The bells had not yet rung when Toby woke. The world outside his window was pale with the promise of dawn—a thin light that made the mist on the walls look like ghosts deciding whether to leave. Rain whispered somewhere beyond the courtyard, soft but steady, a familiar voice that had become the season’s rhythm.

  He sat up, letting the blanket fall away. The air smelled faintly of ash and iron. His tunic and hose lay folded by the hearth, still faintly warm from where he’d hung them the night before. Across the small room, his pack sat open, half-filled with oilcloth, whetstone, and the modest share of supplies Lawrence had allowed them—hard cheese, travel bread, dried beef, two apples that would turn brown by the second day if the weather didn’t.

  He dressed in silence. Shirt first, then padded gambeson, cinched tight. The fabric was heavy and stiff at the seams, worn thin at the elbows from months of drills. More than half a year had passed since he’d first been fitted for it—he’d grown since then, enough that the gambeson pinched slightly beneath the arms and rode higher at the waist. He’d meant to ask the tailor for a new one, but there had always been something more urgent: patrols, training, surviving. The old one would do.

  His cloak hung on the peg by the door—the new one Lawrence’s men had issued the night before. The wool was heavier, finer, and stitched across the back with the white falcon of Highmarsh, wings spread in flight. His old cloak had been plain, the kind worn by any squire who worked the yards. This one carried weight, warmth, and belonging.

  He unclasped the silver falcon brooch from his old cloak and pinned it at the collar of the new one. The metal was cool against his fingers, catching the dawn like frost. The knights wore theirs the same way when they rode beside Sire Ray—not for ornament, but as a promise made visible.

  He let his thumb brush the embroidered wings on the back. For a moment, Toby pictured Sire Ray fastening his own cloak before a campaign—the same falcon at his throat, calm and certain.

  He wasn’t one of them yet, not by title or trial, but the distance between what he was and what he meant to become had never felt smaller.

  He laced his boots, adjusted the straps, then turned toward the corner. The elven blade leaned there where it always had, propped against the stone beside the hearth. The wrapping had long since been replaced—clean linen over strange metal—but light still slipped through it, glimmering faintly as though something beneath breathed with slow patience.

  He crouched and unwrapped it. The steel within caught the dawn like water. Its surface was too smooth, too perfect, as if the world had forgotten how to make anything so balanced.

  For a long moment, he didn’t move. In his mind, he saw Brindle Hollow again—fire and smoke, a boy hiding in a well while the world burned above him. Then Sire Ray on the field, cutting through men and metal as if the air itself had turned to sharpened glass around him. He touched the blade lightly with two fingers, not in superstition but in respect.

  “Time,” he murmured to it, or maybe to himself.

  The sword’s new scabbard lay waiting beside the hearth—plain leather, freshly stitched, its surface still stiff. He slid the elven blade into its sheath. The fit was exact—unsettlingly so. He’d have to thank the smith; the man’s hands knew their work.

  Then he slung it across his back. The weight settled evenly between his shoulders, more natural than it should have felt.

  A knock came. Two, then one. Zak’s pattern.

  “Still breathing in there?”

  Toby smiled faintly and opened the door. Zak stood half-armored, hair a tangle, grin unrepentant. Reece hovered behind him, already neat as a clerk, tightening the strap on his new cloak.

  “You’re slow,” Zak said. “Thought you’d be halfway to the stables by now.”

  “I was thinking,” Toby said.

  “Dangerous habit,” Zak replied. “Stick to hitting things.”

  Reece rolled his eyes. “Maxwell said meet in the yard before first bell. He’ll have our horses ready.”

  “Of course he will,” Zak said, stretching. “The man doesn’t sleep. Probably sharpens the sunrise himself.”

  Toby slung his pack over his shoulder, checked the buckle on his scabbard, and gave the room one last look—the small bed, the embers in the hearth, the space where a boy had once slept dreaming of vengeance and found something harder in its place.

  He nodded once, as if sealing a quiet promise, and followed them out. The corridor was cold and dim, the stones damp, carrying the scent of rain and smoke from the kitchen below. Somewhere, a maid hummed while lighting lamps. Somewhere else, a guard coughed awake. The castle lived, as it always had—slower now, but alive.

  Zak bumped Toby’s shoulder lightly as they walked. “Ready to hunt monsters, then?”

  Toby’s hand brushed the hilt at his back. “If they’re real,” he said.

  Reece managed a smile. “If they aren’t, Maxwell will invent some for us.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “True,” Zak said. “He’s a generous man that way.”

  They shared the faintest laugh—the kind born more of nerves than joy. But it was enough.

  When they reached the stair that led down into the inner ward, the smell of horses and rain met them like an old friend. The sound of hooves on wet stone, the jingle of tack. Maxwell’s voice somewhere ahead, calm and clipped, giving orders in the language of men who had spent their lives between campaigns. Toby adjusted his pack and followed the sound. He didn’t look back again. The day was waiting.

