The air in the dining hall was thick with more than just the smell of salt-pork and wet wool; a cold current of unease was beginning to circulate. Durant, methodically working through his meal, kept his head down, but his ears were open.
"Does it strike you as ill-omened?" one of the younger knights muttered, leaning in close to his comrade. "Receiving a shipment directly from Bastion's Reach instead of the Shunt?"
The man beside him paused, his spoon hovering over his bowl. "It's wrong. The Grey Shunt is the heart of the Misty Woods. Every scrap of grain and every bolt of steel for these outposts is supposed to flow through those gates. To bypass it entirely..."
"Then the rumors are true," the first knight interrupted, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper. "The Shunt has been raided. Or worse—it's fallen."
"Anything can happen in this fog," the other replied grimly, staring into his water as if looking for answers. "In the Misty Woods, silence is usually followed by a funeral."
Durant finished the last of his bread, the conversation settling in his mind like lead. If the Shunt—the great logistics hub—had truly gone dark, the entire region was a ticking clock. He stood up, the faint scrape of his self-repairing plate against the wooden bench the only sound he made, and walked out into the biting air.
Outside, the outpost was a hive of grim activity. Durant found a spot against the outer timber wall, leaning his weight against the wood. He breathed in the damp, pine-scented air, letting the chill settle the remaining heat of the battle from his bones. For a few moments, there was no screaming, no scent of rot—just the cold clarity of the woods.
The heavy thud of boots announced the veteran knight's arrival. The older man stepped out into the twilight, his face lined with the exhaustion of a hundred such days.
"Ready to move out?" the veteran asked, his eyes scanning the treeline where the mist was already beginning to reclaim the world.
"Yeah," Durant replied simply. He pushed off from the wall, the dark metal of his harness catching the dying light.
"Then I'll wish you luck on the road," the veteran said, a rare moment of sincerity breaking through his gruff exterior. "Whatever is stalking the paths between here and the Reach, make sure it regrets finding you."
Durant gave a short, sharp nod—the silent acknowledgment of a man who lived by the blade—and turned toward the shifting shadows of the forest.
The heavy gate of the outpost creaked open, groaning against the encroaching fog. Durant stepped out into the mud of the no-man's-land and drew a sharp, piercing breath.
Pritt! Pritt! Pritt!
The whistle cut through the damp silence of the Misty Woods like a blade. For a moment, there was only the dripping of condensation from the twisted black trees. Then, the rhythmic, heavy thud of massive hooves began to shake the earth.
Out of the swirling grey vapor emerged a beast built for the end of the world: a Grand Horse. It stood a head taller than any standard charger, its barrel-chested frame covered in fur as black as a starless night, save for the startling shock of white fur around its powerful legs. These were not mere animals; they were the iron-willed survivors of the heavy cavalry, bred for crushing bone and hauling tons of steel through the most unforgiving terrain.
Beyond their towering stature, the Grand Horse bears a macabre distinction: jagged, ivory spurs that erupt from the crown of each knee. These curved, horn-like protrusions are more than mere deformity; they are grim testaments to the sheer, bone-snapping power and tireless stamina housed within their massive limbs.
The beast trotted to a halt before Durant, its breath huffing in twin plumes of white steam. Its dark eyes held a keen, preternatural intelligence—it remembered the scent of its master and the specific pitch of his call.
Durant reached out, his gauntlet rasping softly as he stroked the coarse hair of the horse's neck. The animal didn't flinch at the smell of the Wight-blood still clinging to Durant's plate; it simply huffed, a low vibration of recognition. The brown leather of the saddle and the bulging saddlebags were already secured, packed with the grim necessities of the road.
With a practiced, heavy motion, Durant hauled himself into the saddle. The Grand Horse didn't even dip under the immense weight of the armored mercenary.
"Steady," Durant murmured, his voice lost to the mist.
He tugged the reins, and the great beast turned, its white-furred hooves churning the dark soil. Together, man and monster-of-burden vanished into the swallowing fog of the Misty Woods, leaving the flickering torches of the outpost far behind.
The fog didn't just drift; it clung to the trees like a damp shroud. Durant urged his Grand Horse deeper into the suffocating grey of the woods. The beast was a mountain of muscle and coarse fur, its heavy breathing the only sound against the chilling wind that whistled through the gnarled branches.
