The morning arrived with a ghostly chill.
It was the first Sunday of November, and the skies were draped in a heavy gray cloak, casting the land in a soft, melancholic light.
The air smelled of wet earth and dying leaves as Fred and his chosen company gathered at the camp's crumbling gates.
Fred tightened the worn leather straps around his horse's saddle.
The animal, a sturdy black stallion with a scar across its right eye, snorted impatiently, sensing the tension in the air.
Beside Fred, Zara pulled her dark green cloak tighter around her slim figure, her long brown hair braided tightly down her back.
Tessa was already mounted, her short frame almost swallowed by the oversized armor she insisted on wearing, a bright red scarf fluttering around her neck like a beacon.
Leon, despite his earlier protests, stood by the gate, arms crossed, his face a portrait of hidden worry.
Mira was there too, clutching a satchel filled with herbs and potions, her soft face pale under the muted light.
About fifteen others had volunteered — a ragged collection of survivors, each hardened by loss and driven by something deeper than fear.
Fred scanned them all, feeling a weight in his chest.
Each life now tied to the decision he had made.
The cracked stone road stretched out before them like a forgotten memory, leading toward the misty outline of the Shadowed Woods in the far distance.
A place where the trees grew so thick they strangled the sunlight.
Where old terrors still whispered in the night.
"Ready?" Fred asked, his voice cutting through the murmurs.
The group nodded.
No fanfare.
No ceremony.
Only the raw certainty that there was no turning back.
Fred kicked his heels gently against his stallion's side, and the beast lurched forward, leading the others beyond the broken gates.
The city faded behind them like a dying fire.
---
Hours passed.
The landscape changed as they rode.
The open plains grew sparser, the ground turning damp underfoot.
Blackened trees, twisted and skeletal, rose on either side, forming jagged archways of decay.
The sky remained a dull pewter, leaking a thin mist that clung to their cloaks and hair.
Crows circled overhead, their cries echoing like omens across the silent wood.
Tessa rode up beside Fred, her breath clouding in the cold air.
"I hate this place," she muttered.
Fred gave a faint smile. "You're not alone."
Suddenly, Zara pulled her horse to a halt, her sharp eyes narrowing.
Fred followed her gaze.
Ahead, just off the path, something lay crumpled in the wet grass.
Fred dismounted swiftly, boots sinking slightly into the mud.
Drawing his sword, he approached carefully.
It was a man — or what was left of one.
His clothes were torn and bloodied, his chest ripped open by something with claws.
His face was frozen in a mask of horror, his glassy eyes staring blankly at the gray sky.
Fred's stomach tightened.
Tessa dismounted as well, her hand covering her mouth.
"Raiders?" she whispered.
Zara knelt beside the body, inspecting the wounds.
"No," she said quietly. "Something else. Something faster."
A chill ran down Fred's spine.
Movement flickered at the edge of his vision.
He snapped his head up —
The shadows between the trees seemed to ripple.
A low, guttural growl drifted through the mist.
"Mount up!" Fred barked.
The group scrambled, panic crackling through them like lightning.
Fred swung into the saddle just as shapes began to emerge from the trees.
Dark, hunched creatures with glistening fangs and matted fur.
Wolves — but wrong somehow.
Their eyes glowed a sickly green, their bodies twisted by whatever darkness had infected these lands.
The first one lunged.
Fred kicked his stallion into a full gallop, sword flashing out in a wide arc.
The beast shrieked as the blade sliced across its snout.
Chaos erupted behind him — screams, roars, the clang of metal against teeth.
Fred risked a glance over his shoulder.
The pack was giving chase.
He could see Zara striking precisely from horseback, her blades dancing in deadly arcs.
Tessa clung grimly to her reins, swinging her sword with both hands, a furious light in her brown eyes.
The mist thickened as they plunged deeper into the woods.
Branches clawed at them like skeletal fingers.
The ground grew treacherous, riddled with roots and pits of mud.
Fred urged his horse faster, heart pounding in his chest.
They had to make it through.
They had to reach South Valley.
The lives of countless others depended on it.
The twisted wolves howled behind them, a terrible chorus that promised no mercy.
---
Hours later — or maybe it was minutes, time had lost all meaning — they burst out of the woods into a wide clearing.
The sunlight, weak but real, broke through the clouds for the first time.
The beasts stopped at the tree line, snarling but unwilling to leave the cover of the cursed woods.
Fred pulled his horse to a halt, gasping for breath.
Around him, the survivors regrouped, bloody and bruised, but alive.
They had made it through.
Barely.
Fred raised his sword toward the distant hills where South Valley awaited.
"Onward!" he shouted.
And with that, the battered but unbroken band of survivors rode on, leaving the shadows behind —
for now.
The true test still lay ahead.
But Fred knew this:
they would not break.
Not today.
Not ever.
---