Chapter 11

The sweat poured down Jerod's face, his shirt clinging to him like a second skin, each thread a testament to the terror that gripped him. The cold wind sliced through the air, stirring the leaves in a mournful symphony that oddly contrasted with the chirping of crickets and the hooting of unseen owls. The sounds should have been soothing, a balm for frayed nerves, but to Jerod, they highlighted the stark difference between the serene place and the turmoil within him.

A fear unlike anything Jerod had ever known consumed him, a cold dread that seeped into his bones, making his limbs tremble. Each ragged breath felt like a final gasp, his lungs burning, his chest constricting with a pain that mirrored the agonizing pressure on his heart. It hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the night. His throat was parched, his jaw clamped so tight his teeth chattered.

"This is hell," He thought, the words of a bitter truth as he stared into the face of his tormentor. Commander Tahl, his eyes glittering with malevolent amusement, stood before him, no difference to the monster itself.

"You should grab that dagger and make haste before I change my mind," Tahl commanded his voice a chilling blend of casual cruelty and barely concealed impatience.

Jerod's eyes fell upon the dagger. Its hilt, gleaming with silver plating, was inlaid with two perfectly matched gemstones, their facets catching the faint light. The blade was polished to a mirror sheen, a flawless reflection of the stark terror in Jerod's eyes; a weapon of exquisite craftsmanship, a contrast to anything he'd ever known. He'd always carried only a meager knife, a simple tool that had served him adequately, but this...this was different. This was a weapon fit for a king or a demon. The beauty of the dagger, however, was lost on him. It was a tool of death, an instrument of his potential demise. He hesitated, his hand trembling as he reached for the hilt. The cold metal sent a shiver down his spine, a stark contrast to the sweat that still beaded on his skin.

This wasn't just about survival; it was about the weight of a choice, a decision that would irrevocably alter the course of his life. He closed his fingers around the hilt, the weight of the dagger a strange comfort in the face of overwhelming fear. He would act. He had to. His fate hung precariously in the balance, a single, desperate act separating him from life or death. The choice was his, and the consequences would be irreversible.

"J-Jerod—"

Ysabel's voice cracked, tears welled in her sunken eyes, tracing paths down her pale cheeks. Terror and despair etched themselves onto her features, eyes that looked at him with uncertainty. Her hands, clenched into tight fists, dug into the coarse fabric of her dress as if clinging to it for dear life.

Jerod felt a pang of guilt. He's, a man, a gentleman—or so he'd always considered himself—was supposed to be her protector. He should be a soldier, a knight, anything capable of shielding her from the horrors that had befallen them. But he was nothing of the sort. He was merely a shepherd, a humble guardian of goats and sheep, his hands calloused from years of tending to his flock, his heart heavy with the weight of his inadequacy.

"I won't forsake you, Ysabel. Never."

Shaking his head, Jerod firmly grasped the dagger in his hand. Though consumed with overwhelming fear, he managed to stand on his feet.

Adrenaline rushed through his veins as he leaped toward Ysabel, grabbing her hand and dragging her up like a rag doll. They needed to get away; at the very least, he had to save Ysabel. He clenched his teeth as he heard the soldiers roar with laughter.