[The Wanderers Journey]

  The tent is dark, still. The small flame of the lantern flickers, barely lighting up the space. Emily sobs silently, crouched on the floor. The air inside is thick, suffocating, a dark presence pressing against their skin like unseen hands.

  Bo stands frozen, staring at the child before her. Emily’s little girl. The bright, curious soul who once danced between tents, laughing at the simplest joys. A child whose smile brought warmth to weary hearts. A hug with little hands, but big hopes. Now, reduced to this…

  Her breath is shallow. She doesn’t speak. She can’t.

  Serine stands at the foot of the bed, unreadable. But inside—she is a storm. Processing. Calculating. Preparing. She has faced horrors before, but never anything like this. The child is pale, her skin an unnatural shade, as if all warmth has been drained from her body. Black veins spread like cracked stone across her arms, her throat, her face. And her eyes— Black. Deep, endless black.

  Serine’s body is tight. Tensed. Focused. Her mind sharpens, mapping out her weapons, exits and the space between them. But the girl doesn’t move. She lies stiff, her chest rising and falling in slow, unnatural breaths, a sound like a deep croak rattling through her throat. And then— she sits up. But not the drowsy movement of waking. There is no natural stirring, no weight of exhaustion. Instead, her body rises—straight-backed, rigid, as if pulled up by invisible strings. Her spine stretches—cracks. Her mouth falls open, wide, unmoving. Her tongue, black.

  The silence stretches, choking the space around them. Serine exhales, breaking it. "This isn’t a sickness." Her voice is flat. Cold. Certain. Bo flinches at the words, but remains silent. Serine takes a slow step closer, her sharp eyes struggling to process the horror of it all. The stretched skin. The unnatural stillness. The absence of breath that should be there. “This is something else,” Serine continues, whispering. “This is something... evil.”

  Bo swallows, her throat tight. Serine glances at her. "When did this start, Bo?" Bo hesitates. Not because she doesn’t know the answer—but because she fears saying it. Her fingers grip her sleeves, knuckles turning white, trembling. A war flickers behind her eyes, fear of speaking life into prophecy. But then Bo exhales, and the truth escapes like a confession. "The Night of Red Eclipse.”

  The words still the moment. Serine freezes. A cold, unwelcome realisation settles in her chest. She tightens her jaw, staring at the child. The blackness creeping through her veins. Serine doesn’t believe in prophecy. She doesn’t believe in the gods of men. But something terrible began that night. “Larger forces are at play here. Dangerous forces I don’t understand.”

  Then—the child laughs, as if hearing her thoughts. A sound that does not belong in this world. It is layered—a thousand voices speaking at once, overlapping atop one another, ancient, cruel. The malice can be felt. Uncontainable.

  Serine tenses. Hands flinching towards her weapon, instincts taking control. Her body knows before she does—this is a fight. A flicker of disbelief cuts through her. How many times has she sworn to leave this behind? How many paths has she walked, seeking something other than violence? Yet here she stands again, blade at the ready, facing another enemy. “War never stops chasing me. Not even here.” A flicker of exhaustion, “But now is not the time…”

  The air shifts. The thing in the bed shifts with it. The child’s body contorts, twists. A sickening pop. Then another. Bones grind, tear, snap, breaking its body, seeking to be free. A low moan escapes.

  Serine’s pulse hammers in her ears. The lantern light flickers. Something unseen, something powerful, is pressing down—trying to snuff out the flame, trying to smother the air itself.

  The child’s body begins to slowly arch, back bending, spine unplugging. A sharp, unnatural curve before it collapses. For a single, unbearable moment, everything is still. Then the thrashing slowly begins. It convulses, twists, seizes—fighting the restraints. The bed frame begins to break under its violent struggle.

  Emily rocks back and forth near the bed, hands gripping her holy necklace so tightly that her knuckles pale. Her whispers have turned frantic, her prayers breaking into breathless sobs. Choked. She does not look up. She cannot.

