The First Sight

Rain still poured, soaking everything it touched—blood, bark, breath. The forest had become a nightmare of broken limbs and shattered nerves.

Scattered survivors from Second Glyphwork ran blind through the fog, boots slapping mud, hearts hammering like war drums.

Discipline was gone. Orders forgotten.

There was only instinct now—run, survive, escape the ghosts in the trees.

A trooper with a cracked visor stumbled over a root, swearing as he scraped his palm. Another shoved past him, muttering something about "witches in the mist."

Their formation had broken minutes ago—if it could still be called that.

They weren't soldiers anymore.

Just terrified men and women trying to outrun something they didn't understand.

One of the goons—a younger one, face pale as milk—spun around with his rifle aimed into the fog, hands shaking. "Are they chasing us? Did we lose them?"

Another grabbed his shoulder, half-hysterical. "Forget them! Just keep moving!"

The younger man opened his mouth to argue—and then the light hit them.

Blinding. Golden. Unnatural.

A dozen lanterns flared on in unison, cutting through the fog like divine judgment.

The fleeing troopers froze, caught like rats in a wire snare.

Mana-floodlights—humming with energy—glared down from the slope above. Shadows bent beneath their glare.

And from behind the beams, figures emerged. Cloaks flaring. Rifles leveled. Armor bearing the crest of a white rose.

Rosenvale City Guard.

And at their head—Aldrich Hitchcock.

He stepped forward slowly, pipe clenched in his teeth, steam rising around his shoulders as if the rain refused to touch him.

His coat was soaked, but his stance was iron—back straight, boots planted.

The kind of posture that came from years of command, and harder years of survival.

At his side stood Norman Creed, his coat flared open to reveal a reinforced vest, the badge of Imperial Authority glinting at his hip.

His hair was wet and plastered to his forehead, but his revolver was steady in his hands.

Behind them, Rosenvale's guard spread out in a crescent formation—dozens of soldiers in mana-threaded plate, their rifles humming softly with charged glyphs. Batons with flash-runes. One even held a tower shield that crackled faintly with protective wards.

Aldrich removed the pipe from his mouth, "You boys look lost."

Silence.

The Second Glyphwork stragglers said nothing—panting, wild-eyed, unsure if this was salvation or just another layer of hell.

Aldrich's gaze swept over them.

"Judging by the blood and mud on your boots," he said, voice gravel and disdain, "I'd say you've been busy."

One of the troopers—a wiry man with a stained uniform and a wild look in his eye—snapped his rifle up in desperation.

But Norman was faster.

CRACK.

A sharp report echoed through the trees as Norman's shot caught the man clean through the shoulder.

The trooper screamed, dropped his weapon, and collapsed in the mud.

"Anyone else tries that," Norman said flatly, "I won't aim for the shoulder again."

The rest of the group froze. Even the fog seemed to hold its breath.

Aldrich exhaled, smoke curling from his lips.

"Lower your weapons," he said. "Hands where we can see them. The last thing this forest needs is more corpses."

Stillness.

Then slowly—grudgingly—hands began to rise. Rifles dropped into the mud.

One man fell to his knees, shaking. Another muttered a prayer, though the words were broken.

"Sort them." Aldrich gave a small nod. "Disarm the worst and get names. Rosenvale's going to want answers—and so do we."

Norman gave a curt nod and signaled to a trio of guards, who moved forward like wolves into the fog.

Rain still fell. The forest groaned with the weight of water and blood. But for the first time in hours, there was order—a line drawn in the chaos.

Aldrich looked back into the woods, pipe embers glowing faint in the gloom.

The fog had thickened again, swirling slow and low, like the forest itself was breathing.

The trees loomed—tall, wet giants with secrets nailed to their trunks.

There was definitely something in these woods. Something horrible.

Because the goons hadn't just run. They'd fled—panic in their eyes, discipline shattered, like prey fleeing a fire they couldn't outrun.

And these weren't rookies. Second Glyphwork trained hard. Brutal. Efficient. They didn't break easily.

So what the hell had broken them?

He took a slow drag from the pipe. The taste was sharp and bitter. Good for clarity.

And yet, he didn't feel any clearer.

A few paces away, one of the captured troopers was sobbing now—muttering nonsense, shaking like a wet dog.

Norman stood over him, impassive, taking names down in a worn leather ledger while the guards worked with practiced efficiency: weapons stripped, belts cut, wrists bound with glyph-etched cord.

Aldrich stepped forward, the mud sucking at his boots. He knelt beside the sobbing man.

"Name."

No response.

The man was young. Couldn't have been more than twenty-five.

