The march to Velia began before dawn, the sky still a deep, bruised shade of midnight blue, with only the faintest hints of twilight bleeding through the horizon.
The survivors—what little remained of the Western Guard Camp's forces—moved in near-silent procession, their boots crunching against the damp, uneven dirt roads. The smell of rain and wet earth mixed with the lingering stench of blood and smoke, a grim reminder of the battle we had left behind.
And of those who had not left at all.
——
I walked near the rear, my body still aching from wounds that hadn't yet healed, but my focus wasn't on myself.
It was on Edan.
He was still unconscious, his breathing steady but weak, his body bouncing slightly with each uneven step of the soldiers carrying his makeshift stretcher.
And then there was Elias.
He hadn't spoken much since we fled the battlefield.
His hands were buried deep in his coat pockets, his usual arrogance gone, replaced by something darker. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, as if lost in some unfathomable thought.
——
We followed the northward road, a once well-travelled trade route that had become eerily desolate in the aftermath of the attack.
To the west, the vast Serendian Plains stretched towards the distant coastline, their gentle slopes and farmlands untouched by the horrors of war—at least, for now.
To the east, the dense Forests of Balenos loomed, their towering trees and thick underbrush casting long, unsettling shadows beneath the fading moonlight.
And behind those darkened woods, the bodies of the fallen still lay.
——
And I couldn't stop thinking about them.
Garret.
Lucian.
Boros.
Galeas.
Men who had fought and died while we ran.
Had they been devoured?
Had the Imps dragged their corpses away like prizes of war?
Had their bones already begun to rot, abandoned in the mud?
I swallowed hard, my stomach twisting painfully at the thought.
The silence around us felt heavier than the air itself.
Even those who had survived avoided speaking their names aloud—as if doing so would summon ghosts.
——
The first sign of life came as we reached the coastal route, where the cliffs of Cron Castle loomed over the restless sea.
The old fortress ruins, long abandoned, stood watching from the rocky outcrop, its crumbling towers silhouetted against the lightening sky.
The ocean wind carried the scent of salt and damp stone, a sharp contrast to the blood and smoke we had left behind.
For the first time since our escape, I felt like I could breathe.
But it wouldn't last.
——
Velia wasn't far now.
And we had a warning to deliver.
——
The gates of Velia were already stirring when we arrived.
Fishermen and merchants, preparing for the day's work, turned their heads in confusion as our battered company stumbled into the village square.
And then—the panic spread.
Women covered their mouths, eyes wide with horror at the sight of the wounded.
Children were rushed away before they could see the blood-soaked armour, the shattered weapons, the look of pure exhaustion and grief that hung over the remaining soldiers like a curse.
The local guards rushed forward, their expressions hardening as they took in our numbers—or lack thereof.
——
Cliff wasted no time.
"The Western Guard Camp has fallen," he declared, his voice cold, authoritative. "Red Nose led an organized attack. We were outnumbered and overwhelmed. We have lost… many."
The head guard, a stern-faced man named Abelin, paled visibly.
"How many survivors?" he asked, his voice hushed.
"Less than a third of our original forces," Cliff admitted, his jaw tight. "And they are still hunting us. We cannot stay."
——
A murmur rippled through the villagers.
Fear.
Confusion.
And beneath it all—dread.
——
Velia was not a fortress.
It was a fishing village.
Its people were not warriors.
They were farmers, traders, craftsmen—not soldiers.
If the Imps came here, there would be no battle.
Only slaughter.
——
Abelin exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword.
"We'll send word to Heidel," he said quickly. "They need to know."
Cliff nodded. "We move at sundown. There's no time to waste."
——
The decision was made.
The journey continued.
——
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, our company had departed once more, the path stretching eastward, following the coastline of Balenos.
The land around us shifted, turning from rolling grasslands into rocky cliffs, where the sea wind howled against jagged stone.
Beyond the southern horizon, hidden beyond the endless waters, lay the Great Ocean—a vast, open expanse leading to lands we would never see.
Ahead, the road curved inland, past the ancient ruins of Bartali Farm, and further still toward the distant, looming walls of Heidel.
——
We marched in silence, our footsteps lost beneath the roaring wind.
Somewhere behind us, where the Western Guard Camp once stood, the fires had long since burned out.
The dead remained where they had fallen.
Unburied.
Unmourned.
And in the blackened night, I swore I could still hear them calling.