  Serine has seen enough. She moves. She grabs Bo, pulling her toward the exit. “Go.” Wood shatters as the bed frame comes apart, sending splintered wood across the floor. Serine turns back, blade drawn. Bo stumbles out, back into the day, breaking into a run—“Sorin!” Her voice shudders through the camp, through her disbelief, her shock. A scream of pure terror.

  But inside the tent—Serine stays. She watches the creature lie on the floor, still, looking back at her. Serine moves to grab Emily, her free hand reaching for the trembling mother. But something stops her. The child—no, the creature—begins to rise. Not by muscle, not by will, but by something unseen. Her body lifts from the bed, limbs slack, her head flopping backwards as though some invisible force has claimed her.

  Serine stops breathing. For a moment, she is still. Her mind struggles to process what she’s seeing. “Is this a nightmare? Or magic..? I don’t know what this is. This isn’t a weapon, nor a soldier, nor a beast of the wild.” Something she has never fought before.

  But Serine’s instincts are sharper than the fear pressing against her, seeking a way in. Her grip tightens on her sword, knuckles taut. She steps in front of Emily, placing herself between the mother and the monster. Blade raised. Her stance set. The protector. This is what she knows.

  A thick silence takes hold of the space. The child’s floating body moves suspended as if something else inside her is wearing her body like a glove. It turns toward Serine, black fluid begins to seep from the child's eyes, thick as ink, trailing down her pale cheeks. Her mouth starts to open. Wider. Wider. Wider. As if something inside her is trying to crawl free.

  Serine swallows the ice in her throat. "Emily." Her voice is low, but heard, steady. Commanding. "Get up." Emily remains on her knees, breath caught, tears running. Serine’s focus stays on the creature, eyes sharp, unwavering. She can feel it watching her. Studying her. Not with hunger. Not with rage. With amusement.

  The child's body rises to the corner of the tent. Latching onto its fabric, suspended from above. A smile splits across her face. She is feeding on the fear. Drinking in the horror. Enjoying it. Emily stares at her daughter—or the thing wearing her skin. Her body trembles as she takes a step back. Her eyes hold one last desperate search for her child. One last look. A memory of her precious young one, who once filled her world with warmth, with laughter. With purpose.

  But the child notices the look, and screams!

  The tent explodes around them. A force slams outward—like a storm breaking free. Wind rips through the canvas and leather. The lantern dies, snuffed out in an instant. Shelves topple. Papers scatter. Jars crash. The very air trembles.

  Serine covers Emily, shielding her from the blast. She braces herself, blade in hand, ready to strike. But when she looks up—The creature is gone. The fabric of the tent is torn wide open, a gaping wound in the canvas. A trail of darkness seeps out, bleeding into the world outside. Serine rises, eyes narrowing. Her pulse steadies. The hunt begins.

  Serine doesn’t hesitate. She bursts through the torn remains of the tent, eyes locking onto the creature as it sprints toward the encampment’s barrier. Its speed is unnatural—too fast, too erratic. It doesn’t run. It skitters. A flickering shadow in the morning light.

  Serine runs, weaving between tents, dodging the startled camp members still trying to understand what is unfolding. Her blade slides back into its sheath with grace but she pulls a dagger free. She keeps low, closing the distance, her breath controlled, her eyes, sharp despite the pounding of her heart.

  The creature slams into the wooden wall of the encampment with a piercing shriek. The morning sunlight scorches its skin, smoke rises. It thrashes against the barrier, body convulsing, clawing at its own flesh as if trying to tear free of the pain. But then—it starts to climb. Fingers slam deep into the hardened wood, splintering it. The sound of bones breaking, snapping, reforming with every desperate grip. It moves wrong, like an insect, a spider crawling up glass.

  Serine closes in. Without thinking, she throws. The dagger spins through the air—a perfect strike—burying deep into the creature’s ribs. It lets out a frantic blood-curdling screech. Its body seizes, contorting in ways the bones beneath should not allow. But it keeps climbing. Keeps moving. Driven by something beyond pain. Serine watches as it reaches the top of the barrier. Melting over the wall, disappearing into the forest beyond. A deep, guttural laughter lingers—echoing back at the camp, through the trees. She watches the trees wave in the wind, the hush of the leaves. This hunt isn’t over.

