The knight didn't move.
Not at first.
He just stood there, tall and still as a statue, the blade in his hand dripping fresh blood onto the forest floor. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the scent of steel, sweat, and something older—something colder.
They were just two boys.
Barely more than shadows in the dark, covered in blood and dirt, one limping, the other barely standing. The smaller of the two clung to the older's arm, eyes wide, breath short. Arlen's fingers still gripped his sword, but his stance had faltered—legs trembling, shoulder soaked in blood.
And then they saw them.
Figures. Dozens.
Emerging from the treeline like spirits carved from steel and silence.
At first it was one. Then three. Then ten.
By the time the last of them stepped into view, there were nearly fifty. All of them knights.
Tall. Armored head to toe. No colors on their tabards. No crests on their shields. Only clean steel and grim purpose.
Their swords were sheathed. Their movements calm. But there was weight behind them. Discipline. Presence. The kind that quieted even the wind.
Elyas gripped Arlen's coat tighter.
"Who are they…?" he whispered.
Arlen didn't answer. He didn't know.
One of the knights stepped forward. His helmet was different—engraved along the jaw, polished to a darker sheen. He stopped just a few paces away and tilted his head slightly, regarding the boys in silence.
Two children. Alone in the woods. Covered in blood. Staring back at fifty trained warriors.
And not a single word was spoken.
Not yet.
The knight in front—the one who had felled the soldiers with impossible ease—lowered his sword. Not threateningly. Just… at rest.
Then he finally spoke.
His voice was deep, roughened by age but steady. Controlled.
"You are unharmed?"
It wasn't the voice Arlen expected. Not cold. Not warm. Just… plain. Like the question was routine.
Arlen nodded slowly.
The knight tilted his head, eyes hidden behind the slit of his helm.
"You were their prey."
A statement, not a question.
"Yes," Arlen said, guarded.
The knight gave a small nod. Then turned to glance at the fallen soldier—the one still lying with an arrow through his throat.
"Their armor is familiar," he muttered, almost to himself. "But their work… is not."
Another knight stepped forward. Slightly older, with a thicker build and deeper voice.
"They were from the western host. Border dogs."
"Sloppy," said another.
"Desperate."
The first knight raised a hand, silencing them.
He turned back to Arlen.
"You are not of them."
"No," Arlen said. "We were just… in the wrong place."
The knight was quiet for a moment.
"Wrong place," he repeated, as if testing the phrase.
He looked at Elyas.
The boy froze.
"Children," the knight murmured. "Strange place for them."
Arlen stepped a little closer to Elyas. "We are just trying to survive."
That seemed to register.
The knight was quiet again.
Then he asked:"Why did they hunt you?"
Arlen hesitated.
"They were ordered to silence anyone who saw the battle."
Another pause.
"They said… no questions. No survivors."
Several knights shifted at that.
One of them muttered, "Cowards."
Another spat on the ground.
But the leader simply nodded once.
"That matches the words we've heard."
Arlen frowned. "You've encountered them before?"
"Once," the knight said. "But not like this. Not so… brazen."
A heavy pause followed.
Then the knight stepped forward.
His boots sank into the soft dirt.
He stopped just a few feet from Arlen.
Even without the helm, Arlen knew the man would be older. Not aged by time, but by duty. His movements were too measured. Too practiced.
"You have no home," the knight said quietly.
It wasn't a question.
Arlen said nothing.
"You carry yourself like someone taught to kill," the knight added. "But not long ago. The rhythm is still rough."
That stung—but it was true.
Arlen held his ground.
The knight raised his sword slightly—not to threaten, but to show it.
"This blade has served me for twenty years. In that time, I've drawn it for kings, for wars, and for things I still don't understand."
He lowered it again.
"But never to murder children."
He looked at Arlen.
"Or leave them behind."
Arlen blinked. "What… what are you saying?"
The knight turned back toward the others.
"We are not here for you. Not directly."
"Then why are you here?"
"To hunt someone."
Another knight spoke—this one from behind:"A traitor. From our own ranks. Gone rogue. Slipped into this chaos, hoping the war would hide him."
Arlen narrowed his eyes.
"And you think we've seen him?"
"No," the leader said. "But you survived a battlefield. And you've killed. You've endured."
A pause.
"You've seen how the world works when no one is watching."
The knight looked back at him.
"We are not here to fix the war. But we can't walk past those left to die in it."
He pointed at Elyas and Arlen.
"Especially not kids."
Arlen's throat tightened.
"Then… let us come with you."
That drew a few glances.
Elyas looked up at him sharply.
Arlen kept speaking.
"You don't need to protect us. Just let us travel with you. Wherever you're going—wherever you're hunting—I can help."
Silence followed.
A long silence.
Then—
The knight turned fully toward Arlen.
"You want to march with us?"
"Yes."
"We don't carry the weak."
"Then I'll keep up."
"And the boy?"
"He stays with me."
The knight's visor angled slightly.
And then—
He nodded once.
"Then walk behind us. If you fall, we leave you. If you lie, we end you."
Arlen didn't flinch. "Understood."
The knight raised a hand.