His hands were raw. Blood on his temple. Eyes red-rimmed and distant.

"Son," Aldrich said, voice low and level, with the kind of calm that came just before a storm. He crouched beside the shaking soldier, steam from his coat rising faintly into the rain-heavy air. "I need your name."

The young man didn't answer. His eyes stared through Aldrich, glassy and distant, pupils pinpricked like he'd seen something he wasn't meant to.

Aldrich studied him—mud-caked uniform, trembling fingers twitching at the air as if still reaching for a rifle long lost. A deep scratch ran down his cheek, half-healed, half-fresh.

Then finally—barely audible over the drip of rain and the soft hum of mana from the floodlights—came a whisper.

"They weren't supposed to fight back."

Aldrich's brow furrowed. He tilted his head slightly. "What do you mean?"

The soldier's throat bobbed as he swallowed, but the words kept coming, tumbling out now like a wound torn open.

"They… they should've run. It was just two of them. We had numbers. Weapons. Formation. They should've run."

His voice cracked on the last word.

"But they didn't. They just stood there. Smiling. Smiling in the damn fog. Like they were waiting."

Aldrich straightened slightly, eyes narrowing.

Behind him, Norman's pen scratched to a halt mid-word. He looked up from his ledger, attention focused.

"Who?" Aldrich asked, steel threading his voice. "The ones you were chasing? Were they women?"

The soldier nodded. His lip trembled.

"The Duke's daughter," he whispered. "And… another. Darker one. Quiet eyes. She moved like—like shadow between branches. Lannick… he tried to flank her. She was just there. In front of him. And then…"

He swallowed again, mouth working silently for a moment.

"She sliced him, gutted him with one stroke."

His eyes widened, tears mixing with rain. "He didn't even had the chance to scream. Just a snap. Then the fog swallowed her again."

Aldrich raised a brow.

The goon continued. He touched his temple as if to pry them out. "I still hear them. Those slashing sounds... I still hear them."

Aldrich stood slowly, pipe clenched between his teeth as a thin curl of smoke coiled from the bowl.

He stared toward the treeline, where the fog thickened like breath from the forest itself.

He exhaled smoke through his nose, then turned to Norman.

"Set up a perimeter," he said, voice clipped and cold. "Two watch teams. Get the wounded stabilized. The rest are to be transported back to Rosenvale under guard."

Norman nodded, already stepping into motion, barking to the guards as they snapped into formation like drawn steel.

"And send a message to Commander Vale," Aldrich added, glancing once more toward the trees. "Tell him we've located Lady Freya."

At the other side of the woods, every branch dripped, every breath drew mist. The forest pulsed with silence and unease.

Then—light.

"My lady." Celine was the first to notice it.

She froze mid-step, one hand out, halting Freya with a gentle touch to her shoulder.

Lanterns.

Dozens.

Golden beams knifing through the fog, cutting shadows into sharp relief on the trees ahead.

The glow shimmered, unnatural, and far too synchronized to be a campfire.

Freya crouched instinctively, dropping behind a thicket of wet brush, eyes narrowed.

Celine knelt beside her, silent, listening. Her face was expressionless—but her eyes were alert. Focused.

"City Guard?" Freya whispered.

"Maybe," Celine murmured. "But could just as easily be the rest of them. Or worse."

Freya's hand slid down to her belt. Her fingers brushed the smooth metal of the blade sheathed there—still faintly warm from earlier.

"We go around?" she asked.

Celine shook her head, just once.

"We scout. My lady.

Stay low. Eyes first. Then decide."

Freya nodded. They moved together—silent, practiced. A path to the flank, weaving between trees.

They were shadows. Nothing but movement between raindrops.

As they drew closer, the source of the lights became clear: a slope, cleared just enough to hold a tight, crescent formation of armored soldiers.

White-rose insignias.

Freya exhaled slowly.

"Rosenvale Guard," she said, just above a whisper. "Looks like a full detachment."

Celine's gaze was locked on the man at the center—soaked coat, pipe clenched in his teeth, unmoved by the storm.

"Their leader doesn't look familiar," she murmured.

Freya followed her line of sight.

Beside him stood someone younger. A revolver drawn. Hands steady. Eyes sharp.

"So is the other one. The younger one." Freya muttered. "Where's Commander Vale?"

Celine shook her head, "I didn't see him anywhere, my lady. But I think it's safe for us to go out."

Freya nodded. "Let's go out, and introduce ourselves to these two strangers."

They stepped cautiously from the underbrush, shapes emerging from the fog like fading ghosts.

And this was how Norman and Freya met for the first time...