  “Bo!” Sorin’s voice cuts through the morning sounds as he rushes toward the commotion. The camp members gather, and concerned chatter floats, still figuring out what has just happened. Sorin’s pulse hammers. Instincts scream—he knows something is deeply wrong. He finds Bo near the collapsed tent, standing amidst the wreckage. She is shaking, her breath uneven, her hands trembling at her sides. “Bo.” He grips her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “Are you hurt? What happened?” Her eyes—he has never seen them like this. Not his Madam Bo. Not the woman who has always remained steady when the world stormed around him. Unmovable.

  She doesn’t answer right away. She swallows, trying to steady herself. But Sorin hears it—the crack in her breath, the way her chest rises and falls too fast, too shallow. Her whisper. “She’s gone.” Sorin’s confusion etched in his face. “Who?” Bo swallows. Her voice barely holds. "Amilia. She’s gone."

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The words shouldn’t make sense. They don’t. But as Sorin looks around, at the shattered tent, at Serine standing by the wall, peering at the edge, its sharpened tops—a cold weight settles in his chest. His hands curl into fists. “What the fuck happened here? How could this happen?”

  His stomach knots. Before he can speak again, he catches movement—Serine. He watches her, and he understands. She has answers. She’s already striding toward the entrance, her gaze locked deep within the woods as if preparing the path ahead. She doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t look back. Her understanding is clear, “We can’t let that thing escape. If it’s out there—if it stays near—fear will take hold of the people here. No one will leave the safety of these walls. And no one will be safe inside them.”

  Serine turns, eyes locking on Sorin. Her voice cuts through the air—sharp, unyielding. “You’re coming with me.” Sorin exhales, shaking himself out of his thoughts. He’s still catching up, still piecing together what just happened. But he knows one thing—he has to go.

  Little Amilia… She was always there when his watch began, sitting beside the fire, dreaming out loud. Horses she wanted to ride. Cats she swore she could tame. Butterflies she chased around the camp, laughing. She was fearless, adventurous, full of dreams. And now she’s gone.

  His jaw tightens. He nods. “I’m with you.” But before he can move, Bo calls out to him. “Sorin!” She’s already closing the distance, her steps hurried, her breath uneven. She stops in front of him, holding out her hand, pressing something into his palm—a small glass vial, heavy, filled with a darkened blue liquid.

  “Please. Don’t get hurt,” she says, her voice softer than usual, but laced with urgency. Her fingers linger over his for a moment before pulling away. “Its effects are quick, but they don’t last long—so take it just before you need it.” Sorin stares at the vial, recognising its weight. He knows what this is. What it does.

  Bo moves to step back but hesitates. Then, before he turns away, she grips his arm one last time. Her eyes are full—shining, desperate. “Try bring her back…” Bo whispers, her voice breaking. A short silence, then softer, “Safe. If you can.” The moment fills the air between them. Sorin exhales, nods. Then he runs. Serine is already at the entrance. Already waiting. And without another word, they disappear past the gates, into the dark trees beyond.

  The forest closes in around them as they push into the thick wood. Neither speaks. They don’t need to. They understand what must be done. Serine moves fast, tracking the trail with precision, her eyes sharp against the dark earth. Black blood. A streak of it, smeared across the bark. A broken branch. Another drop, leading deeper. Deeper. The creature is wounded, but it’s moving. Fast.

  Sorin sees it too. His senses are sharp, his body tuned to the chase. He glances at Serine. She looks back—one brief, knowing exchange. They have a trail. They chase. Until Serine stops, her eyes flick upward. “I need a better view.” And without hesitation, she ascends—agile, effortless—as she climbs. In seconds, she’s among the branches, weightless, gliding through the tree tops.

  Sorin watches, even in his urgency, momentarily stunned by her raw efficiency. Like a shadow slipping through the leaves. Then she’s gone, a whisper among the branches. He presses forward, following the blood deeper into the trees. The ground turns uneven, roots reaching up to trip him, but he moves with practised ease. The patches of black blood grow thinner. The trail fades. He slows. Looks around. He’s far from the encampment now. Too far.

