The sun had yet to rise. Following the crimson path marked upon their map, the two figures descended into the shadow of a mountain that had once swallowed the light of day. A thick fog curled through the forest, swallowing their steps in slow, deliberate silence. The trees stood still. Not even the wind dared disturb the hush. Only the soft crunch of their boots upon the broken trail stirred the world from its slumber.


    "This path," said Serenil, voice low, "used to lead to a temple." The brittle line drawn on the parchment quivered slightly in the breeze. She tightened the strap on her shield and kept her eyes on the vacant woods.


    "And now?"


    She answered in a whisper. "Now, the dead wander."


    Just then, they saw it. Amid the ruins of a shattered pillar, a statue loomed— a soldier with a sword, face warped into a grotesque expression, clad in unfamiliar armor. A sigil, weathered and ancient, was carved across its broken chest. It stood like the fossil of something that had long since abandoned the world.


    Sillion reached toward it, unconsciously. And in that moment, his mark flared. The sigil etched upon his arm trembled, glowing faintly with a cold resonance.


    —Do not cross.


    The whisper came thin as dream and cold as frost.


    Serenil reacted instantly, shield rising before her.


    "Don’t move."


    Before her voice fully formed, the statue cracked. From within, something stirred.


    Twisted fingers. A dulled blade. A soldier’s form, warped and gray. And it was not alone. Three... no, more.


    From the soil beneath, like rot given shape, they rose. Wraiths, formed of congealed thought and forgotten sorrow, pushed aside the fog as they emerged.


    "Do not defile the land of the gods."


    The words spilled from their mouths in perfect unison, void of life, heavy as stone.


    Sillion reached for his blade. Serenil stepped forward first. It was not a sword she drew—but her shield.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Her knuckles paled as she gripped it tighter.


    "We have to get through," she said. "If we run, they''ll follow. This path... this is the one we must take."


    Sillion nodded. He drew his sword.


    The fog broke.


    There were six of them.


    And battle, quiet but desperate, began like a fire starved for breath.


    Sillion advanced with blade drawn. His brand pulsed again—an icy ache digging into his bones. One of the phantoms charged, dragging a blade behind it. The first strike made no sound.


    But before steel could clash with steel, Serenil’s shield cut between them.


    Clang.


    Iron struck iron. A shriek—not human, not alive—rang through the air, as though death itself protested.


    "Stay behind me," Serenil said through clenched teeth. Her breath came rough. She held her shield with unnatural strength, her eyes narrowed.


    Another phantom circled wide. It moved with eerie intent—as if mimicking instinct.


    Sillion struck. His blade caught a glimmer of dawn as it swept across his shoulder and down—


    The first clash.


    He was slow. Still healing. Still unsure. But his brand pulsed again, and strength returned—just enough.


    His blade tore through a shoulder. No blood spilled. No cry of pain followed.


    These were not living foes. Only lingering thoughts—undying remnants.


    A third phantom lunged, wielding a spear. Its thrust came straight for his heart.


    Sillion raised his guard— and faltered. His legs weakened. His breath caught. He was not yet whole.


    "Tch—"


    Serenil moved. Her shield swung out, catching the enemy. The spear grazed her cloak but did not slow her. She drove the phantom back and placed herself between it and Sillion.


    "You’re not ready," she gasped. "So let me hold the line. Just... don’t die. Try living. Just this once."


    Through her stance, through the battered shield and trembling arms, Sillion saw a warrior who did not strike, but endured.


    He wanted to live.


    Only one remained now. The last of them—a figure dragging a long spear, moving quietly at the edge.


    The brand flared, sharp and red.


    He pushed forward. Past Serenil. Past her defense. His sword fell. One of the phantoms collapsed under his blow. No blood, no scream—only the hiss of dissipating smoke.


    But then—


    The mark burned.


    His body seized. His heart raced beyond control. His vision blurred. And yet, his sword rose.


    —I didn’t raise it.


    His hand trembled, knuckles white. He stepped forward.


    The world around him bled red.


    "Sillion?"


    Serenil’s voice faltered. Before it reached him— He moved.


    The final phantom had no time to react. His blade severed its head cleanly.


    Clang.


    Fragments scattered. He stood alone in the silence.


    His eyes had yet to return.


    "Sillion! It’s over!" Serenil shouted.


    But his grip tensed.


    The sword twitched again.


    Serenil stepped between him and the fog. Lowered her shield. Raised a hand.


    "You’re still here. You’re alive. We said we’d survive—together."


    Her voice reached him at last. The brand faded. Its glow died down.


    The sword slipped from his fingers.


    Clatter.


    Sillion collapsed to his knees. And vomited, again and again, into the broken road.


    Not from injury. But from something far more familiar— Terror.


    ?


    .