Marcus and Lena's flight through the forest was a blur of terror and exhaustion. The screams of the village faded behind them, replaced by the menacing whispers of branches and the rustle of leaves underfoot. Though his arm throbbed with pain, Marcus pulled Lena by the hand, his strength and resolve fueled by panic and the desperate need to escape. The cross he still clutched seemed to faintly vibrate—a strange, comforting presence amid the chaos.
The sun had already set, and the forest had turned into a maze of shadows, darker even than the creatures of Florentia. Marcus stumbled over roots and hidden rocks but never stopped. Lena, breathless and trembling, tried to keep up with his frantic pace, her tear-filled eyes reflecting her fear.
"Marcus… I can't… go on…" she gasped, tugging at his arm.
He halted, chest heaving, pain burning through his wounded arm. He looked at Lena, her face streaked with soot and tears. The sight of her fragility clenched at his heart. He had to protect her. She was all he had left of his old life—the one person he couldn't lose.
"We're almost there," he lied, not knowing where he was going but determined to find shelter. "We just need to find a safe place."
They trudged onward, each step a battle against fatigue and fear. Then Marcus spotted a cleft in the rocks, half-hidden by thick vegetation—a cave. Small, dark, but maybe safe.
"There!" he pointed, pulling Lena toward the entrance.
Inside, it was damp and smelled of wet earth. They crawled to the back, as far from the opening as possible. Marcus laid the cross beside them, then tore a strip from his tunic and tied it tightly around his arm with his teeth, trying to stop the bleeding. The pain was a constant reminder of that cursed day.
Lena huddled close to him, trembling. "My parents… Marcus… Theron…" Her voice was a broken whisper.
Marcus wrapped his good arm around her, burying his face in her hair. He had no words of comfort. He was shattered himself—the image of Theron's lifeless body and the burning village branded into his mind. Rage smoldered within him. Rage at everything—the monsters, fate, and yes, still at God.
"Why, Marcus? Why did this happen?" Lena asked, looking up at him, searching for answers he didn't have.
He shook his head. "I don't know, Lena. I don't know." His eyes drifted to the cross glowing faintly in the cave's darkness. "We just… got lucky with that."
"Lucky? Marcus, that wasn't luck. That cross… it drove the monsters away," Lena said, her voice regaining a spark of conviction. "It was a miracle."
"A magic relic, maybe. Something the creatures can't stand," he insisted, still clinging to his logic. "It has nothing to do with God. If He existed—if He cared—Florentia wouldn't have burned. Our friends wouldn't be dead."
The argument hung between them, a silent debate amid the horror they'd endured. To Lena, it was a sign of divine mercy. To Marcus, a useful tool—nothing more than a fortunate accident. Eventually, exhaustion claimed them both, and they fell into uneasy sleep, lulled by the murmurs of the forest and the darkness of the cave.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The cave became their forced sanctuary. Marcus and Lena survived on what the forest provided—berries, roots, small animals Marcus trapped with makeshift snares. Each day, Marcus ventured a little farther, always carrying the cross, testing its limits. He discovered that the light it emitted truly repelled the shadow beasts, even the smaller ones that occasionally prowled the forest's depths. He learned to move quietly, to observe, to survive. His body grew leaner, his muscles more defined. The forge had given him strength, but the forest—and desperation—had forged him into something sharper, more resilient.
Time in the cave was lonely. They spoke little; the memories of Florentia were too heavy to constantly revisit. In her solitude, Lena prayed softly—for salvation, for a sign. Marcus listened, torn between compassion and irritation. Her faith, to him, was a weakness, an illusion—but one he couldn't deny kept her alive.
"Don't you think we should look for other people, Marcus?" Lena asked one day as they shared a handful of wild berries. Her eyes had lost some of their sparkle, though a flicker of hope still shone in them.
Marcus shook his head. "For what? To see more ruined villages? More monsters? We're safer here. The world out there is corrupted, Lena. There's no place for us."
