Fear crept in the way it always does, quiet at first, then all at once. I kept trying to peer into the trees, hoping sheer panic might give me night vision. No such luck. The forest closed in on every side. Every shadow looked like it could move. Every gust of wind sounded like a footstep.
Sora sat beside me, either calm or pretending very well. Her hands were folded in her lap, her posture perfect. But her eyes tracked Arden like she was bracing for a storm. She bit her lip just a little.
I wanted to believe her when she said, "He knows what he's doing." But the words felt empty. I didn't know what to do, not really. Not after losing my village. Not after being turned away from the last place I thought I might start over.
That raw ache, like the world was ripping open beneath my feet, bubbled up in my chest, squeezing the breath out of me. I swallowed hard and blinked back tears I didn't want anyone to see. My hands trembled, gripping the rough bark of the log beneath me like it might hold me steady.
Sora glanced at me, leaning in closer in a way that felt both kind and strange. "We're safe here. He won't let them get close."
Her voice was soft, like the tone you use to soothe a frightened animal. Maybe she saw the wild look in my eyes or the way my breath hitched.
I didn't respond.
Arden raised his hands, and suddenly the air snapped.
Light flared around him, rings of shifting runes slowly turning, like ancient wheels in a forgotten spell. The magic didn't look gentle; it looked like something that didn't ask permission.
The bandits didn't charge in like idiots. They crept, sliding out of the trees in near silence, dressed in rough leathers and carrying weapons designed for stabbing, more interested in coin purses than conversation. These weren't just back-alley thugs. They were coordinated, armed, and focused.
Perfect.
Arden didn't even blink. A shimmer of magic shot from one of the glowing circles and spread around me and Sora like a dome, faintly golden, just translucent enough to make the outside look even more terrifying. I didn't need an explanation to feel the barrier. It hummed gently, thick air, a solid presence keeping the worst at bay.
For now.
Then Arden lit them up.
Red light burst from his spell circles like fireworks with a grudge. They flew, dozens of them, each with a purpose and a target. No random sprays or wild chaos, just surgical destruction. Every flash slammed into someone, sending bodies flying through the air like scarecrows on a bad day.
I ducked instinctively, even though I knew nothing would get through the barrier. The sounds outside were distant and muffled, but that didn't stop my heartbeat from racing wildly in my chest.
Sora's hand brushed my arm.
"It's okay," she said softly. "He's really strong. They won't win."
She smiled at me, as if that would help. It was a small smile, awkward. She wasn't great at hiding the tension in her shoulders or the way her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. But she was trying. I think that counted for something.
Arden moved like a ghost that had forgotten how to rest. Shadows curled around his arms like pets, stretching into long, writhing tendrils that snapped and whipped through the air. They yanked weapons from hands, wrapped around legs, and hurled people into trees with loud, unpleasant thuds. His sword flicked through the dark like a knife through silk, clean and impossibly fast.
The scene felt strangely quiet, or maybe that was just the magic dome. It turned the world into a snow globe of violence.
Then something slammed into the barrier hard.
I flinched as the dome flared, throwing light across Sora's face and mine. Her smile faltered for half a second.
"He'll be fine," she said again, more firmly this time. Maybe for me. Maybe for herself.
A low hum vibrated through the air, deep and metallic and wrong. The kind of sound that feels designed to make your bones remember terrible things.
Birds exploded from the trees, screeching into the night sky.
And then he appeared.
The knight stepped into the clearing like he belonged there, as if the trees had grown around him on purpose, silence settling with every footfall. A wall of iron and silence, no gleam, no frills. Just bulk and intent. His presence made the forest quiet out of something deeper than fear.
Even the bandits froze. No shouting or charging, just that awful, collective pause when everyone realizes they're suddenly part of something much bigger than themselves.
He didn't speak right away, just tilted his helmet toward Arden slowly. I couldn't see his face, but that didn't matter. You don't need to see fire to know it burns.
"I've waited for this," he said. His voice was wreckage—low, dry, and filled with old pain and pride. "To face the one they whisper about, the ghost who walks through fire and leaves only ruin."
