The harvest festival concluded, and the village slipped back into its usual rhythm. Gareth, seeking his fortune, left with the other workers to try his luck as an adventurer.

  As winter approached, the trees grew bare and the fields lay fallow. The morning fog clung low to the ground, and the air had a lingering chill that hinted at colder days to come.

  A few weeks after the festival, on a gloomy day when the fog refused to lift, two men in black armour arrived on horseback. One of them called out to Franchesca, who was washing clothes by a wooden trough.

  “Hail there, madam. Is Athelmod around?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’ll go fetch him,” she replied, wiping her hands and heading toward his house. She knocked firmly.

  “Athelmod! There are two riders here to see you!”

  A moment later, Athelmod opened the door and stepped outside.

  “Thank you for coming to our village. I suspect you’re here about the potential bandit problem?” he asked, voice steady.

  “Yes. May we sit down and discuss the details with you?” the first rider replied.

  “Certainly. Follow me inside.”

  Both men dismounted, their boots thudding softly on the damp ground, and followed Athelmod indoors. I slipped through the wall after them. Each time I phased through something solid, it unsettled me.

  “Come in, take a seat. Would you like some tea?” Athelmod offered.

  “Yes, that would be great.”

  The men lowered their hoods as they sat. They looked to be around twenty-five. One bore a scar along his cheek; the other had a short beard. There was a sharpness in their eyes, a quiet readiness that suggested their youth had already been spent on violence.

  “It’s good to meet you, Athelmod,” the scarred one said. “I’m Barnabus, and this is Percy. We’re scouts from Ravenrest. We were sent to investigate the figures Cain’s party reported.”

  Barnabus had pale skin and a ginger beard, broad shoulders, and hands marked by work. Percy was darker from sun exposure, his own hands just as calloused.

  “I remember their account,” Athelmod said. “They never got a clear look, but it will be interesting to learn who was roaming so deep in the forest.”

  “Yes. Cain’s group couldn’t investigate properly, so I’m hoping you can help,” Athelmod replied as he prepared the tea.

  “We’ll head to their last known location,” Barnabus said. “What we do next depends on what we find.”

  “Brilliant.” Athelmod set two steaming cups on the table.

  “Thanks,” Percy said, drawing his closer.

  Athelmod fetched his own cup and sat down beside them. Percy drank quietly while Barnabus pulled a map from his bag and spread it across the table.

  “Based on Cain’s description, they were seen somewhere around here,” he said, tapping a vague stretch of forest where no landmarks were marked.

  “Do you know of anything notable in that area?” Barnabus asked.

  “Unfortunately, I’ve never been that far in,” Athelmod replied.

  From what I remembered of my own wandering, I hadn’t noticed anything distinct either. Whoever lived there must have chosen a difficult place to find.

  Barnabus and Percy finished their tea and stood.

  “Thanks for your time. We’ll be off now and set out immediately,” Barnabus said.

  “Best of luck,” Athelmod replied.

  The scouts stepped outside, mounted their horses, and rode away.

  I’ll follow them, I decided. It’ll be interesting to see how scouting works in this world.

  The horses cantered away from the village, moving through the brown, empty fields that matched the gloom of the day. Fog still drifted between the furrows, clinging to the lower ground like slow-moving smoke.

  I was glad I didn’t need to keep pace on foot. It would have been impossible.

  After following a familiar path, we entered the forest. The trees were stripped of their leaves now, only bare branches reaching out like dark fingers. With the foliage gone, the forest felt wider, more open — and yet the openness only made me feel exposed, as if the trees themselves were watching.

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  The horses slowed to a trot.

  After four hours of weaving through the forest, the daylight began to fade. The air grew colder with the coming night, and the scouts’ breaths turned faintly white.

  “Let’s make camp,” Barnabus said, halting his horse.

  The two dismounted and gathered fallen wood, building a small fire. They pulled tough, dried rations from their packs and chewed in silence.

  I didn’t envy them; their faces showed no enjoyment at all.

  After a long while, Percy spoke. “I feel like I’ve been watched since we left the village.”

  “Yes. Same here,” Barnabus replied. “It’s unnerving.”

  A chill passed through me. Could they somehow sense me?

  The fire crackled softly. The scouts returned to silence, sitting close to the heat with the posture of men trained to waste no words. Watching them reminded me of highly disciplined soldiers: focused, efficient, and always alert.

  Barnabus and Percy broke camp before dawn, having taken turns on watch through the night. The morning was just as gloomy as the last, the fog hanging thick among the trees and making the forest look hollow and haunting. They rode in silence, the horses’ steps muffled by the damp earth.

  Without warning, both scouts halted and dismounted. Percy vanished from sight, and though his body was hidden, I could still sense where he moved. Barnabus stayed back with the horses.

  I wondered what had made them react so sharply. I had noticed nothing unusual.