  No one will hear him die out here.

  Then—a sound. A deep, slow croak snaps his attention ahead. A sound he’s never heard before. A sound not of the wild. Closer to the sound of breath, but something wet, gurgling—like drowning lungs trying to speak. His breath stills. The air suddenly grows colder. His pulse quickens. Every instinct screams at him—something is wrong. He slides his hands into iron knuckles, scanning the treeline. Silence stretches thin.

  Another croak. Closer.

  But Amilia… She wouldn’t abandon him. He won’t abandon her. He exhales sharply, reaching into his pocket. Fingers curl around the small glass vial. Bo’s potion. He pulls it free, staring at the deep blue liquid swirling inside. He knows this feeling—the weight of the decision. The rush that follows.

  Another croak. Right in front of him.

  The air is dead, soundless. His hands flex. His grip tightens. He snaps the vial open with a sharp twist and inhales. The scent is bitter, metallic. His mouth waters. His body remembers. He almost hates how much he craves it. Then—he drinks. He feels the cool liquid fill his stomach. And just for a second, there’s nothing... He clenches his fists. He can hear it move. No footsteps. Just the sick, wet shift of something breathing through open wounds.

  Then it hits.

  His body inhales, lighting up. Cold fire surges through his veins, spreading outward, wrapping around his bones. The rush is instant, sending a shiver up his spine—sharp, electrifying. His senses explode, the world stretching wide, slowing, focusing all at once.

  He feels his vision sharpening. Every sound, every shift in the wind, feels alive. His muscles coil—tight, unyielding, primed to break something. His heart pounds—not with panic, but power. Pure, refined, honed. Sorin exhales, slow. Controlled. His mind is a blade, sharpened to a deadly edge. He flexes. He’s ready.

  He moves round the thick trees ahead, drawn by the unnatural sound. And there—he sees… it. Hanging midair, suspended above the forest floor, the creature that was once Amilia stares into the sky. Her small frame drifts weightlessly, limbs slack, black veins pulsing beneath her pale skin.

  Sorin stops cold.

  His breath catches. His mind tries to understand—but there is no understanding this. He was prepared for a hunt. For a chase. Not…this. “Magic?” The whisper leaves his lips, unwelcome. He has never seen magic. Never believed in it. Not truly. And yet—what else could this be?

  The forest is silent. Watching. Holding its breath. Sorin swallows. The potion dulls his fear, steadies his thoughts, forces his body forward. He grips his iron knuckles tighter. “She wouldn’t abandon me. I won’t abandon her.” Step by step, he moves closer. “Amilia?” His voice is a whisper.

  Her head snaps toward him—so fast, so sudden, the movement alone makes his stomach drop. Black eyes lock onto him. A hollow, endless void. A reflection of something that should not be. Sorin jolts, gasping. Too late. The monster lunges. Claws rip into his back, hooking deep, anchoring her to him. A scream tears from his throat as pain surges through his body. Unnatural strength. Inhuman. Ten men crushing him at once. He staggers, hands slamming against her chest, trying to shove her off.

  She does not budge.

  She is too strong, too close, her weight pressing against him. Slowly—horribly—her mouth breaks open, wider than any human jaw should. A pop. A snap. The sick sound of ligaments tearing. Her throat gapes, stretching like a snake preparing to swallow a meal whole.

  Sorin panics. His hands press harder. He feels something beneath her skin start to crumble—ribs, breaking under the force of his push. She does not stop. Fear surges through him. Pure, blinding survival. He shouts and wrenches himself free, ripping her claws from his flesh, tearing his own skin in the process. Pain flashes white-hot. He stumbles back, breath ragged.

  The monster staggers too, just for a second. A single moment of stillness.

