Three.

"There's still no sight of those outlanders. We should head back, Prince Duran," a soldier urged through clattering teeth.

"Our scouts say they saw them come this way," he states. "If there's even a chance we can get the drop on them, we're taking it."

The icy wind blew past the forest trees as it grew dark around the soldier troops while they marched through the woods. The cold burns through their leather armor, piercing into their skin. It took everything in them to not chatter their teeth and shiver in their boots.

It felt like they had been riding for days, just south of the Ealdor village. Today was the worst day to be sent out on patrol. The prince had felt as though something was watching him, like a shadow lurking over his shoulder. Some of the other men felt it, too. His soldiers wanted to go back to the safety of the castle walls and to be soothed by a mug of ale and a warm meal. But they knew better than to share that concern with their prince.

"Night is falling," another voice pointed out. "We should stop and find shelter soon, Your Highness."

"When we are on the patrol, I am no longer your prince. I am your commander. And I say we say march forward," Duran turned his head slightly, eyes flaring underneath his wet cloaked hood. "Is that clear?"

They all nod affirmatively, heads bowed, "Of course, Commander."

"Then if there are no more complaints, let's keep moving," Prince Duran clutches his dark robe tighter over his shoulders.

They wandered through the forest trees without saying another word to each other, the only sounds that could be occasionally heard were their warhorses. The young soldier found himself fond of the forest over the few weeks of riding. The myriad of colors, the intoxicating smells, the billions of insects crawling, the birds chirping, and branches swaying in the breeze. It brought him a strange sense of comfort. The cloudless sky would sometimes turn dark, filled with the golden specks of lights from the Eternal Tree that he enjoyed before he turned in for the night.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" a rough voice spoke by the young soldier's side, now walking with his dark destrier, clenching the reins in his hands.

The boy straightens up as he takes in the man's presence, "Prince Llacheu."

"Ease up, soldier," Llacheu claps his shoulder with a chuckle. "As my brother said, no need for formalities. We're all brothers in arms here."

"Of course," he stutters.

He was the fourth son of King Arthur behind Prince Duran and newly crowned king Amr. Both of the princes looked to be the age of twenty, pale skin with hair brightened like a wheat of gold that always graced House Pendragon. An eyepatch covered his scarred right eye as his left arm was sticking out the front of his dark thigh-length battlerobe, making it look like his arm is in a sling. He and his brother were armored in black and gold with the Pendragon sigil etched into the breastplate; a blade with a dragon a curling around it from the hilt to the tip.

Llacheu was fine warrior, one of the best in the realm. Even in his prized youth, he had seen many other soldiers come and go on the battlefield. He was a veteran of over a dozen raids by now, even fought in Mordred's Rebellion by his father's side. He has never feared the wilderness or what lingered in the forest at night like the new blood around him.

He glances back up at the sky and the corner of his lips lifts a little, "I used to love this time of the night. My mother would have my siblings and I dine on the balcony by our dining hall just to gaze at the stars and bask in the Eternal Tree's glow," Llacheu chuckles at the fond memory.

"That sounds nice," the young soldier admits.

The prince is staring back at the man who looked younger than him only by a few years. "This is your first time on patrol?"

"You can tell?"

"I know almost every face in our ranks, and yet I barely recognize you."

"I see," the soldier's gaze softens, his brow furrowing a little, "I lost my mother and my father when I was a boy to outlander raiders. One of King Arthur's patrols saved me, took me in," he looks back at the dozen soldiers following behind them on their horses and glances back to the prince. "I've been under the Order's command ever since..."

"I see," Llacheu hums, his gaze on his broth as well.

"I'm..." the soldier contemplates his words carefully. "I'm sorry about your father. King Arthur was an honorable man, and a wonderful king. His death has left a scar all across the realm."

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"That 'scar' has festered onto the Order and my brothers as well."

"Oh?" the young man inquired.

"Don't take the Duran's curtness so harshly," Llacheu continues. "He received word this morning that his wife, Lady Sebile, has gone into labor. She's to give birth at any moment."

"Lady Sebile? Grand Magister Merlin's granddaughter?"

"Aye, daughter to his only son," a guilty smile graces the prince's lips. "Imagine not being there to witness the birth of your child when duty compels you to be elsewhere. All the while being burdened with the responsibilities of being the prince of Camelot."

"Not to mention the rumors of him fathering a bastard son-" The young man shrinks at his own words, a look of guilt on his face now. "My apologies. I forget myself."

