The forest was dense, the towering trees pressing close on either side of the narrow trail. Shafts of light filtered through the canopy, illuminating swirls of dust in the air, but there was an unusual stillness that clung to the surroundings. Every sound—the rustle of leaves, the faint creak of saddle leather, even the muffled thud of the horses’ hooves—seemed unnaturally loud against the silence of the woods.

Althea rode beside Catria, shifting uneasily in her saddle. The events of the previous night hung like a fog between them, unspoken but inescapable. She cast a glance at the knight, noticing the rigid set of Catria’s shoulders and the way her hand hovered just above her sword, fingers flexing now and then as if anticipating something.

“Doesn’t feel right, does it?” Althea ventured quietly, her voice barely more than a murmur. She hadn’t intended to speak aloud, but her nerves betrayed her.

Catria’s gaze didn’t shift from the path ahead, her eyes sharp and unwavering. “Stay close,” she replied, her voice low and guarded. “We’re almost through this stretch.”

Althea swallowed, feeling her pulse quicken. She forced herself to focus on the forest around her, scanning the shadows that lay thick and unmoving between the trees. It felt as if the entire forest were watching them, holding its breath.

Just as Althea opened her mouth to comment on the eerie silence, a sharp whistle split the air. An arrow hurtled past her, close enough that she could feel the rush of air, and lodged in a tree beside her. Her heart stopped, then thundered as her horse skittered, nearly unseating her.

“Stay behind me!” Catria’s voice cut through her panic, low and commanding.

Althea fought to steady her horse, her hand fumbling for the small dagger she kept at her belt. Her mind raced, her pulse roaring in her ears.

A low voice called out from somewhere in the shadows. “Well, well. A faire maiden and her knight, all alone in the woods.”

The voice was rough, mocking, and it sent a chill down Althea’s spine. Figures emerged from the trees—at first one, then another, until over half a dozen men had encircled them, their expressions filled with greedy malice. Their weapons glinted menacingly in the low light. Althea’s mouth went dry as she realized they were surrounded.

One man stepped forward, clearly the leader, his gaze shifting between Althea and Catria with a leering grin.

“Give us your coin,” he sneered, his eyes lingering on Althea in a way that made her stomach twist. “Or leave the lady here, and we’ll let you go on your way.”

Catria’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “Leave now, and I’ll let you keep your lives.”

The men laughed, their voices echoing in the empty forest. “Brave words, knight,” the leader taunted. He lifted his hand in a lazy gesture. “Take them.”

And then everything descended into chaos.

Althea barely had time to react before Catria moved, her sword flashing as she lunged forward. Althea’s breath caught, her fingers tightening on the reins as she watched in stunned horror. Catria moved like a storm—one moment here, the next there, her blade slicing through the air with deadly precision. The first bandit didn’t even get a chance to raise his weapon before Catria’s sword cut him down, blood splattering across her armor.

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Althea’s stomach twisted as she watched the man crumple to the ground, his eyes wide and lifeless. She had seen death before, of course, but only from a distance—a passing glance at a fallen soldier after a battle, a somber procession in the castle courtyard. But this was different. This was raw, immediate, and brutal. She felt her hands go clammy, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps as Catria turned to face the next attacker.

Another man charged, swinging a club, and Catria sidestepped, her sword flashing as she drove it into his side. The sickening sound of metal slicing through flesh reached Althea’s ears, and she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the blood that sprayed across the ground. Her throat tightened as she fought the urge to gag, her mind reeling. This was no carefully orchestrated training exercise, no staged sparring match. This was real, and it was terrifying.

One of the men turned toward her, his eyes narrowed, his weapon raised. Althea’s heart lurched, her hand going to her dagger, but before he could reach her, Catria was there, her blade arcing through the air in a graceful, lethal motion. The man’s eyes went wide as her sword found his throat, and he fell to the ground in a gurgling heap, his blood pooling at her feet. Catria stepped over him without a second glance, her expression cold and unreadable as she faced the remaining bandits.

