The Black Wolves mercenary company was renowned throughout the Kingdom of Ash for its strength and reputation. Robert had dreamed of joining them since childhood. And now, at last, his wish had come true—today was his first day as one of the Black Wolves' hired blades.
The job seemed simple enough: escort a convoy of criminals, slaves, and other unwanted souls to Fort Hollin. The journey would take about two weeks. Upon their return, Robert hoped to receive his first pay—enough, finally, to buy some decent clothes. Aside from his armor, he had practically nothing to wear. He wanted to complain to someone about it...
"Robert! Where the hell are you?! We're moving out!"
The grating, aged voice reached him from outside. Without another moment's hesitation, Robert fastened his sword's scabbard to his belt and strode out of the barracks. The cold hit him immediately—this was one of the harshest winters in years.
Robert's mother used to say that an unusually cold winter meant the Goddess of Change was displeased. As a child, he would've burrowed under his blankets and prayed, but now? He didn't even believe she existed. The gods are dead. And if they're not, they're all bastards anyway.
Pulling up his hood, he made his way toward the assembled convoy. He'd been assigned to guard six prisoners, all shackled together by a single chain. An older mercenary stood watch alongside him.
"Well? What kept you? One more slip-up, and I'll report your incompetence to the captain."
Old Sigurd was one of the Black Wolves' longest-serving members. Robert respected him—though, of course, he cursed the man inwardly. It's my first damn day. I'm allowed to make mistakes!
"Apologies. It won't happen again."
"We'll see about that."
The conversation ended there. To Robert's surprise, the convoy was eerily quiet. He'd expected the prisoners to whisper among themselves, but nothing of the sort happened. Guess the Black Wolves aren't the first to escort this lot.
As he mused, Robert studied the prisoners under his watch. He grimaced—they hadn't even been given warm clothing. Tattered shirts in this bitter cold? He doubted they'd survive at all.
Sigurd noticed his expression and let out a heavy sigh.
"We have to conserve the Sacred Igniters. They'll warm up at the camps. No need to fret over them."
Robert gave a curt nod, deciding not to argue. The Sacred Igniters were indeed precious—expensive but vital artifacts for journeys like these. At the very least, they warded off the Unseen, a necessity for moving such a large group. Still... he pitied these people.
By the sixth stop, the convoy had halted in a snow-laden forest, devoid of life. Fort Hollin was a hidden place, inaccessible to ordinary folk. There were no proper roads leading there. Staring into the abyssal darkness, Robert shuddered. He rarely left his hometown and wasn't accustomed to places like this. The only comfort was Sigurd beside him and the group of prisoners a few meters away, their gazes fixed on the frozen ground.
Robert assessed them. They won't make it. Their bodies already bore the telltale signs of frostbite. And yet—they remained silent. How badly did their last escorts terrify them? But that wasn't his concern.
His eyes lingered on one prisoner in particular. Unlike the others, this one seemed... alert. No frostbite. He's tough. Younger, too. Looks like some noble's bastard.
The man stood out. No older than twenty, tall but lean. His most striking features were his vivid blue eyes and dark hair with deep blue tips. Robert had no interest in men, but this one was undeniably beautiful—though his gauntness ruined the effect. And that stupid, almost innocent look on his face.
As Robert studied him, Sigurd grabbed his shoulder.
"Robert, damn you! Daydreaming again?! Go fetch the Sacred Igniter. Your turn."
Shit. He'd actually forgotten. Shaking his head, Robert hurried toward the main camp. At every stop, someone had to light the Sacred Igniter—without it, they'd never truly rest in this oppressive gloom. And they needed the warmth.
As he walked, something flickered at the edge of his vision—a shadow in the trees. Hell, now I'm seeing things.
When he reached the command tent, a weary mercenary thrust the Sacred Igniter into his hands. It looked like an ordinary kerosene lamp, the kind used in households. But Robert knew better—once lit, it would warm not just his body but his soul. A deep calm would settle over him.
With a final nod, he trudged back. The Black Wolves were efficient; most of the camp was already set up. Tents and pavilions dotted the dark woods. They'd stay the night, dismantling everything at dawn before continuing their march. The sooner we reach Fort Hollin, the better. There'd be soft beds, fine wine, and women eager to spend time with a Black Wolf mercenary.
When he returned, Sigurd and the prisoners had already pitched their own tent. The old man snorted.
"I'm resting. The next five hours are yours."
Robert bit his lip, resisting the urge to snap. I know my damn duties! You don't need to remind me every time!
Sigurd left without waiting for a reply, likely to drink with the others. What else is there to do in this damned forest?
Exhaling sharply, Robert pulled off his hood and stepped inside. The prisoners sat in silence, still staring at the ground. Seriously, will they ever look up? He ignored it and raised the Sacred Igniter.
Unlike ordinary lamps, these artifacts required a trigger—a gesture or word. For this one, a simple snap of his fingers sufficed.
The lamp flared to life with unnatural brilliance, flooding the tent with light. Robert felt the tension leave him. Even the prisoners seemed to relax. Good. At least none have died yet. As harsh as life was, he didn't want to see such pointless suffering.
Leaning against the tent's entrance, he crossed his arms and watched the prisoners. This would be his routine for the next few hours.
But one question gnawed at him: Why won't they speak? Not even to each other. Everything about this was off. And why would Sigurd leave a rookie alone with six prisoners? Chains or not, Robert wasn't confident he could handle them.
"You're wondering... why everyone is so quiet?"
The voice—calm, almost detached—made Robert stiffen. His eyes snapped to the prisoners. It was the young man, the one who stood out.
Robert's hand flew to his sword.
"You! Who said you could speak?!"
He injected venom into his voice, but fear prickled beneath it.
The prisoner raised his hands innocently, chains clinking.
"I... I'm sorry. I thought you wanted someone to talk..."
"I was just surprised. But—yes. Why are you all so calm? No complaints, no whispers. Did the last group beat you half to death?"
The words spilled out, all his pent-up frustration.
The young man's blue eyes gleamed.
"Sir knight... do you know what your mission truly is?"
"Of course. Deliver you to Fort Hollin. You'll be used as labor, I assume."
"Not quite. We are bound for Fort Hollin. But not as workers..."
Robert frowned. Sigurd had told him as much.
The prisoner continued, voice eerily serene.
"No one beat us. No one threatened us. Sir... we've been cursed."
"Cursed? What are you—"
"We cannot speak. We cannot act without your permission. We are... hollow. Sir, you aren't escorting living men. Fort Hollin needs us dead."
Robert blinked. For once, he had no answer.