Chapter 128: Other Knights

The sun rose pale, filtered by a mantle of thick clouds that covered the sky like a shroud. Damon awoke before dawn, his body stiff from the cold of the early morning. The smell of damp earth and rotting leaves enveloped him. He rose silently, dismantled the camp, and saddled his horse with automatic movements, like someone performing a ritual practiced a thousand times.

The road before him stretched long and empty, winding through mist-covered hills. The air had the metallic taste of winter. Damon mounted and pulled the reins, and the horse responded with a brief whinny, beginning to trot.

For hours, the sound of hooves was his only company. No travelers, no carts, not even the distant singing of birds. Only the rustling of the wind through the trees.

At a certain point, he spotted a partially collapsed stone bridge crossing a narrow but turbulent river. The water flowed strongly, reflecting the gray light of the sky. Damon dismounted to cross carefully, guiding the horse over the slippery stones.

Midway across, something caught his attention—fresh tracks in the mud on the bank. Human footprints, but disorganized, as if someone had run in desperation. He crouched down, touching the tracks with his fingers. Still warm. Recent.

“Hunters, perhaps… or the hunted.”

He followed the tracks for a few meters until he found a torn banner stuck to a branch: a red banner, marked with the symbol of a blade crossed by a raven. Damon recognized it—the Scalvos, a mercenary guild known for hunting bounties in neutral territories. People who didn’t care who died, as long as there was gold involved.

“Then it’s best not to be seen.”

He returned to his horse and followed a secondary route, deviating from the main road. The forest grew denser with each kilometer. The trees seemed to lean over the path, their intertwined branches forming tunnels of shadow.

Hours later, the rain began. First light, then steady, insistent. Damon pulled his hood over his face and quickened his pace. The cold intensified, and the ground turned into thick mud. When he finally found a drier area—a clearing protected by low cliffs—he decided to stop.

He dismounted, set up a simple tent, and lit a fire under a makeshift tarp shelter. The warmth of the fire restored some feeling to his fingers. He took off the bracelet and examined it in the flickering light—the glyphs still fragile, pulsing at irregular intervals.

He took a small crystal vial containing rune powder from his pocket—a remnant of Caerth’s lessons—and began the process of reinforcing the enchantment. He drew symbols in the air with his fingertips, whispering ancient words, each syllable charged with a cold, contained power.

The bracelet responded, but hesitantly. The glow flickered, a bluish light that trembled like a flame about to go out. Damon felt the enchantment resist, and for a moment, the infernal energy beneath his skin threatened to break the seal.

He gritted his teeth and pushed the mana back, forcing the balance. The air hissed, the fire flickered—and then everything stabilized.

Damon sighed, exhausted.

“It’s getting more and more unstable…”

He put the vial away and put the bracelet back on. Then he warmed a piece of bread and salted meat, eating in silence. The sound of the rain against the tarp was almost hypnotic.

As sleep began to approach, a distant clap of thunder made him open his eyes. The horse, tethered a few meters away, neighed nervously. Damon remained motionless for a moment, listening. Something was wrong—the sound of the rain was being muffled by another noise, low and metallic.

The sound of chains.

He rose and extinguished part of the fire with his foot. The sound was coming from above, from the cliff. Damon drew his sword and waited.

A shadow fell over the campfire, then another. Three, four. Men. They descended the rocks with hooks and ropes, armed with axes and crossbows.

The Scalvos.

“He’s there!” one of them shouted, pointing. “The medallion bastard! They killed our group, he has our markings!”

Damon understood. The medallion he had taken from the bandits wasn’t from a simple guild, but from a specific detachment of the Scalvos. Now, they would come after him to the end.

There was no more room for explanations.

The first shot came quickly—an arrow whizzed and hit the ground a few centimeters from his boot. Damon dodged to the side and, in a fluid movement, threw the serrated dagger he had taken from the bandits. The steel spun and found the neck of the archer, who fell without a sound.

The others advanced.

The cold returned, creeping across the stones and rising into the air. Damon channeled the power in a controlled manner, not letting it escape beyond what was necessary. A veil of mist began to cover the ground, and the temperature plummeted.

The first enemy slipped, trying to maintain his balance. Damon moved with precision—a side cut, a spin, another body on the ground. The third tried to attack him from behind, but the young man’s blade rose in a gleaming arc, blocking the blow and sliding to the opponent’s collarbone.

The last one recoiled, terrified.

“What… what are you…?” the man stammered, his eyes wide.