  Sorin acts. He kicks. Hard. His boot slams into her thigh—bone shatters beneath the force. A wet, sickening pop. A jagged bone pierces through her skin. Bo’s potion processed her. The creature tumbles back, collapsing into the dried leaves. Sorin’s breath is heavy, eyes locked on her. He waits for her to react. For her to feel pain. But she doesn’t. Her head snaps up. The smile returns. That unnatural, broken grin, stretched too wide. Not pained. Not afraid. Amused.

  Sorin’s breath turns sharp. He knows how this ends. He runs. Leaves crunch beneath his boots as he weaves through the trees, heart pounding. But the monster moves faster. She crawls after him on all fours, half-buried in the leaves. Like a thing of the earth, using the forest itself as cover. Sorin pushes forward, breath ragged. The monster is close. Too close.

  Then—silence.

  His lungs burn. He slows, turning—but she’s not behind him. He scans, trying to find her. He looks up. The monster is perched high above, clinging to the side of a tree like an owl. Watching. A predator above its prey. Her head tilts, those hollow black eyes drilling into him. He freezes. Long enough for her to launch. Claws out, death from above. He’s dead. He knows it.

  But before she reaches him—

  Serine crashes down from the trees. The impact slams the creature into the earth. A blur of movement. The sound of clashing bodies. A blade slicing through flesh. Sorin stumbles back, hitting the ground hard, thudding against the dirt.

  He scrambles to his feet—Serine rises with him. Slowly. Her sword is buried deep in the creature’s throat. The monster thrashes beneath her. Hands clawing, reaching, desperate. Black blood oozes from the wound, thick and sluggish. Her body stills for only a second. Then she rises.

  Sorin’s stomach drops. “No. No, she should be dead.” The creature tries to smile, but Serine’s blade is too deep. Her clawed fingers reach for the weapon, desperate to rip it free. But Serine doesn’t let her. She yanks the blade to the side. The creature’s head is severed cleanly from its body. Rolling to a final stop. Still.

  Silence takes the forest.

  Sorin exhales sharply, his heart slamming against his ribs. Serine wipes her blade clean, her expression unreadable. The hunt is over. She moves slowly, cleaning her blade with practised efficiency. The black blood smears against the cloth, dark and unnatural. She glances down at the creature’s corpse, then up—toward the sky. It was looking there before Sorin’s presence disturbed it. “Why? What did you see?”

  Sorin approaches, breath still ragged, his body aching from the fight. He stares at her—the way she barely reacts, the way she remains so calm, even after something like this. "Thanks," he mutters. Then, voice rough, shaken, pointing to the body. "What the fuck is that thing?” His face flashes disbelief for a moment—He knows the answer. “How could that be her?"

  Serine doesn’t answer right away. She doesn’t have one. But she knows… she fears, this is only the beginning. Sorin twitches, wincing as pain rips through his back. Blood drips down his sides, soaking into his shirt. His hand brushes against the wounds, and he exhales sharply. "Shit," he groans.

  Serine looks him over, scanning the deep gouges left by the creature’s claws. They’re nasty. “Bo will need to tend to this when we get back.” But something catches Sorin's eye. He crouches near the corpse, his expression softening. Slowly, he reaches out, his fingers closing around something in the dirt. A necklace. Small, silver, stained with darkened blood. Amilia’s charm to ward off evil. A keepsake meant to protect.

  He turns it in his hand, staring at the delicate chain. His voice is quieter now, a whisper edged with something unreadable. "She was innocent. I don’t understand. What evil could do this?" Serine doesn’t respond. She looks up again. At the sky. At the trees. There is a silence that follows, something deeper than exhaustion. Sorin lets out a dry laugh while standing, shaking his head. "Thomas and Idris aren’t gonna believe this."

  But Serine isn’t listening. Her body tenses—sudden, sharp. She moves, grabbing him, pulling him low toward the earth. Sorin’s breath catches, his muscles tensing, voice drops. "What? What is it?" Serine doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Her gaze is locked deep within the forest ahead. Her ears tuned to something unseen, unheard.

  Then, slowly, she raises a single finger, pointing into the shadows between the trees. Sorin follows it. Her voice is barely a whisper. "Herdsmen."