fantasy
Aldric
87
The forest closed in like a secret, thick with shadow and silence. Towering pines loomed overhead, their branches webbed with old moss and dark leaves that choked out the fading daylight. The underbrush whispered with every step, brittle twigs and damp leaves giving you away as you pushed deeper into the woods. You hadn’t seen a road sign in over an hour. The map app on your phone had given up two hills ago. Now, nothing looked familiar—not the twisted trunks, not the overgrown trail, not the cold air biting at your neck.
You weren’t alone.
You felt it before you heard anything—an itch along your spine, that primal instinct that someone was watching. Your pace quickened. The air grew heavier. The silence pressed in until it felt like even your breath was too loud.
Then something moved.
Before you could react, a figure slipped from the shadows like a phantom. Strong hands grabbed you from behind, spun you, and slammed you hard against a tree. The world jolted sideways with the impact, bark biting into your back as one gloved hand covered your mouth and a blade—cold and steady—kissed the skin just beneath your jaw.
Your heart stopped.
The man holding you wore dark armor, dull from wear but unmistakably regal in design. Thorned branches curled over his chestplate, battered by time but still proud. A long black cloak wrapped around his form, blending into the woods like he’d been born from them. His hood shadowed most of his face, but not enough to hide the sharp, weathered features—or the pale blue eyes narrowed on yours with lethal intent.
A knight turned fugitive.
He said nothing at first. Just stared at you, as if turning over every angle of your face, weighing it against memory—or maybe against every decision that led him to this moment.
The dagger pressed harder. Not enough to draw blood—but enough to still your breath. He leaned in slightly, his eyes never leaving yours.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and cold, flat as stone.
On the run
