The Siege of Shadows: Book one

Shadows on the Road (18)

The morning broke cold and gray, the frost clinging to every surface as I prepared for the journey. The lord's warnings echoed in my ears, and though Nox whined in protest, I left him behind with Lady Lyla. Her hand rested briefly on his head, a reassuring presence for both of them as I mounted my black stallion.

I had chosen five of my best men for the task. Each was seasoned and trustworthy, their loyalty proven time and again. Their armor gleamed faintly in the weak winter light, and their swords hung heavy at their sides. They were ready for whatever awaited us, but I wasn't so sure the road would offer a fair fight.

The renewed sense of purpose came quietly, like the first light of dawn creeping over a frozen horizon. Even amidst the terror, the haunting music, and the ever-encroaching darkness, a spark had ignited in Rowan's chest—a determination she hadn't felt in what seemed like an eternity.

This was my world, my people. No matter how broken I felt, how heavy the weight of the world bore down upon me, I could not abandon them. The Black Knight's ominous presence, the fae's haunting song, and the unnatural horrors surrounding me were reminders that there were forces at work far beyond my despair. Forces that would consume everything if left unchecked.

The flute in my hand warmed against my palm, and I felt its strange power pulse faintly, as if recognizing my resolve. For the first time in years, I didn't feel entirely powerless. There was something within me—an ember that refused to extinguish, no matter how cold the wind howled or how dark the forest grew.

We rode out of the city gates as the first hints of dawn touched the horizon. The city behind us was alive, a stark contrast to the silence of the open road. Ahead lay Myrana, the superstitious village I had passed through years ago—a place wary of outsiders but respectful enough of armed authority. They wouldn't welcome us warmly, but they wouldn't turn us away.

It was a full day's ride to Myrana, and the further we traveled, the heavier the air grew. The road, usually a lifeline for travelers and merchants, was barren.

Not a single soul crossed our path, but the signs of life—and of something darker—were everywhere.

Caravans lay abandoned, their wheels broken and their goods scattered like breadcrumbs for scavengers that had never come. Clothes and tools were left behind as if their owners had fled in a hurry or been taken without warning.

My neck prickled with unease, and I tightened my cloak around me.

"Something's off," one of the guards muttered, his voice low but loud in the oppressive silence.

I nodded, scanning the surroundings with a sharp eye. Even in winter, there should have been some sign of life—a bird's call, the rustle of snow rabbits in the underbrush. But there was nothing. The woods to either side of the road stood unnaturally still, as if holding their breath.

"Keep your weapons close," I said. My voice was calm, but the weight of unease pressed against me like a heavy blanket.

The men obeyed, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. We continued forward, the only sound the crunch of snow beneath the horses' hooves and the faint jingle of bridles.

The eerie quiet settled into my bones, a warning I couldn't ignore. My thoughts returned to the village of Winlow—the oppressive silence before the attack, the way the air seemed to thrum with unseen energy.

"Captain," one of the men called, pulling his horse alongside mine. "Look there."

He pointed to the edge of the woods, where something glinted faintly in the pale light. We reined in our horses and dismounted cautiously.