  Percy crept through the forest with slow, careful steps. Minutes stretched into what felt like an hour before we finally found a campsite. Five makeshift shelters stood in a loose ring, their walls made from logs and their roofs patched together from leaves and fallen branches. Several people sat around a small fire. A man in torn clothing stirred a pot of stew.

  “I hear the boss plans to move camp again come spring,” one man grumbled, wrapped in simple linen and a fur pelt.

  “It’s annoying to move so often. A comfortable bed would be nice,” another replied.

  “I’m tired of cooking the same food every day. I’d love some wheat or milk for something decent.”

  When the cook stepped away from the pot, Percy slipped forward and dropped something into the stew. The substance dissolved almost immediately. The cook returned, stirring it deeper into the mixture without noticing a thing. Percy retreated the same way he came: silent, swift, and unseen.

  Once Percy returned to Barnabus, he dropped his invisibility and spoke quietly.

  “I’ve poisoned their lunch. We’ll only need to finish the survivors. Larger group than expected. If they’re armed, we can’t risk a direct confrontation.”

  “Good,” Barnabus said. “Always better to sort these problems without trouble.”

  “They seem to be on the run. Not sure from whom. But they could still pose a danger to the village,” Percy added, though there was doubt in his voice.

  Barnabus followed him back, the two men moving like shadows.

  When they returned to the campfire, five families were eating. Men, women, and children — three or four to each family.

  Percy froze. His eyes shifted from the children to the crude huts, horror creeping across his face.

  “These aren’t fighters…” he whispered.

  For a moment, even the forest seemed to hold its breath.

  Barnabus leaned close. “We can’t leave witnesses. If the garrison hears we attacked civilians…” He swallowed. “No survivors. It’s too late now.”

  At the fire, a young boy said, “Is there a new herb in this? It tastes a little different.”

  “Not that I know of. But we do forage, so maybe,” someone replied.

  Minutes later, the children began to collapse, bowls slipping from their hands. Screams followed as the adults fell beside them. A man rushed out of one of the huts to see what was happening, trying to shake a fallen friend awake. Percy and Barnabus closed in.

  I tried to shout at him, uselessly, as if volume alone could defy the reality that I had no voice.

  Percy slid behind the man and plunged his dagger into his back. The man cried out, collapsed, and died quickly.

  “The poison should do the rest,” Percy said quietly. “But to be sure, we cut their throats. Then check the houses. We can’t leave this job half done.”

  Barnabus knelt and began to slit the throats of those lying around the fire — children, women, men — each movement mechanical, practised. Percy moved toward the huts.

  In the first shelter, a woman huddled in a corner clutching her baby.

  “Please spare the baby!” she screamed.

  Percy didn’t answer. He drove his dagger through her heart, then swung his blade once more, taking the baby’s head in a single motion. He turned his face away as the small body went still.

  He searched the rest of the hut, looking beneath furniture and into every dark corner.

  The slaughter was senseless and terrible. I wanted to look away. But as before, I could not. Someone had to bear witness.

  Percy found a child hiding in a bed. His hand shook.

  “Saints forgive us,” he whispered, before forcing himself to finish.

  He continued through the remaining huts, methodically checking each one. Outside, the camp looked like a scene from a nightmare: tiny still forms around a dying fire, belongings scattered as if fleeing hands had dropped them mid-motion.

  Barnabus found a small handcart. Together they loaded bodies onto it. Once full, they dragged the cart to a nearby clearing and began to dig with shovels taken from the huts. The work was silent and efficient. After two hours, the pit was deep enough. They emptied the cart, then returned twice more to retrieve bodies and personal effects. The pile in the pit grew grotesque, like something from a painting by Hieronymus Bosch.

  The scouts showed no hesitation. They had done this before.

  When the pit was full, they covered it with soil. Barnabus wiped his hands on the grass as though the dirt bothered him more than the blood. They mounted their horses and set off.

  Once they were gone, I saw movement near a barrel. A young child, no more than eleven, crawled out and stared at the pit. His face was hollow, his eyes empty. He sat at the edge as if trying to understand a world that had just turned against him.

  Thank the gods the scouts didn’t look back. If they had seen him, they would have finished the job.

  The forest was still again. Not peaceful. Just empty.

  I followed the scouts back in silence. Their armour rattled faintly with each movement, a rhythm far too steady for what they had done. Neither spoke, and I didn’t either.

  When they reached Athelmod’s house, they lied easily.

  “The camp was abandoned,” Barnabus reported. Percy avoided looking at the children playing nearby.

  Athelmod sighed with relief. “Good. One less thing to worry about.”

  I drifted above them, watching the village. The fields, the smoke from cooking fires, the sound of laughter. Once that warmth had comforted me. Now it made me cold.

  The scouts rode away, their horses leaving neat tracks in the soft earth. No one in the village would ever know the truth.

  But I would.

  And for the first time, I wished I didn’t.