Moonlight filtered through the dense canopy in broken shafts, casting ghostly patterns on the forest floor. The soldiers trudged through the undergrowth, their boots crushing fallen leaves with muffled crunches that seemed too loud in the silent darkness. Huge trees loomed around them, their massive trunks disappearing into the gloom above, branches reaching like gnarled fingers across the star-speckled sky.

The night air hung thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting vegetation. Occasionally, an owl's cry would pierce the silence, causing shoulders to tense and hands to grip sword hilts before relaxing again. As the hours wore on and the dreaded howls of their pursuers remained absent, the men's rigid postures began to soften.

Whispered conversations started to drift between the soldiers, their voices carrying the edge of nervous relief. "Never thought we'd make it past those beasts," one murmured, followed by a shaky laugh from his companion.

"My grandmother's soup would taste like heaven right now," another soldier mused, earning a few appreciative groans of agreement.

"Quiet!" Hugo's harsh whisper cut through the chatter like a blade, his voice trembling with barely contained fury. "You pieces of sh*t! Fooling around and dreaming of soup while that damnable brat risks his life to save your worthless ass?" The soldiers' faces fell, shame creeping across their features in the dim moonlight. "If I hear one more word of this nonsense, you'll be scrubbing Grimwatch's latrines until your grandchildren have wives." He ran a hand through his head, disgust evident in every movement. "Soup... I can't believe they're talking about soup. These imbeciles. Soup." He kept repeating the word, each iteration dripping with more frustration as he glared at his men, who wisely avoided his burning gaze. "Now focus, you sh*t. Neither mine nor your worthless lives will escape this cursed place if you don't shut your damned mouths."

At the rear of the group, Bran and Osric lingered, their eyes constantly drawn back to the darkness behind them. Every shadow among the trees seemed to mock their failure to stay with their young master. They'd sworn sacred oaths to protect him, yet here they were, fleeing while he faced the night howlers and night tooths alone.

"We should have stayed. I should've never insisted that we follow his command," Bran muttered, his earlier confidence crumbling like autumn leaves. Gone was the resolute warrior of hours ago, replaced by the frightened youth they all remembered from before. His weathered face tightened with worry as the tension and fear extracted their toll. "We should be at his side."

Osric gripped his sword hilt until his knuckles whitened. "He ordered us to protect the soldiers," he whispered back, though the words tasted bitter as winter ash. "But by the gods, it feels wrong." His throat constricted as he pictured their young lord, barely more than a boy, standing alone against those beasts.

Though they held absolute faith in their master's abilities—for in their eyes, he was beyond compare—their worry grew stronger with each passing moment. Elysian had trained them himself, and despite his youth, they'd witnessed him accomplish the impossible time and again. Yet concern for him was as natural as breathing; it was expected for someone they admire and respect.

Time stretched their nerves tighter with each heartbeat. Every sound of the forest—a branch cracking, leaves rustling in the cold night air—made them spin around, hearts leaping with hope to see Elysian emerging from the shadows, then plummeting with dread at the possibility of seeing something else entirely. The forest seemed alive with menace, each shadow potentially hiding their worst fears.

Hours crawled by as they abandoned stealth for speed, yet still no sign of Elysian pierced the darkness. No matter how fervently Bran and Osric prayed, the shadows behind them remained empty. Their worry had transformed into a physical ache, a hollow pit that grew deeper with each step that took them further from their liege.

Hugo watched the two young men, noting how their eyes constantly darted backward, how their hands trembled on their sword hilts. With a heavy sigh, he fell into step beside them. "I know the two of you are worried. I'm worried too," he said softly. Gone was the fierce energy and sharp humor that had defined him. In its place sat a bone-deep weariness, the weight of too many battles and too many losses etched into the lines of his face. "But believe in him. Hold onto that belief like it's your last breath. Right now, that's all any of us can do."

Hugo met their eyes, searching for understanding. The raw concern he saw there made him feel the same. "That brat won't die easily," he continued, trying to inject confidence into his voice. "I've only fought with him once, but what I witnessed..." He shook his head in wonderment. "He has more tricks than anyone I know. He'll survive. He has to."

Bran and Osric exchanged glances, their silence spoke more than any words. They knew things about their young master that Hugo didn't—had seen both his brilliance. Their faith in him was absolute, yet so was their fear for his fate, which spoke volumes of how much they value him.

Hugo caught their wordless exchange and a knowing smirk touched his lips, softening his weary expression. "You two knew him better than anyone. Trust in that knowledge. Trust in his capability."

"We will," Osric whispered, his voice thick with emotion. Beside him, Bran nodded, his jaw clenched too tight for words.

After listening intently for any signs of pursuit, Hugo turned back to them, his expression grave. "This is your first true taste of battle, isn't it?" He didn't wait for their response. "Let me give you some advice that's kept me alive through countless campaigns. Learn to compartmentalize. Focus only on what you can control, nothing else. The mission in front of you—that's your world. Everything else..." He gestured at the dark forest around them. "It's all just smoke. Let it go, or these forsaken lands will swallow you whole."

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His eyes bore into theirs, willing them to understand, to absorb this lesson that had been paid for in blood. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"We do," Bran answered, and something had changed in his voice. The frightened youth was gone, replaced by steel. His spine straightened as he spoke, shoulders squaring with newfound purpose. "We'll survive this hell. We have to. The young master took great effort to save us—we won't let that be in vain."

