CHAPTER 78: THE SHADOW’S CONVERSATION (1)

The weight of eyes pressed against Soren’s back like daggers as he made his way through the camp. What had been exhaustion after their retreat had hardened into something darker, suspicion that clung to him like a second shadow.

"He should have died with the others," someone whispered as he passed. "Why was he spared?"

The words weren’t meant for him, yet they carried clearly in the tense silence of the camp. Soren kept his gaze fixed ahead, jaw tight against the retort that rose in his throat. Defending himself would only feed the whispers.

Harrick of Trescan stood among a cluster of nobles, his earlier fear transformed into righteous accusation. His voice rose deliberately as Soren approached.

"Strange, wouldn’t you say? The green-haired demon cuts down knights and lords alike, yet stops before this... recruit." Harrick’s lips curled around the word as if tasting something foul. "Almost as if he recognized him."

The nobles nodded, desperate for any explanation that didn’t involve their own cowardice. Soren felt their stares like physical blows as he passed, the weight of their suspicion heavier than his exhaustion.

He reached the makeshift shelter where Kaelor lay, kneeling to check the Swordmaster’s bandages. The old warrior’s breathing came shallow but steady, his single eye closed in fitful sleep. At least here, Soren could escape the accusations, if only for a moment.

’Valenna?’ he thought, reaching for the familiar cold presence that had guided him through darker moments. The shard against his chest remained silent, its usual chill absent. Alone, then. Even she had withdrawn.

"...marked him somehow," came Harrick’s voice again, closer now, pitched to carry. "Why else would the killer spare him? There must be some connection."

The bandages needed changing. Soren worked methodically, cleaning Kaelor’s wounds with what little water they could spare.

The Swordmaster didn’t stir, lost in whatever dreams claimed him. Or nightmares. The lines around his eye had deepened, as if he fought battles even in unconsciousness.

When he finished, Soren rose, brushing dirt from his knees. The camp had grown quieter, survivors finally succumbing to exhaustion, but the weight of their suspicion remained. He couldn’t stay here, not with their whispers circling like carrion birds, not with the shard’s silence leaving him hollow.

He approached one of Ashgard’s knights, a weathered woman whose gray-streaked hair was tied back in a practical knot. "I’ll gather more firewood," he said, the excuse sounding thin even to his own ears.

She studied him, her eyes neither accusatory nor trusting. "Don’t go far," she said finally. "These woods aren’t safe."

Soren nodded, already turning toward the treeline. He could feel eyes tracking his movement, Harrick’s burning with suspicion, others with fear, a few with simple curiosity. Let them watch. Let them whisper. He needed air untainted by their accusations.

The forest swallowed him after twenty paces, darkness replacing the gray half-light of the camp. He moved carefully, following a game trail that wound between ancient trunks. Moonlight filtered through the canopy in silver shards, illuminating patches of forest floor while leaving others in impenetrable shadow.

He had no intention of gathering wood. The lie had served its purpose, giving him reason to escape. Now, alone among the silent trees, he could finally breathe without feeling judged for the simple act of survival.

A distant owl called, the sound echoing between the trunks. Something small scurried through undergrowth nearby, a rabbit, perhaps, or a fox on its nightly hunt. Normal sounds. Peaceful sounds. Nothing like the screams that had filled the camp when Sylas arrived.

Sylas. The name itself sent a chill through him that had nothing to do with the night air. Those inhuman green eyes, that casual efficiency as he cut down trained knights like they were practice dummies. And the way he had looked at Soren, not with the cold detachment he showed his victims, but with... curiosity.

Why had he been spared? The question that plagued the camp now haunted him as well. He had stood frozen while others fled or fought. He had done nothing to earn mercy from a killer who showed none.

The shard against his chest suddenly pulsed cold, a shock after hours of silence. Soren stopped, one hand rising instinctively to press against it through his shirt.

’Valenna?’

No answer came, but the chill intensified, spreading outward from the shard in waves that matched his heartbeat. Warning. Recognition. The forest around him seemed to hold its breath. The owl fell silent. The small creatures stilled their movements.

Something approached.

Soren’s hand dropped to his sword hilt, fingers curling around familiar leather. He turned slowly, scanning the darkness between the trees. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed.

Then he was there.

Not emerging dramatically from shadow, not approaching with menace, simply present, as if he had always been standing ten paces away, watching with those impossible green eyes.

Sylas.

The killer wore the same clothes from the attack, though no blood stained them now. His sword remained sheathed at his hip, his posture relaxed, almost casual. But the air around him felt different, heavier, smaller, as if the forest itself contracted in his presence.

Soren’s throat closed. His heart hammered against his ribs. Every instinct screamed to run, to fight, to do something besides stand frozen before the man who had slaughtered a camp of knights without apparent effort.

"Curious," Sylas said, his voice soft yet carrying clearly in the silent forest. "Why do you stand when others fall?"

The question mirrored Soren’s own thoughts so perfectly that for a moment he wondered if Sylas could somehow read his mind. He struggled to find his voice, to push words past the terror that had seized his throat.

"I don’t know," he managed finally, the admission scraping his throat raw.

Sylas tilted his head slightly, those green eyes never leaving Soren’s face. The pressure of his aura remained muted, restrained, as if deliberately held in check, but still made the forest feel like a room with walls closing in.

"Most men reveal themselves fully in moments of crisis," Sylas continued, taking a single step forward. "They become entirely what they always were beneath the masks they wear. The coward flees. The braggart cowers. The true warrior fights." Another step. "Yet you... did none of these things."