The other armored men turned. In perfect silence, they began moving through the trees, boots thudding in rhythm, armor rustling faintly like iron leaves.
The knight gave Arlen one last glance.
Then he turned and followed them.
Arlen stood still.
Then looked at Elyas.
"You alright?"
The boy nodded, pale, but calm.
Arlen bent down, helped him to his feet.
"Come on," he said quietly. "Let's see where this road leads."
They followed the knights.
And behind them, the forest swallowed the blood.
They marched in silence for a while.
But it wasn't the silence of fear, or suspicion. It was the silence of warriors who had walked too many roads, buried too many names, and forgotten how to fill the space between footfalls with anything but breath and purpose.
Elyas limped beside Arlen, clutching his arm for balance. Arlen stayed close, eyes flicking between the trees, half-expecting more soldiers to lunge from the dark.
But none came.
The forest, for once, kept its peace.
Then—without slowing—one of the knights ahead spoke.
"We'll reach the river fork before dawn. Terrain rises northward, easier to see movement from the ridge."
It was the same voice as before. Calm. Measured. And now, less distant.
Arlen turned his head slightly.
The knight who had saved them—the one who had spoken to them first—was walking just a few paces ahead now, helmet tucked beneath one arm, revealing a face lined by age and quiet judgment. Short, iron-grey hair. A scar across his left temple. Eyes the color of cold ash.
"I am Ser Caldus Veyne," he said, not looking back. "Knight-Commander of the Grey Order."
Elyas blinked up at him.
Arlen said nothing, but his grip on the boy's shoulder tightened.
He gestured to the men ahead—figures moving in practiced rhythm between the trees, their steps quiet, their presence heavy.
"We are not part of your armies. Not sworn to any crown or banner. We are the old oath, kept long after the parchment turned to dust."
He paused briefly before going on.
"The Grey Order was born before politics had teeth. Before kings sat on thrones padded with lies. We were made to protect the land. Not its rulers. Not its riches. Just… the land."
Arlen frowned. "You mean like farmers?"
Caldus let out a breath—almost a laugh.
"No. We do not till soil. We do not build walls. But we make sure those who do can keep doing so."
He turned his head slightly.
"When a war breaks out and threatens to burn the fields that feed a city—we step in. When a noble's pride leads him to raise swords where words should have stood—we end it. Quietly. Permanently."
Elyas looked up, wide-eyed. "You kill kings?"
Caldus didn't flinch.
"We end threats. Titles are irrelevant."
That chilled Arlen more than any threat ever had.
Caldus went on.
"The Empire you know as Velmora stretches from the ocean cliffs in the west to the dead valleys in the east. It is ruled by a line of emperors—some wise, some less so. Beneath them: kings. Lords. Courts full of voices that argue more than they lead."
He looked up at the sky through the trees.
"But the land… the land stays the same. The rivers still cut their old paths. The forests still grow, and rot, and grow again. The Grey Order was sworn to protect that truth."
Another knight—taller, younger—glanced back and added, "Velmora's might isn't its throne. It's the ground under our feet."
Caldus nodded once. "Exactly."
They walked for a moment before Arlen asked quietly:
"Why are there so many of you?"
Caldus glanced over his shoulder, a faint shadow of amusement on his face.
"You've only seen one spearhead."
Arlen narrowed his eyes. "So how many of you are there?"
The knight didn't answer right away.
Then he said:
"We are never in one place. We move like roots under the surface. When we're needed, we rise. When not—we vanish."
Arlen felt a strange chill pass through him.
"And your traitor?" he asked. "Why was he worth chasing this far?"
Caldus's voice turned low.
"Because he knew things. Secrets meant to die with us."
Another pause.
"He took them and ran into a war that wasn't his. Hoping chaos would keep him hidden."
"And you'll kill him?"
"If that is what's required."
Caldus didn't say it like a threat.
He said it like weather.
Something inevitable.
They kept walking.
And still, the forest said nothing.
Only boots against soil. Armor against armor. And the quiet breathing of two boys trying to understand the path they had just stepped onto.
The road beneath their feet softened as the forest thinned.
Somewhere above the branches, the moon was rising—silver and full—its pale light brushing the treetops, making the armor of the knights glint like old starlight.
For the first time in what felt like days, Arlen could breathe.
No hooves. No screams. No steel in the dark.
Just footsteps. Just silence. Just space to think.
Ahead, the line of knights moved like a single body—deliberate, patient. Their presence no longer felt strange to him. Only strong. Only constant.
Accepted—if only in silence.
Caldus walked not far ahead, his steps sure but unhurried. As if time no longer had the right to demand more from him.
Arlen wondered how long he had worn that armor.How many wars he had seen.How many boys he had buried.
The thought should have scared him.
But it didn't.
Instead, it steadied him.
Not every sword was swung for glory.Some were simply held—for those too small to carry one.
He looked up. The sky had cleared.
Stars now. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.
Their cold light spilled across the leaves, catching in the curve of steel and the tilt of shadow. The wind had quieted. The trees no longer whispered.
And in that moment, Arlen knew.
This wasn't the end of the road.
It was the beginning of one.
And for now, that was enough.