The fading weak sun light was kissing his rugged face with delicacy, in a way where a maiden’s kiss would feel as rough as the punch of a armored fist. The warmth of the little sun rays dancing across his features was a feeling he had forgotten completely. The breeze was fresh and sharp, almost cold enough to make him shiver, but the fight between the sun and the darkness was always a tight one. His armor was the only protection from one of the greatest dangers in this land: the cold night. Graciously crafted- precisely the chest plate and the iron boots- were internally stuffed with ram wool. To what end? he would usually interrogate. It sounded like an horrendous idea to have wool in your feet when the sun was striking through the day and the sweat of his endless wander in this lands would accumulate within. But at night, when the last spark of light slowly fades away, having the comfort of his inner skins could be the difference between life and death. Or perhaps, just life and a freeze.

The knight thought the surrounding ground would shortly become damped, and be not longer of any use without a bedroll, so he left his resting place underneath the tree and started his walk towards the thicket of the forest, where he would most likely come across a better rewarding sleeping corner. His current position at the top of the small hill was too revealing, making him the easiest prey in the fields after the cervinxes. A good option would be, perhaps, an abandoned den, or a cave, or a dense bush that could offer some partial protection. He looked deeply into the sky, grateful for the warmth, and faced his incoming fate of trying to survive another night. Like in many places, when the sun sets in the horizon, the world fills with creatures ready to hunt for their survival. Nevertheless, in this precise region, being a prey was not the only life threatening circumstance in which you can be found.

With a satchel now half full of provisions after 12 days worth of travel, Kysante stood up and started wandering in the woods direction. He checked all his surroundings, tightened his armor with sturdiness thinking it would be an easy task for the things here to rip it off completely, and lowered his hood to avoid being recognized by his auburn hair reflecting the remains of sunlight through the valley.

“Perhaps is time for me to give up. What would you do in my place?” he asked, looking behind were his backpack was waiting for him with the rest of his things. He longed for half a minute, almost expecting for someone to reply. But he was alone. “I guess… you don’t have many opinions today”.

Something groaned inside the backpack with a low, deep voice. Nothing comprehensible, but it seemed that it communicated enough for Kysante.

He opened the sack, and pulled it from inside.

The decapitated head was still warm. It lacked all pigmentation, and the blood was almost entirely drained from it, but its eyes were open wide, teary and wet, looking straight to his soul.

“P-please..”the head begged.

“I don’t believe you have suffered enough, yet.”

~

The wind was violently howling after dawn, and Kysante was now deep within the Wilmoor Woods. The head stopped moaning and went completely silent, almost like if death had claimed it for eternity. But he was aware that such thing was not possible.

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The sharp coldness of the draft coming along the trees felt like the edge of a dagger on his cheeks, but Kysante refused to limit his sight even further with a helmet or a cloak. At night, his senses had to be much more active that at any other time. Creaking and signing, the trees were a perfect wall that surrounded him at all times. There was no vision of what waited a couple of steps ahead, for the woods had became a thick overgrown labyrinth. Some colorful yellow eyes watched him carefully from above, sensing Kysante and his intentions. Who was this particular human peaking through their lands? These animals were faceless, but they existed, and their land was sacred and undisturbed, and the knight’s presence was now a threat for them. Kysante started mumbling an old song that Yadma used to sing to him when he was no more than a child. The song had no name, for it was blessed and cursed at the same time. It was said that it could summon them, or it could summon whispers. Whispers that would expose your beliefs to the ones who tried very hard to erase it from history. But Kysante sang, with a trembling voice, and completely off key, remembering a time that was now long gone, where his life was a blink of hope and light, dreaming of the eternal spring. The song was in the common tongue, but he believed one time it was not. The knight chose to believe that the signing was ancient as The Gods themselves, and for that, it could not be understandable with the common ear. It most likely had survived thousands of years of interpretations and different meanings, but its purpose would always call for them. No matter the language, or the words, or even the melody. The essence of it was there, timeless, voiceless, nameless.

By the time he finished his song, the predators had softly dissipated, and their eyes were now shut. Or gone. A fellow, they might have thought, but Kysante did not care. All he cared for now was his own survival across these lands. The wind continued his dance through the trees, and it muffled his steps with its loud and fast rhythm.

Every day was a challenge, and the knight could not afford to be seen scared. If that would happen, then he’d be a prey. Hope was a dangerous thing, for it is the enemy of fear, but one of them was fading away swiftly. Whatever amount Kysante had in his heart, was large enough to grasp his bravery, but tiny compared to the fear that overwhelmed him from within.

I’m a knight. Honor. Duty. Fearless. Unbreakable, he repeated to himself without exhaustion. A mental note, a reminder of what he was and what he could achieve. But what had he achieve until now? His wife was dancing with death over a never-ending melody of sorrow and desperation. And Kysante had not yet found even a small clue of what to do. All the long years gone that he spent in the Stone Castle, advocating for the safety of a realm that forgot about him as soon as he needed them, instead of the other way around, seemed now pointless. A waste. A life, lost and forgotten, for a duty that now did not matter to him, or anyone. He regretted all those years, where he had to spend his time away from Lyna. There would be no difference in the outcome of her faith, but the what if consumed him with guilt and sadness.

He was gone from Deidra, on a journey in search of hope, and no one cared. He was gone, and no one remembered he was there in the first place. Like a shadow in the night. Like a flower on a field. Or a star in the sky. Kysante was never important, nor vital for his duty, for there were too many like him. Brainless, dedicating their short meaningless lives to a vow that mattered not.

Kysante kept walking until he saw the field across the woods. It was a short walk through it, but a dangerous one. Far in the distance, the land looked like a world apart. A little hut in a small hill was a warm home for someone that had the fire still burning. The smell of ashes and burnt wood traveled across the field and lighted the knight’s senses. Nothing coming from that scene was inviting for him, although it seemed like a dream come true. Finding a roof to sleep under, with a fire and likely a warm meal, was not on his plans. In effect, there should not be a hut in these lands at all to begin with. Kysante had not overseen this surprising sight. It was desolated, at the side of the Trader’s Road, miles away from the nearest village. But he decided to venture forth and join whoever lived there for a moment. He could ask for guidance, or provisions. Or he could be completely ignored giving his rugged looks.

He made sure the head was silent, and wrapped it up in a cloth that would muffle whatever noise it could make.

And he walked towards the rotten wooden door of the hut, wishing to find a friendly foe, with the last spark of hope flickering inside him.