The Kings Guard had been busy. Much of the camp’s infrastructure had improved thanks to the more efficient management of the Iron Hearts. Crow stood at the top of the newly built watchtower, surveying the bustling camp below. A second layer of palisades had been added, cutting down more nearby trees, providing a wider view of any potential threats approaching from the forest. Leaning against the wooden post, Crow watched his men patrolling the grounds. It had taken some time for the Kings Guard to adjust to their new leadership. Many of them weren’t used to the orderly efficiency that the Iron Hearts brought. The former Star King, Roof, had focused solely on warfare, consumed by his obsession with taking down Nessa.

Something that always confused Crow. In the beginning, it had seemed like Roof was trying to win Nessa’s hand, but then, almost out of nowhere, he’d become determined to destroy her. It was childish—a sudden shift from affection to vengeance over a petty rejection.

The image of a broken Roof flashed in Crow’s mind, his thoughts turning red with frustration. His grip tightened around the wooden pole. He still couldn’t believe his men had allowed a cripple to escape. Part of the blame fell on him. He had underestimated the Schlieffen bloodline. As a Flockson, Crow had witnessed the prowess of the Schlieffen family at noble gatherings in the King's palace before they were all kidnapped. He had seen Roof back then, though Roof never paid any mind to the ways of the Flocksons.

Three children from the major noble houses had been abducted and thrust into this game of survival. Part of Crow wondered if his father had orchestrated it. The Flockson patriarch had a habit of testing his children by throwing them into impossible situations. It was the Flockson way—to see how high the little bird could fly. But even Crow’s father wouldn’t be bold enough to kidnap the heirs of other noble families just to play one of his twisted games.

"Star King Crow," a voice called out from below. A man climbed the ladder and pounded his chest in salute.

A flicker of annoyance crossed Crow’s face. He could never get used to that title. It was a remnant of Roof’s rule, and now the people had transferred it to him. The title of Star King made him uncomfortable, especially considering his elder brother, Raven, was the leader of the Iron Hearts.

What were you thinking, sending me here, Raven? Crow wondered as he nodded at the Iron Heart soldier—one of Roof’s former lackeys.

His brother always had his reasons, and Crow didn’t question them. Raven pointed, and Crow flew. That was all. It made life simpler; Crow didn’t like to overthink things.

"Your residence has been completed, sir," the soldier, a lean-built peasant, reported. Crow could tell from a glance that he had once been part of Roof’s Kings Hand, a special unit trained in martial arts. Roof’s sponsor had delivered martial arts manuals to him, allowing him to train this force.

"It’s not my residence. It’s for my brother when he arrives," Crow said as he walked past the man, heading for the ladder. "I’ll continue to sleep with the men in the barracks."

"Yes, sir. And another thing, sir," the soldier added quickly.

Crow stopped, snapping over his shoulder. "Whatever it is, report it to one of the officers. They’ll handle it. I’m busy."

Oh, divines, Crow thought, suppressing a sigh. How I wish Raven would relieve me of this position. The daily duties of leadership were far too mundane. The battlefield—that’s where Crow belonged.

"Urm, the officers are the ones who sent me, sir," the man gulped. He’d heard of Crow Von Flockson’s wild temper. Many had witnessed him in training, swinging his club like a wild beast, his killing intent unmatched in all of Peklo Forest.

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"What is it, then?" Crow stopped, his tone impatient. If it was a message from his men, it was his duty to listen.

"They’ve been waiting, sir. It’s been a week since Ghost sent the threat. The men are getting anxious to march." A crack appeared in the soldier's voice, betraying his nerves.

Ghost. That was the other thorn in Crow’s side, haunting him every day.

Crow recalled Do-Jo’s return, part of a hunting party Crow had sent south. As the man stood before the assembled soldiers, trembling and sweating like a madman, something strange had happened—something that no one could explain. Do-Jo relayed a message—a threat. A declaration.

"I will take what I owe in blood."

At first, it seemed like just the fear had gotten to Do-Jo, the pressure of being sent into the southern forest, the stories of ghosts and shadows. But then, a faint hiss escaped from somewhere deep in his throat, a sound that made the entire camp fall silent. Crow had been watching from the hill when he saw it—a bulge, something shifting beneath Do-Jo’s clothes.

Before anyone could react, Do-Jo began convulsing violently, his body contorting in unnatural ways. His eyes rolled back, and foam began to spill from his mouth as he tore at his own skin, ripping at the fabric of his shirt. The hissing grew louder, more insistent, as if whatever was inside him was alive, fighting to escape.

Do-Jo let out a guttural scream, then bolted across the camp like a madman, crashing into tents, knocking over tables, his limbs flailing as if they no longer obeyed him. His body twisted and buckled, his mouth frothing as he ran in circles, howling like an animal. And then, as suddenly as it started, he collapsed to the ground in a spasm, thrashing in agony. The other soldiers watched in frozen horror, unable to move, unable to help.

Crow had leapt to his feet, shouting orders, but no one dared approach. They watched, wide-eyed, as Do-Jo’s body seized one last time, and then, with a sickening crack, went still.

But the worst part was what came after.

Just as Do-Jo lay still, Crow could have sworn he saw it—something slithering out from beneath the dead man’s shirt, something dark and sinuous, disappearing into the shadows before anyone else could notice. It was so quick, so fleeting, that Crow couldn’t be sure if it was real or if his mind was playing tricks on him.

The camp had erupted into wild rumors after that—whispers of curses, of a vengeful ghost stalking the southern part of the forest. Do-Jo’s death had only fueled the growing fear, the idea that something sinister was lurking just beyond their campfires, waiting to strike again. Men swore they heard strange noises at night, hisses and whispers carried on the wind. And they all spoke of revenge.

Revenge for what, though?

Crow had wondered the same thing. Was it because he had sent a hunting party into that part of the forest? Had they trespassed on something they shouldn’t have?

Ghost. A figure no one had seen but everyone had heard of. Whenever the Kings Guard or the Iron Hearts sent scouts into the southern forest, they returned raving about ghosts—things you couldn’t see or touch, killing anyone who ventured too far. The three factions had initially blamed one another, each thinking the others were responsible for the disappearances. Nessa had fueled the rumors, whispering about a Ghost who lived in the pits, hunting anyone who dared enter his territory.

At first, Crow had dismissed it as a tale. Even Raven, his elder brother, had believed it was Nessa hiding behind the so-called Ghost, using the stories to strike fear into her enemies. But now there was no denying it. There was something—or someone—in the southern forest, and it wasn’t friendly.

Many believed it was a single man. Crow wasn’t convinced. They had all entered this forest as children. If someone that remarkable had been among them, Raven would have spotted it from the beginning. It had to be a group. What troubled Crow most was that he had no information—nothing—on Ghost or whoever they were.

"Have you seen any movement at the Gates of Hell?" Crow asked, his voice sharp.

"No, sir. Our scouts report no one has left or entered the pits."

Crow frowned. He was certain whoever was behind Ghost was hiding in the pits. But how? The deeper levels were pitch black, making it impossible to navigate without a torch—and no torch would last long enough in that darkness.

"Then we don’t move," Crow said, his tone final. "Until I have more information or receive an order from my brother, tell the men to keep training and stop wasting their time on silly tales."

With that, he turned and began climbing down the ladder. Whoever you are, Crow thought, his grip tightening on the rungs, you can’t hide forever.