The forest between Abanthus and Bellmere was a stretch of uneasy quiet, where the air clung to the skin like breath held too long. Clyde moved through it without armor, his cloak brushed with dew, the night whispering secrets through the branches above. The moon hung pale and uneven, catching on the silver clasp at his shoulder. The scent of pine and river moss filled his lungs as he followed a narrow path, one only known to those who had reason to cross borders unnoticed.

He carried no torch. He preferred the dark, the way it bent around him and kept his thoughts company. The forest spoke in the language of crickets and restless leaves. Yet beneath it, something shifted, a rhythm that didn’t belong to the wild. Footsteps. Light, careful, and measured. His fingers rested near the hilt of his blade, not out of fear but instinct.

He waited, still as stone, eyes tracing the shadows between the trees. For a moment, the forest felt ancient enough to hold ghosts. Perhaps the spirits of those who had fallen in the wars between their kingdoms had come to greet him. But then he heard the sound again, quieter this time, but undeniably real, and something in it softened the edge of his caution. Recognition, like a note struck in his chest.

He stepped forward into the dim light that spilled through the canopy, his breath clouding faintly in the cold air.

“You should not be here at this hour,” Clyde said, his voice calm but low, carrying both concern and memory.