He was convinced that humanity had disappointed any god long ago—with its cruelty, greed, and endless hunger for destruction. The monsters were merely the embodiment of that collective sin, a plague consuming all. His worldview had turned grim, fatalistic.
One morning, while Marcus was out hunting, Lena remained in the cave weaving a small basket from vines. Then she heard footsteps. They weren't Marcus's—his steps had become nearly silent. These were heavier, measured… and there was more than one person. Her heart pounded. She retreated deeper into the cave, clutching Marcus's cross, which he had left behind.
Soon, dark silhouettes blocked the entrance. They weren't monsters—they were men. Three of them, wearing worn armor marked with a cross on the chest: Templars. They looked weary, their armor scratched and dented, but their stance was alert, disciplined.
One of them, older, with a gray beard and piercing eyes, called out: "Hello? Is anyone here? We saw smoke from a fire earlier. We are knights of the Order of the Templars, searching for survivors."
Lena hesitated. For months, they had avoided all human contact, fearing bandits—or worse. But these men… they seemed different. The symbol on their armor was the same as the cross Marcus carried.
She gathered her courage and stepped out, holding the cross tightly. "My name is Lena. My friend Marcus is out hunting. We're from Florentia."
The Templars' eyes widened. "Florentia? We heard of the shadow attacks there. It's a miracle you survived." The leader, who introduced himself as Brother Gareth, noticed the cross in her hands. "That cross… it looks very much like ours. Where did you find it?"
Lena began to explain—the attack, the destruction, the falling cross, and how it had saved Marcus. Her voice grew stronger as she spoke, hope rekindling after so many months in the dark.
When Marcus returned, carrying a small deer on his shoulders, he found Lena talking to the three men. His first instinct was distrust. He had learned not to trust anyone. He dropped the deer to the ground, eyes locked on the Templars, his hand tightening around his own cross.
Brother Gareth stepped forward, extending a hand. "Young man, I am Brother Gareth. We are of the Order of the Sacred Light. We have come to cleanse these lands of darkness."
Marcus glanced at the outstretched hand, then at the crosses on their armor. His gaze flicked to the one in his own hand, then to Lena's. A strange unease stirred within him. These men spoke of "light" and "purification"—words he had scorned all his life.
"We don't need your help," Marcus said roughly. "We can take care of ourselves. And I don't join anyone. I've seen what happens when you trust people—they die." The trauma of Florentia was still fresh, the loss of Theron and his parents an open wound. "Go find other survivors. We'll stay here." He was practically an atheist and wanted nothing to do with religion.
Gareth sighed, a look of weary understanding in his eyes. "I understand your pain, son. But the darkness doesn't wait. And the cross you carry—it is a symbol of faith, of divine protection."
"It's a magic tool. Nothing more," Marcus shot back, stubborn as ever.
As tension filled the air, a deep, guttural sound echoed from the surrounding forest. It wasn't the small creatures Marcus had fought before—this was deeper, more menacing. The air grew heavier, the trees seeming to twist and darken.
One of the younger Templars gripped his sword. "Shadows! Many of them! Level five, Gareth!"
Brother Gareth drew his own blade, steel gleaming in the dim light. "It seems the darkness has found us, my brothers—and you as well, young Marcus."
A chill ran down Marcus's spine. Shadow monsters. Level five—the same that had destroyed Florentia.
He looked at Lena, cowering again, panic flooding her eyes. He looked at the Templars, swords drawn, ready for battle. And then, at the cross in his hand.
He could run—hide in the cave again. But the thought of Lena being cornered once more, of reliving that nightmare… was unbearable.
He wasn't a warrior—had never been. But the anger, the pain, and his fierce need to protect Lena burned within him. And if these men, with their "faith" and their crosses, truly could fight the darkness—then maybe… maybe it was time to stop running.
For the first time, Marcus Antonius prepared to stand and face the darkness that had been chasing him ever since Florentia burned.