Althea’s head swam, her vision blurring as she struggled to process what she was seeing. The smell of blood hung thick in the air, metallic and nauseating, mingling with the earthy scent of the forest. She could hear the ragged breathing of the men, the desperate grunts and gasps as they fought to survive against the knight who dispatched them with chilling efficiency.

Catria fought with a ferocity that left Althea shaken. There was a hardness in her expression, a cold detachment that terrified her. Each strike was precise, ruthless, as if she was driven by something more than duty. Althea clutched her dagger, feeling utterly useless, a spectator in a nightmare she couldn’t escape. Her eyes fixed on Catria, watching as the knight thrust her sword into the chest of another attacker, more blood splattering across her armor as he collapsed at her feet.

Althea’s stomach churned, her hands trembling as she fought to keep her composure. She wanted to look away, to close her eyes, but she couldn’t. She was rooted to the spot, her mind reeling as she watched Catria dispatch one man after another.

The last man standing seemed to realize his fate, his eyes darting between his fallen comrades and the blood-streaked knight before him. He turned to run, his footsteps stumbling as he tried to escape. But Catria was faster. She closed the distance in a few swift strides, her blade slicing through the air as she struck him down from behind. He fell with a strangled cry, his body crumpling to the ground, lifeless and still.

The forest fell silent, the echoes of the battle fading into the distance. Althea’s breaths came in shallow gasps, her pulse racing as she stared at the bodies strewn across the ground. The scene felt surreal, like something out of a nightmare. The blood glistened in the fading light, staining the leaves and soil, and the smell hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating.

Catria stood amidst the carnage, her sword dripping with blood, her face calm and impassive as if nothing unusual had happened. She wiped her blade on a fallen cloak, her movements unhurried and practiced, as if killing these men had been no more taxing than a routine chore.

Althea’s gaze locked on her, her heart pounding as a realization settled over her. She had always seen Catria as stoic, unwavering in her duty, but there was something darker here, something she hadn’t anticipated. The way Catria had fought—cold, calculated, and relentless—it was as if she had tapped into a part of herself that was hidden beneath layers of discipline and control. A part that terrified Althea.

For a moment, Catria glanced up, her gaze meeting Althea’s. Her expression softened just barely, a flicker of concern passing over her face as she looked her over.

“Are you hurt?” The question was unspoken, lingering in her gaze.

Althea shook her head, her voice caught somewhere between her throat and her racing heart. She wasn’t hurt—not physically, at least—but she felt as if something inside her had shifted, something fragile and breakable. Her hands trembled as she clutched the reins of her horse, the reality of what she had witnessed pressing down on her like a weight she couldn’t escape.

Catria sheathed her sword, turning back to her horse with the same calm composure, as if she hadn’t just painted the forest floor in blood. Without a word, she mounted her horse, casting one last look at Althea.

Swallowing hard, Althea clutched the pummel of her saddle, her gaze lingering on the bodies sprawled in the dirt. The sight made her stomach twist. She forced herself focus on the trail ahead, but the image of the fallen bodies lingered in her mind, refusing to fade. The smell of blood clung to the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the forest.

Her pulse throbbed in her temples, her breaths coming shallow and uneven. She felt weightless, detached from the world around her, as if she were floating just above the scene, unable to reconcile what she had witnessed with the life she had known.

She tried to swallow, but her throat was dry, her hands trembling as she clutched at the reins. Her vision began to blur, the edges of the world growing hazy. The steady rhythm of her horse’s steps seemed to fade, replaced by a dull roar in her ears.

“Althea?” Catria’s voice reached her, distant and muffled, barely breaking through the fog enveloping her senses.

Althea tried to respond, tried to assure herself that she was fine, but the words caught in her throat. The world spun, tilting beneath her as a wave of dizziness washed over her. She felt herself slipping, her grip loosening, her vision darkening as she teetered on the edge of consciousness.

The last thing she saw was Catria’s hands darting toward her, her expression flashing with something—concern, maybe fear—before everything went black.