Arden said nothing, not even a twitch; he simply pushed his glasses up as if adjusting to a sun no one else could see. Calm and casual, as if he were waiting for his tea to steep, not a duel to the death.
But there was a shift. Small, barely more than a twitch in the air. Enough to make me wonder if he was... wary? No one else seemed to notice. But something had changed, like the wind had taken a breath and didn't dare let it out.
The knight continued, his voice eager—almost feverish—as he recounted his journey and the dark reason he was here. He had trained for years and bled for the chance to prove himself in this moment. His words spilled into the night like a rant. His excitement was palpable, but Arden remained silent, almost disinterested, as though none of it mattered.
Arden stared silently, listening out of politeness, not particularly enjoying the tale.
Finally, the knight raised his sword, its massive blade gleaming in the pale moonlight. "Show me," he said, his voice almost reverent. "Let's see what the ghost can do."
The words barely faded before Arden moved.
No flash. No noise. Just a blur—too fast, too clean. One step forward, and the air cracked like a whip. The knight swung his blade down with a roar, but Arden was already gone, a shadow shifting past him like he was part of the night.
A streak of red magic traced across the knight's side.
Nothing.
Then the knight's shoulder pauldron cracked in half.
Arden raised his hand. A quick snap. The ground beneath the knight lit up with glowing runes, as if the earth itself had come alive to trap him.
A shockwave hit the knight, throwing him off his feet and into a tree hard enough to make it shudder. Surprisingly, the bandits didn't scream. They didn't even hesitate. They ran, well, tried to.
Black tendrils shot up from the ground, twisting with deadly precision, wrapping around ankles, weapons, and throats. A dozen bandits were lifted off the ground, screaming as their limbs flailed, caught like puppets in a bad dream. Then, in quick flashes, crimson magic shot through them, precise and deliberate, too fast for anyone to track.
The knight got back up. Not fast or strong, just stubborn. He swayed a little, boots dragging through the moss as he steadied himself. Smoke still curled off the gaps in his armor where the runes had burned through, edges glowing faintly like dying coals. His sword hand shook, not from fear—just worn down. Even his anger was starting to crack.
Arden didn't give him a chance to catch his breath.
A single ribbon of shadow slid from his sleeve. No theatrics, no grand flourish—just a lazy flick, like swatting a bug. It snaked forward and punched through the knight's chest plate without resistance, like the metal was made of paper.
For a heartbeat, it looked like nothing had happened.
Then a low, ugly crunch sounded as the metal caved inward. The knight staggered, his chest rising once, twice—then he wheezed, sharp and broken, as the air fled his lungs. He stumbled a step back.
He tried to raise his sword again.
Arden stepped in close.
He stepped in—not with fury, but with finality. The blade dropped like judgment rendered, clean and absolute. No excess, no flourish.
The sword fell, not with a clatter, but a soft thump, swallowed by the moss. The knight followed it, knees hitting the ground, then slumping facedown in the dirt.
Silence swallowed the clearing, deep and sudden, like even the trees were holding their breath.
Arden turned to us, calm. Not proud, not cold. Just... done. Like this hadn't been a fight. Like it had been a chore. Something on a checklist. He brushed some dirt off his sleeve, looked up, and said in a steady voice that somehow made my skin crawl:
"Let's keep moving."
Then he walked away. Simple as that.
I didn't follow, not right away.
I just stood there, staring at the knight's broken body, expecting it might twitch. Like maybe this wasn't real.
My legs weren't listening. My thoughts weren't either.
Another village. Another nightmare. And I was still here. Somehow.
Why?
What kind of person walks through a massacre and doesn't even flinch?
That knight—some monster of steel and fury, the kind of man you'd build statues for—was dead. Just dead. Sliced open and dropped like firewood. The air smelled sharp and heavy, full of blood and something burnt.
And that man, Arden, was already walking like none of it mattered.
I didn't know what else to do. So I followed—because stopping wasn't an option, and neither was breaking.