Clack! Clack! Clack! The horse's massive hooves hammered the root-choked earth with a rhythmic, bone-shaking thunder. A Grand Horse was built for this—tireless, stubborn, and indifferent to the ghostly cold of the forest.
Suddenly, a shape coalesced from the mist. A Wight, its flesh the color of curdled milk and eyes burning with a blue, necrotic light, lunged from the shadows.
Durant hauled on the reins. The Grand Horse skidded, its powerful haunches bunching as it dodged the Wight's jagged claws by a hair's breadth. In one fluid motion, Durant reached back, his hand finding the cold iron grip of his greatsword.
Snap!
The heavy blade drawn from the scabbard. Using the horse's momentum, Durant tucked the greatsword under his arm like a massive, improvised lance.
Thrust!
The tip of the blade caught the Wight square in its sunken chest, the sheer weight of the charging horse driving the steel through bone and out the back. But the forest was waking up. More pale shapes emerged, clicking their teeth in a hungry chorus.
Durant didn't falter. He wheeled the Grand Horse in tight, lethal circles. It was a grim display of jousting prowess; the horse used its sheer bulk to shatter the Wights' lines while Durant reaped them with heavy, horizontal swings. Within minutes, the clearing was silent again, save for the settling mist and the stench of cold decay.
They continued until they reached the heart of the woods: an ancient, towering tree with leaves the color of dark green. Its gnarled branches clawed at the grey sky, but the air here felt strangely still.
Durant unhorsed himself, his boots sinking into the thick grass. Every muscle ached with the kind of fatigue that only a long campaign brings. He collapsed against the rough bark of the great tree, his back resting against the wood.
Nearby, his mount began to graze. The Grand Horse was a survivor—not a picky eater, it could find sustenance even in the cursed soil of the Misty Woods. As the horse's steady chewing filled the silence, Durant let his eyes grow heavy, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword.
After a brief, fitful rest, Durant hauled himself back into the saddle. The Grand Horse snorted, its massive chest heaving as it found its rhythm once more.
Clack! Clack! Clack!
The heavy rhythmic beat of hooves against the damp earth was the only thing that kept the silence of the woods at bay. They rode without pause, pushing through the final, thinning layers of the grey veil until, at last, the mist surrendered.
Rising from the jagged horizon of the Veridian Expanse like a jagged tooth of iron and stone was Bastion's Reach.
Its walls were gargantuan, scarred by centuries of siege and stained by the dark moss of the forest. To the world outside, it was a fortress; to the remnants of humanity, it was the only thing standing between them and the hungry shadows of the Wilds. Yet, as Durant approached, he knew the truth—the city was safer than the forest, but it had a rot of its own, hidden deep within its crowded alleys and stone halls.
High above on the battlements, the night-watch knights stirred. Their armor caught the faint, pre-dawn light as they looked down. Seeing the weary silhouette of the rider and the unmistakable bulk of the Grand Horse, the lead knight gave a curt, solemn nod.
The heavy iron-shod gates groaned open, just wide enough to let a single rider through.
Clack! Clack! Clack!
The sound of the horse's gait changed as they transitioned from soft earth to the cold, unforgiving cobblestones of the city. Though the sun had yet to break the horizon, Bastion's Reach never truly slept. Smoke drifted from smithy chimneys, and the desperate and the hardworking alike moved through the streets like ghosts.
Durant rode through the main thoroughfare, his hooded eyes scanning the familiar gloom of the buildings. He ignored the stares of the early-morning laborers, his focus solely on the warmth of the stables ahead.
Clack! Clack! Clack!
The rhythmic beat of hooves against the damp earth did little to quiet Durant's mind. As he guided his horse toward the flickering torches of the stable, the rumor he'd picked up at the outpost clung to him like the heavy fog of the Misty Woods.
The Grey Shunt—the jagged stone fortress that stood as the only bulwark against the darkness of the deep forest—was said to have fallen. If the whispers of a raid were true, the silence coming from the woods wasn't peace; it was a warning. Durant didn't want to believe it, but in this land, hope was often the first thing to be slaughtered.