The old man's breath faltered, and with his final words—"The darkness… is rising… from the shadows…"—his head fell lifelessly to the ground.
Mamir bent down, closing the man's eyes with a solemn hand.
"There is no time to waste. If even travelers are attacked, the southern roads are no longer safe."
Visrok's gaze, however, was fixed on the man's chest. There, beneath the torn fabric, a strange mark gleamed faintly in the moonlight: a black flame inside a sun. His heart skipped a beat.
"This symbol… I've seen it before, in Father's hidden archives…"
Before he could speak further, a chill wind swept across the path. The torches flickered violently, and a dense fog began to crawl over the land. The soldiers reached for their weapons, their nerves taut as bowstrings.
From within the mist, the sound of hooves echoed. Silhouettes began to emerge—figures draped in long, flowing white cloaks. Their armor glimmered beneath, and their faces were hidden in shadow.
The company instinctively formed a defensive circle around the princes. Mamir raised his sword, his voice sharp:
"Show yourselves! Friend or foe?"
At that moment, one of the cloaked riders stepped forward. His cloak billowed in the wind, and his voice rang with authority:
"Do not fear. We are not your enemy."
The fog parted slightly, revealing the emblem embroidered on their cloaks—a silver sword, surrounded by a blazing sun.
Visrok's eyes widened.
"The White Cloaks… legends say they were sworn to guard against the return of the shadows."
The leader's gaze fell upon Mamir and Visrok, as though he had long awaited this meeting.
"Yes… and now, princes of Harland, fate has brought us together. The darkness you seek has already begun to awaken."