Beside him, Osric's face hardened with the same resolve, his nod sharp and certain.

Hugo studied them for a moment, then broke into a genuine smile, the first they'd seen since their flight began. "Now that's the spirit I need." His chuckle, though quiet, carried a warmth that seemed to push back the forest's oppressive darkness. "We're nearly there. Ready yourselves."

The two boys shared one final look at the path behind them, a silent prayer for their master's safety, before turning forward with renewed determination.

True to the captain's word, the dense forest finally gave way to open land. The breaking dawn painted the sky in brilliant strokes of amber and rose, its light so sudden and stark after the oppressive darkness that they all halted in their tracks, hands raised to shield their adjusting eyes. Even Hugo, hardened by countless campaigns, found himself momentarily stunned by the simple beauty of daybreak.

The soldiers stood transfixed at the threshold between forest and clearing, their bodies still half in shadow, half in light. After hours of seeing nothing but silhouettes and shadows, the world slowly bloomed into color before them. The morning light revealed their haggard faces, clothes torn by branches and stained with mud from their desperate flight.

A collective sigh of relief rippled through the group, the sound carrying all the weight of their ordeal. In that moment of respite, the true toll of their nightmarish journey became apparent—hands trembled as they lowered from sword hilts, shoulders sagged as tension finally released.

The dawn represented more than just the end of night; it was a symbol of survival against impossible odds. They had escaped the forest's malevolent embrace, evaded the night howlers' pursuit, and lived to see another sunrise. Yet their relief remained bittersweet, tainted by the absence of the one who had made their escape possible.

Bran and Osric stood side by side at the forest's edge, their faces illuminated by the growing light. While the others looked forward to the promise of safety, they remained turned toward the darkness they'd left behind, their eyes searching the shadows one last time for any sign of their young master.

"The light..." one of the younger soldiers whispered, his voice cracking with emotion, "I never thought darkness could last so long."

Hugo allowed them this moment, understanding that sometimes survival needed to be felt, to be acknowledged, before they could move forward. The dawn had granted them a precious gift—they had lived through a night that could have claimed them all.

Their moment of peace shattered like glass when the morning breeze carried something that made their blood run cold—the unmistakable sounds of battle. The clash of steel and desperate shouts drifted in front of them, not from the darkness of the forest behind, but from the dawn-lit plains ahead that had promised respite mere moments ago.

"By the gods, is that—" one soldier whispered, his voice anxious.

"Fighting? Out there? Don't tell me," another cut in, concerned edging into his words. "After we just went through...."

The desperate whispers cascaded through the group like falling dominoes, each voice higher and more frantic than the last, until Hugo's command cracked through the air like a whip. "Quiet!"

The captain's voice carried such authority that everyone instantly fell silent. His weathered face had transformed, all traces of earlier weariness replaced by razor-sharp focus. He raised one hand, tilting his head slightly as he listened to the distant chaos.

Hugo sprinted forward, his instincts driving him to higher ground. He crested the hill at full speed, then froze as if struck by lightning. His weathered face, which had witnessed countless battles, drained of color. The perpetual confidence he wore vanished, replaced by an expression of grave concern that made him look decades older.

Bran and Osric exchanged alarmed glances—they had noticed the captain's reaction. They rushed to his side, and what they saw stole the breath from their lungs.

Below, on the sprawling plains, a desperate scene unfolded. Nearly a hundred mounted soldiers fled in ragged formation, their horses' hooves thundering against the earth. Behind them, pouring from the Great Forest of Grimwold like a tide of nightmares, came their pursuers. Hobgoblins and tribal warriors moved with terrifying speed and ferocity, their javelins finding marks with devastating accuracy. Soldiers toppled from their mounts, some dragged down by grasping hands, others pierced by crude but lethal weapons. While most of the cavalry managed to run away, their escape from death's cold hands were hollow—this was merely a prelude to what was about to come.

From the depths of Grimwold, their foes emerged in endless waves. Warriors and monsters alike spilled onto the plains like ants, their numbers defying comprehension. Their dark mass flowed toward the distant silhouette of Grimwatch Keep, a fortress that suddenly seemed desperately inadequate against such numbers.

Yet, even with what was happening, it was Grimwold itself that commanded Bran's attention, the forest that birthed this horror. Its reputation as the largest and most infamous forest in the Northern Continent seemed, if anything, understated. The ancient trees rose like titans, their tops lost in the morning mist, making even mountains seem modest in comparison. Their trunks were wider than houses, bark black as pitch and scored with marks that looked unsettlingly like claw marks from creatures best left unimagined.

The forest stretched beyond the horizon in all directions, an ocean of primordial green that harbored nightmares older than civilization itself. The very air around it seemed darker, as if the forest devoured light itself. Stories spoke of entire armies vanishing within its depths, of creatures that had no names in any human tongue, of shadows that hunted and trees that walked. Looking at it now, Bran understood that every tale, no matter how terrifying, was likely an understatement.

"My god," Hugo whispered, his voice hoarse. "This is no f*cking raid. This is war."

Osric stumbled back a step, his young face gravely pale. "The keep... they're not ready for this. No one could be ready for this."

The morning sun, rather than illuminating the scene, seemed to cower behind gathering clouds, as if nature itself recoiled from what was unfolding. The great exodus from Grimwold continued unabated, each moment bringing more warriors, more monsters into the light of day.

And somewhere behind them, the forest seemed suddenly tame in comparison, its dangers quaint against the awakening of this primordial giant.