Soil, brittle twigs, and decaying leaves embraced his broken body as he tumbled several times before a gnarled banyan halted his momentum. His sword remained lost to him, as did his severed right arm.

  Black Rose, sensing the sudden absence of weight upon its back, did not embrace newfound freedom. Instead, the warhorse halted, pivoted, and began searching for its fallen master. Following the scent trail, it returned to Raymond's side, though the acrid musk of predators tainted the air.

  The loyal steed positioned itself protectively before its master, facing the two panting wolves. Though the blindfold obscured its vision, Black Rose relied on keen olfactory senses and acute hearing. When one female wolf launched itself forward, the horse's powerful foreleg connected with devastating precision, sending the attacker flying several meters backward.

  Raymond Noytra was surrendering to darkness. An overwhelming fatigue consumed him. Through his narrowing field of vision, two shadowy forms engaged in mortal combat. The aggressor's jaws clamped down on the defender's throat while the victim thrashed desperately, hooves pawing with diminishing strength. The struggle proved futile. With a sickening crack, the neck twisted beyond natural limits.

  Raymond Noytra was surrendering to darkness. A fleeting memory surfaced. With the last remnants of his fading strength and willpower, his trembling fingers sought the leather courier pouch, now shredded by wolf claws. A small vial tumbled into his blood-slicked palm. (Press the lid, turn clockwise, three rotations. You remember, Ivan. So do I.)

  Raymond Noytra was surrendering to darkness. His duty fulfilled, he attempted to execute the memorized protocol, twisting the vial's cap as prescribed. Nothing happened. (Did I recall incorrectly...? Impossible... No matter, I've given everything I had.) A large shadow loomed above him, hot breath and curious sniffing investigating his face. (Yes... Well done, Raymond. Well done indeed.) The sensation of coarse fur against his skin evoked a strange comfort, prompting his lips to curve into a serene smile. (That concludes today's lesson...) With mechanical efficiency, it snapped his neck.

  The bamboo cylinder, discarded nearby, began emanating an ethereal blue luminescence.

  Lannord's body convulsed into a tight ball as he collapsed to his knees.

  Beyond his guttural, primal keening, the rhythmic sound of flesh striking earth filled the clearing as his fists pummeled the forest floor.

  Aethelwing soared through the upper thermals, scanning the verdant landscape for human movement. The dense canopy severely impeded her hunting efforts. Since encountering the swarm of Crimson-Eyed Bats, she had lost track of them. Now she relied solely on instinct, her keen eyes vigilantly surveying the woodland below.

  A peculiar sensation prickled her consciousness—the unmistakable weight of being observed. The gaze carried an essence of primordial chaos, an indescribable quality that defied avian comprehension. Aethelwing felt an atavistic terror ripple through her feathers.

  The unseen watcher's attention persisted. Left with no recourse, she opted for confrontation. The majestic raptor descended toward a towering cedar. After meticulously preening her plumage, she inflated her chest in regal defiance, golden eyes fixed resolutely ahead.

  Her observer hung inverted from the uppermost branches.

  "And we didn't even grant him burial," Kendrick McKenzie murmured while adjusting saddle straps. Their black mounts drank greedily from the crystalline stream, occasionally brushing muzzles in silent equine communication.

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  "And we didn't even grant him burial," Ivan Northes echoed with grim affirmation. "Had time permitted, absent a pack of oversized canines snapping at our heels, I'd have orchestrated a ceremony befitting his valor. Fresh daisies adorning his grave, drenched with half a gallon of Kentucky's finest bourbon. And let's not disregard the royal courier who suffered an equally premature demise. We might have also—"

  "Enough." Old McKenzie removed his weather-worn boots, massaging his callused soles. "I speak merely from basic human decency. He was your brother-in-arms, your companion!"

  "What precisely would you have me do?" Ivan challenged, pivoting to lean against his mount's flank. "Should I have leapt earthward, brandishing arrows as improvised daggers? Perhaps employed this modest blade," he extracted a nondescript silver dagger from his belt, "to inflict superficial irritation upon dire predators?"

  The elder courier expectorated contemptuously into the rushing waters.

  "This is warfare, sir. Whether contested between men or between species, the fundamental nature remains unchanged. I recognize your exceptional courier credentials and extensive experience, but our current predicament demands a soldier's pragmatism. Raymond himself proposed the tactical exchange. He exercised his agency with full awareness of potential consequences. Nevertheless, I remain profoundly grateful—by rights, he should occupy your position beside this stream."

  "I've witnessed invasive campaigns, boy," Old McKenzie reflected, studying his rippling reflection. "Albeit in a courier's capacity. I simply..." his words dissolved into a weary sigh as he collected cool water in his weathered palms, splashing his lined face. "I've observed too many permanent partings."

  "Is that so? The Gothmar Conflicts predated my birth," Ivan noted, settling beside the veteran courier. "Then perhaps you, more than most, should comprehend the necessity of emotional detachment."

  "Sometimes... it simply manifests unbidden. That peculiar sensation," McKenzie indicated his wavering reflection. "Frequently, I perceive this visage as belonging to another—more reminiscent of those couriers who once shared my journeys. Each, before their passing, entrusted me with their dispatches, their sealed orders, their confidential communications, their final utterances. In those moments, the burden seemed insurmountable, lad. Often I've coveted their privilege—to relinquish all responsibilities permanently."

  "I'm tempted to claim understanding of such sentiments, but that would constitute pretense," Ivan admitted. "Raymond never confided anything substantive. From our earliest academy days, we occupied the same instructional cohort. Graduated synchronously. Served within identical units. He maintained an enigmatic persona, revealing minimal personal or familial information. His primary mode of interaction was derision—directed toward you, toward me, toward existence itself. He appeared to hold universal contempt. If such an individual harbored any philosophical adherence, it could only be to entropic dissolution."

  "Such is frequently the case," the old man observed, cleansing accumulated grime from his extremities in the frigid current. "Those companions known intimately for decades, who've faced mortality alongside you—their terminal declarations can utterly transform your longstanding perceptions. But what truly captivates me—perhaps morbidly so—are the strangers. Those encountered fleetingly, who briefly share your path. Initially anonymous, your exchanges largely inconsequential, like roadside dust. Yet when slung across a mount, a bandit's broadhead embedded in their vertebrae, they suddenly reveal a son's existence or a daughter's ambitions. These narratives, mundane though they might appear, stir profound emotional resonance. One traveler's tale renders your circumstances seemingly fortunate; another's experience conversely highlights your comparative misfortunes. Humanity reserves authentic revelation, genuine truth, exclusively for death's threshold."

  "'Mankind: simultaneously sincere yet duplicitous, enlightened yet ignorant,'" Ivan quoted thoughtfully.

  "Excellent literary reference, young knight," the old man smiled appreciatively. "'The Spear and Shield of Isad.' Were I three decades younger, I'd pursue formal education with singular determination."

  "'Perception begets knowledge, knowledge begets power.'"

  "Ha!" Old McKenzie's robust laughter punctuated the forest quiet as he withdrew a flask of amber liquor, indulging in a substantial draught. "From the theatrical production 'The Inverted Mirror.' Does your elite knighthood universally exhibit such scholarly inclination?" He extended the brandy toward Ivan.