Damon didn’t answer. Silence was his reply. The air around him solidified; the cold formed crystals on the enemy’s clothes, who staggered and fell, petrified by the invisible touch of the conjured winter.

When the sound ceased, only the crackling of the campfire remained.

Damon calmly cleaned his sword, his gaze distant. His chest rose and fell slowly, controlled. He approached the bodies and collected what might be useful—more coins, some runes engraved on bone, a crumpled letter with the symbol of the Scalvos and a red wax seal.

He put everything away.

He knew that Arven was now less than a day’s journey away. And he also knew that the Scalvos wouldn’t let the hunt end with that group.

The rain had stopped. The pale moon appeared between the clouds, illuminating the clearing. Damon looked at the sky and murmured in a low voice:

“So that’s how it’s going to be… hunted even before I arrive.”

He mounted his horse. The cold wind cut his face again, bringing with it the smell of iron and ice. He looked one last time at the destroyed camp and murmured to himself:

“Just one more day. Then, everything starts again.” And he rode off. The road swallowed him into the darkness. The stars followed him silently, and the chill of dawn seemed to greet him like an old acquaintance.

The morning mist covered the road like a silver veil when Damon rounded the last bend in the path. The distant sound of voices and hooves came first, muffled, then clearer as he advanced. The rising sun cast a pale light over the valley, revealing the distant towers of the Duchy of Arven—erected in white stone and dark iron, gleaming like blades under the gray sky.

It was a striking contrast. The outer walls looked new, reinforced with steel plates and defensive runes—a sign that the duchy had prepared for turbulent times.

Damon pulled on the reins, slowing his horse’s pace. Ahead, a large group partially blocked the road. There were at least twenty knights, many of them mounted, others circling around a destroyed carriage, overturned on the side of the road. The broken wheels and fresh blood on the ground made it clear that something had recently happened.

Two banners fluttered, attached to lances stuck in the mud—the golden coat of arms of Arven, crossed by a silver sword, and another smaller one, with the seal of the Royal Guard.

Damon observed in silence, keeping his hood up.

One of the knights noticed him and raised his hand. “Hey, you there!” the voice was firm, accustomed to giving orders. “Stop where you are!”

Damon obeyed, but not out of submission—only out of caution. The horse stopped, snorting.

The man approached. He was tall, with a short beard, steely eyes, and gleaming armor bearing the guard’s coat of arms. “Who are you and what are you doing on this road?”

Damon maintained a calm, neutral gaze. “Just a traveler going to Arven.”

“A traveler?” The knight raised an eyebrow. “Alone, armed, and coming from the north trail.” He assessed him from head to toe. “Looks more like a mercenary.”

Damon didn’t answer immediately. He let the silence hang long enough to make the other man uneasy. Then, he said in a firm voice: “I have a letter of recommendation for entry into the knights’ academy.”

The tone made the man hesitate for a moment. He took a step forward, his eyes narrowed. “Is that so?” he asked, and his gaze dropped to the sword strapped to Damon’s waist… and to the spear tied to the saddle. “An aspirant, and with two weapons besides?”

Damon rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, more out of habit than threat. “I don’t see a problem with that.”

“It’s unusual,” the knight replied, crossing his arms. “Either you don’t master either one, or you think you can master both.”

The air seemed to cool between them. Damon slowly raised his gaze, meeting the man’s eyes. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who hasn’t introduced himself.”

A murmur rippled through the nearby soldiers. The knight maintained an impassive face, but his fingers moved discreetly over the hilt of his sword—a reflex of tension. For a moment, the atmosphere seemed about to break.

“That’s enough, Harn,” another, older knight, wearing the blue cloak of the veteran guard, approached. His voice was grave, authoritative. “We’re not here to interrogate travelers.”

The first knight, Harn, reluctantly took a step back. “Yes, sir. But he came from the direction of the forest, where…”

“I know.” The veteran cut him off with a gesture. He turned to Damon, examining him for a moment. His eyes were experienced, the kind of gaze that measured not only posture but the weight of the soul. “You said you’re going to the academy?”

“Yes, sir.” Damon inclined his head slightly, respectfully.

“I understand, have a good admission.” The veteran said, smiling, “Make way for him, let’s focus on fixing the young lady’s carriage,” he said, and Damon nodded, passing by him…

As he passed Harn, he murmured something that only Harn could hear… “You ask too many questions, be careful your head doesn’t fall off.”

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