Nora followed the same worn path to the valley. Trees arched overhead, their branches weaving together. Sunlight filtered through scattered leaves, dappling the mossy ground. The chilly air carried the scent of fall's decay—damp bark, crushed ferns, mulch. Twigs snapped underfoot. Dry leaves rustled. The usual sounds that calmed her thoughts—but today, they were unnerving.
Something slithered behind her. She froze. Her shoulders tightened as if a spider were crawling down her spine. She spun around and saw nothing, but the branches shivered where no wind stirred. She quieted her breath, staring at every gloomy brush, but nothing jumped out. She exhaled and continued.
Crunch. Snap. Rustle. Nora spun around—nothing. Crunch. Snap. Rustle. She spun around again. Nothing. But she could feel it. Someone or something was there. A stalker, probably, that moved too quickly, vanishing before her gaze could catch a glimpse.
She quickened her pace, her heart racing as the familiar woods began to feel unsettling. Each birch trunk loomed like a guard, and every birdsong seemed to carry a secret warning. The forest felt eerily open, its shadows appearing to conspire together. Her mind swirled with possibilities—an assassin? a rival? something worse? She needed answers. Confrontation was the only way forward.
Nora veered toward the clearing. Lightning had struck here once, splitting the canopy and leaving a bare patch that refused to heal. It lets sunlight pour in, exposing the forest's bones—sharp stone outcrops jutting out from the thin soil. The scrub bushes offered little cover. Here, she will find her shadow or prove herself paranoid.
Nora's ribs throbbed as she stepped into the clearing. Every crackle beneath her feet felt suspicious. Was it the sound of her boots, or did it sound like claws scraping against stone? The sunlight filtering through the canopy cast a stark glow around her. The forest seemed to hold its breath, and the air turned heavy, thick like congealed resin.
The space between her heartbeats birthed movement—black fur gathered beneath an oak, with two emerald eyes glinting. A tail flicked dismissively. It wasn't a predator, just a housecat. Nora's shoulders slumped. How foolish to mistake a cat for an assassin.
She took a step closer. The cat scrambled, its paws striking the earth like raindrops. Black fur melted into the underbrush. Nora watched as it vanished and then turned toward the pond.
Behind the mouth of the clearing, another sight emerged, unknown to her. Thorny hawthorn branches scraped Gerral's cheek as his attacker crushed him to the ground. A rough hand clamped over his mouth, suffocating him with the stench of pine resin and sweat. A knee crushed his ribcage, forcing him to heave splintered breaths. A cold blade kissed his throat, its edge biting with promise.
"Who bleeds for you?" the attacker hissed, breath hot and sour against Gerral's ear.
Gerral bucked—splinters and dirt flooding his mouth, choking his throat—his breath hitched, eyes darting frantically as terror seized him whole.
A second voice interrupted, easing the pressure on his ribcage slightly. "Dead men don't talk." The words came out smooth, almost casual, as a hand gripped the attacker's arm. The blade wavered, then retreated.
Gerral gasped as he was hauled to his feet by the collar. The first man's eyes glinted like stone. "Last sunrise or first dawn?" he asked, his thumb pressing into Gerral's neck. "Choose."
"G-Gerral Harrt. The vice-captain's son." His voice cracked, but he braced a brave tongue, tilting his chin like a fledgling hawk trying to be fierce. "Let me go, or—"
The dagger came back. Its edge grazed his skin, leaving a thin line of heat. The man leaned closer. "Spine or windpipe? Choose."
Gerral's bravery shattered.
"P-please." A whisper escaped instinctively. His beseeching eyes darted to the second man. Desperation clung to his plea. "I just… I need to know. Her routines. What she's learning."
"Need?"
The second man crouched, bringing himself to Gerral's eye level. His voice carried a calm cruelty. "And what use does a peasant brat have with noble affairs?"
"To beat her!" Gerral clenched his teeth.
"Ah-ha-ha!" the first man laughed. "You? Mudblood whelp?" His spit struck Gerral's cheek. "Her gold thread against your dirt vine?"
Rage and shame boiled in Gerral's chest—words spat out before he could hold his tongue: "But Nora trains here too, on peasant soil. With peasant sweat."
—They landed a gut punch.
SLAP-THUD!
Gerral crumbled to the ground, the world tilting and spinning in a chaotic blur. Pain erupted along his cheekbone, sharp and searing as if molten iron had been poured into his flesh. The ringing in his ears swelled to a deafening roar, drowning out all but the guttural growl: "Keep the mistress' name out of your GOD. DAMN. MOUTH!"
The man raised his foot, coiled for a crushing stomp. But he stopped midway. The second man's grip held him back—not gently, but like restraining a mad dog with an iron leash. "Let it go. He's just a brat. We don't want any trouble with the guild."
Gerral sucked in a ragged breath—fire in his lungs—rolled onto his hands and spat—warm, tingling red.
The man shrugged the leashing grip of his shoulder. "Ptooey," he spat in disgust before vanishing into the woods toward the pond where Nora trained.
The second man lingered, watching Gerral struggle to pull himself upright. "Her world will chew you up, boy," he said, voice rough like gravel. "And it spits out bones." Without another word, he turned, fading into the shadowed embrace of the trees.
Gerral sat in the dirt, his eyes shut tight to keep the world from spinning. Blood pooled in his mouth, metallic and bitter. He spat onto an oak leaf and listened to the droplets bead. The insult cut deeper than the physical wounds: Peasant. It felt like a branding iron on his soul.
"Peasant," he tested the word, letting it sour in his mouth.
Rat-a-tat-tat-tak—the forest mocked him with a woodpecker's chuckle. Peasant soil raised oaks that became castle pillars. Peasant streams carved canyons through kingdom borders. Let them mock—he'll make history.