Llacheu, however, clears his throat and disarms his guilt with a small smile, "What's your name, kid?"

"Asten. My name is Asten."

"Well met, Asten," Llacheu nodded curtly and looked back ahead of him. "Wield your blade well, and I'll make sure you survive these shite times."

Before Asten could form a response, Prince Duran interrupted his horse's movement, holding up a hand for his men to do the same.

"Why are we stopping, my prince?" Asten asked.

"There's an odor here," he spoke gravely, puffs of fog escaping from his hood.

Asten attempted to find the scent but couldn't track it, "Commander, forgive me, but I don't-"

"Wait," Llacheu spoke up in a serious tone and the prince turned back fully from his mount, both speaking without words. He takes in a few whiffs as well and straightens up. "...I smell it as well."

The brothers share a curt nod before Duran turns forward again, his hood slipping from his head. Now on guard, they both slid down from their saddle and drew their long swords. Duran removes his weapon from his sheath while Llacheu removes the large blade from behind his cloaked back, the moonlight running down the dark steel. Their blades looks new and shiny. It was Daedric steel, both fit enough for one of the finest knights of the Order.

The troops walked towards the smell, an icy shiver washing over them all. Llacheu paused again for a moment, staring off into the distance, his face reflective. A stiff wind whispered through the trees, almost as if they were speaking to him. Asten took in his intent gaze and found that his revealed eye had disturbed him. Disturbed him so much, in fact, he thought he was imagining it.

It was unlike anything the boy had ever seen. The pupil of his left eye had grown wider, irises flaring bright red while corners of his eyes were coated in black. Dark veins began to streak from the side of his head as he inhales the surrounding air. Asten swallows hard when he notes that Duran has done the same. They looked inhuman almost. Monstrous even.

"There's something wrong here," Duran whispered under his breath.

"What do you mean?" Asten looked around the dark forest trees uncomfortably.

He didn't have time to answer, the clearing now came into view. Moonlight shone down on them, the ashes of a fire pit, and the countless bodies that were covered in guts and blood as they laid there helplessly. Their corpses were scattered all over, trails of blood coming from underneath them. Their insides were spilled on the grass, staining it a deep crimson red.

"By the First..." Asten's voice abandoned him. He groped for words that did not come. It was not possible. His eyes swept back and forth over the deadly sight and nearly retched. "Ugh, I think I'm gonna be sick."

Duran only grunts, bending down near the thick pool of blood, "Bad luck for these poor souls."

"What happened here?" A soldier asked. "Did outlanders do this?"

Llacheu examined the bodies close with open disapproval, scrutinizing them, "Can't tell. Maybe they got the best of them. Either way, they're all dead. Probably by a week or two. There's nothing we can do for them now."

"With respect, my prince. But even those savages aren't this brutal."

He wasn't wrong. Their faces were bashed in, making them unrecognizable. No mere weapon could do this. A warhammer could perhaps, but he suspected that this wasn't the case here. .Something else killed them, or...someone.

Duran stood up and took in the surrounding evidence, eyes now back to his regular shade of purple, "You're right. Perhaps-"

Llacheu hums in suspicion, to which Duran takes notice, "Something else you would like to add, brother?"

"Their armor," Llacheu points to the dark plates lined with a metal that he's never seen before. Their sigil is almost unreadable, marred by the dried up blood that was stained upon it. "I don't recognize it."

Duran bends down beside him, "Hmm, neither do I."

"Maybe the outlanders have a blacksmith?"

"Not likely," Duran points to the sigil again. "This sigil looks as if it belongs to a noble house, and yet it bears none I recognize."

Duran's gaze hardens.

"Something you want to tell me?" Llacheu asks.

Duran sighs with a shake of his head, "No, but I advise we don't linger here any longer."

Duran looks around at the spread of dead bodies, the trails of crimson red that stained the soil beneath them. He didn't know what had happened here, but he knew one thing was certain; no one here was safe as long as they remained.

"We must leave at once and return to base," Duran stands up and sheathes his blade looking at his soldiers with a stern look.

"I've got a bad feeling about this, brother…" Llacheu places a gentle on his shoulder as he passes him by back on his mount.

"So do I, Sir Llacheu. So do I..."

And yet, Duran couldn't help but take in the grisly sight, wondering what could've possibly happened back there that would leave such carnage.