

He gazed at the starlit sky and the silver crescent of the moon. His wide eyes glinting resolutely under the light. “What a cruel world,” he said to no one. “Death easily comes, regardless of who you are.”

He softly sighed. “Sonya... It was unfortunate, but you were just too weak,” he said, his eyes moved slightly. “You were the same as I.”

He sighed again. “But I have changed.”

“Even now, though I am fearful, I am just as grateful of what happened at that very day inside the fog,” he said, looking at the ruined vambrace on his left hand. “I must not let this gift be ruined to waste.”

He remembered the amorphous crowned figure in his thoughts. “But there must be a reason why I was chosen. There are secrets to be had at that day in the fog.”

He removed his left vambrace, trying to see the extent of his wounds. But he felt no pain now on where the wolf had bit him. It must have healed, he thought, but he decided to examine it still. Maybe he could discover further insights to his change.

“Until answers are met, my fate should be in my own hands,” he said. “And though companions I have, I must rely on my own; my life should be judged, not by fate, but my own.

“It has to be my own,” he repeated, remembering the dark time he was chased into the Accursed Woods. Alone and forgotten in the fog.

He saw traces of an injury as he looked at his left hand. It had healed already and only a scar remained. And when he looked closer, there seemed to be signs of the scar being healed as well, though it was slow. He smiled weakly at the sight.

“I have to become strong.

“And it seems being an adventurer will have to do, for now,” he said. “And if the Gods have not abandoned me yet, I might have talent in weaving mana, as well.”

He turned the ruined vambrace over, and remembered his fight against the direwolves. “No matter how bloodied a path I follow,” he said softly to himself, “I have to be one treading down the blood-soaked road.” He then gazed at the tents of the camp, a strange light in his eyes. He softly shook his head.

“But kindness must be repaid,” he added.

He sat there, basking in the moonlight of the sky, enjoying the crisp sound of the bonfire blazing away. The rustling of the leaves flowed to his ears as he examined the vambrace, and his left hand.

At that moment, the moon had shined its brightest.

The wind had calmed down to a simple breeze, but the chill of the night was still there. Although it did little in numbing the limbs of the scholar. He huddled close to the fire and watched it slowly die out. He calculated that when day comes, it would be no more.

When he gazed up, he knew only a few hours remained until the first light. His task of guarding the night was almost coming to an end, but the forest was still as dark as before. He continued his vigil in peace, glad no danger had come.

But as the moon began its descent, the clanking of metal rang out from afar, but faint it was. His ears instantly pricked up.

A beast? he thought, standing up from his seat near the fire. He equipped his sword and his vambrace, and moved towards the sound. With one hand on the hilt of his sword, he swept his gaze. After sweeping the surroundings twice, he saw nothing but the faint outline of shrubbery and leaves.

My imagination, maybe...

He pedaled a few steps back, his eyes directed at front. But no matter how he strained his sight, nothing had came to be. He removed his hold on the handle of his sword and began to turn back to camp.

It must have been a small critter, he thought, rotating on the heel of his feet.

He sat down where he had been before, and continued to gaze at the fire. After a moment, he removed his sword from the scabbard and brought it to light. It had cracks, and showed telltale signs of bending at the tip. He smiled wryly, thinking on how to weasel his way out once he returned it back to the Guild.

He raised it overhead, silhouetting it against the bonfire’s glow. He examined the sword, turning it over and back. It was a simple tool, one that would had been produced in batches to meet demands. It really was a subpar sword, but even still, it was not his. He had to find a way to pay the Guild back...

He continued examining the sword, but another metal clang sounded out once more. But before he could look at where the sound had came from, his eye caught a looming dark figure overhead. It hid behind the blade of his sword.

Surprised, he casted the arm holding the tool aside. and immediately stood up. At the same time, the figure fell from above like a thrown spear, aiming at where he was.

His feet unsteady from just standing up, the figure slammed him to the ground. His grip on the sword was lost and it landed on the ground by his side. He winced in pain, the impact hurting more than a direwolf’s bite. His senses had shut down, numbing his body from pain, though he had not realized it.

His vision blurry from the crash, he grabbed onto the strange creature on his chest, its form moving unceasantly to take his life away. In the same moment, his head turned to the tents.

“Get up!” he shouted. “Enemy attack!”