  The road south wound through a country half-forgotten by sunlight. Rain had thinned to drizzle, but the clouds clung low, bruised and heavy. Water pooled in every hoofprint; the smell of wet earth followed them like breath.

  Maxwell rode at the front, hood up, his cloak dragging darkly over his shoulders. The three squires followed in a loose line, cloaks drawn tight, horses stepping carefully where the cobbled road gave way to dirt.

  For a long while, the only sounds were hooves and the creak of leather. Then Zak, predictably, broke the quiet.

  “So,” he said, leaning forward on the pommel, “what are we hoping it’s not?”

  Reece gave him a look. “What kind of question is that?”

  “A sensible one,” Zak said. “If we’re riding into the woods for a creature we’ve never seen, I’d like to know which ones eat slow.”

  Maxwell’s voice came from beneath the hood, dry as winter bark. “Most of them prefer to finish quickly.”

  Zak grinned. “Comforting.”

  Toby glanced up at the knight. “You’ve seen things like this before, haven’t you?”

  Maxwell’s reins shifted slightly. “Aye. Too many times.”

  “Then what do you think it is?” Reece asked.

  Maxwell didn’t answer right away. Rain ticked against his mail. “Could be nothing. Could be something old crawling out of its hole again. The world’s full of teeth if you know where to look.”

  Zak gave a low whistle. “And you’ve seen them all?”

  “A few,” Maxwell said. “Not all. The ones I have seen, I try not to meet again.”

  Toby’s curiosity overcame caution. “What kind?”

  The knight’s head tilted slightly—not irritation, but permission. “All right,” he said. “Let’s make this ride less quiet. You ask, I’ll answer.”

  Zak grinned. “Fine. Let’s start simple. Ever seen a Spinebuck?”

  Maxwell actually chuckled. “Aye. Once, near Swanshire. Thought it was a deer until it turned and made me regret the thought.”

  “What happened?” Reece asked.

  “Charged one of my men. When it bristles, those spines come off like quarrels. Took a bolt through his shoulder before we realized what we were dealing with. They don’t chase far, though—territorial, not bloodthirsty.”

  Zak wrinkled his nose. “So… don’t spook the deer.”

  “Sound advice anywhere,” Maxwell said.

  Reece shivered slightly under his cloak. “What about a Briarwolf? I heard stories about them—hides covered in thorns, eyes like coals.”

  Maxwell made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Heard of, not seen. Ask Marrec the Grey if you ever find him drunk enough to talk. He claims he cut one open in the jungles past the Western Marches—says they grow thorns into their skin to blend with the vines. But I’ve never seen one around here. They like the wet heat of the jungle, not the cold wet of a marsh. You’d be unlucky to meet one here.”

  “Good,” Zak said. “I hate unlucky.”

  “Then you chose the wrong trade,” Maxwell replied.

  Toby rode a little closer. “Swampback Boar? The loggers sometimes talk about them. Big as wagons.”

  “That one’s real,” Maxwell said. “And worse than stories tell. Thick skull, tusks like plow blades, back so overgrown with moss you could mistake it for a hill until it moves. You’ll smell it before you see it—like rot and river weed. Don’t try to kill one unless you’ve a dozen men and room to run.”

  Reece frowned. “So what did you do?”

  “Climbed a tree,” Maxwell said simply. “Let it lose interest. Some fights aren’t won, they’re waited out.”

  Zak snorted. “That’s your advice? Run for the branches?”

  “Branches, walls, divine intervention—I’m not particular,” Maxwell said.

  Reece grinned despite himself. “What about Ash Vultures? My uncle said they follow armies.”

  Maxwell shifted in the saddle, thoughtful. “Can’t say I’ve seen one. Carrion birds, sure, but not that sort. If it coughs soot, I’ll let you name it before it kills me.”

  Zak whistled. “Charming thought.”

  Toby glanced between them. “Then what about… Cinder Trolls?”

  Even through the mist, he saw Maxwell’s expression tighten slightly. “No. And I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Are they real?” Reece asked.

  “Real enough that smart men carry silver when traveling near old battlefields,” Maxwell said. “You don’t kill one, you scatter it—ashes and all. They grow back otherwise. Silver helps, but only if it’s blessed. If you see one, don’t fight—run and pray an unfortunate soul met it before you did.”

  Zak exhaled slowly. “All right. Not that one, then.”

  “Not that one,” Maxwell agreed.

  Silence reclaimed the road for a while, broken only by the rain and the steady rhythm of hooves. The fog began to thin where the trees opened to fields scarred by stumps—the edge of the woods they were bound for.

  Toby rode a little behind Maxwell, watching the way the knight’s shoulders never seemed to shift, no matter how rough the road. The man moved like the weather itself—constant, unbothered.

  “Master,” Toby said finally, “are you ever afraid?”

  Maxwell didn’t look back. “Always,” he said. “But that’s what keeps the sword steady. A man who stops fearing is halfway to stupid.”

  Zak smirked. “So what’s the other half?”

  “Dead.”

  They fell quiet again after that, the lesson landing harder than humor could soften.