The column stretched for nearly a mile through the forest path.
I walked near the supply wagons, my assigned position in the Baron's carefully ordered procession. Elisabeth was somewhere ahead with the kitchen staff, close enough that I caught glimpses of her brown hair when the line curved around particularly large trees.
We'd been marching for three days now. Through countryside that grew progressively more civilized. More settled. Stone bridges instead of ford crossings. Well-maintained roads instead of muddy tracks. Villages that flew the Baron's colors from their watchtowers.
Allied territory. Safe territory.
Which meant the soldiers around me had relaxed their vigilance to match the peaceful surroundings.
"Where exactly are we going?" I asked Thomas, the stable master, as we guided a particularly stubborn pack horse around a fallen log.
"Rendezvous point," he grunted. "Meeting up with the main army before the real campaign begins."
"How big is the main army?"
"Big enough. Three thousand men, last I heard. Professional soldiers. Not like these camp followers and local recruits."
Three thousand. The number made my stomach clench. What kind of force was the Baron preparing to unleash? How many villages would burn before his appetite for conquest was satisfied?
The forest around us was ancient. Tall oaks and ash trees that had stood for generations. Their branches formed a canopy so thick that walking beneath them felt like moving through a green cathedral.
Peaceful. Beautiful. The kind of place where nothing bad should ever happen.
Which was probably why the ambush caught everyone so completely off guard.
The first arrow came from nowhere.
One moment I was walking beside a supply wagon, listening to the creak of wheels and the casual conversation of soldiers. The next, a crossbow bolt sprouted from the throat of the man walking ten feet ahead of me.
He dropped without a sound. Blood spreading across the forest floor like spilled wine.
For a heartbeat, nobody reacted. The sight was so unexpected, so completely out of place in this peaceful setting, that minds simply refused to process it.
Then the forest exploded with death.
Arrows flew from every direction. Not random shots but carefully aimed volleys from hidden positions. Professional archery that spoke of discipline and planning.
Men screamed. Horses reared in panic. The ordered column dissolved into chaos as soldiers tried to find cover that didn't exist.
"Ambush!" someone screamed unnecessarily. "Take cover!"
But there was no cover. The road was a killing ground perfectly prepared by whoever had planned this. Open space with no protection. Nowhere to run except deeper into the forest where more archers waited.
I dove behind the supply wagon as another volley whistled overhead. The wood splintered as crossbow bolts punched through the sides like they were made of paper.
Elisabeth. Where was Elisabeth?
I crawled forward on my belly, trying to spot her among the chaos. Bodies lay scattered across the road. Some moving. Some horribly still. Blood pooled in the dirt like dark mirrors.
There. Near the overturned kitchen wagon. A flash of brown hair and familiar blue cloth.
She was alive. Crouched behind the wheel of a wagon with two other kitchen workers. Her face was pale but determined. No panic. No hysteria. Just the focused calm of someone dealing with immediate danger.
Another volley of arrows. This one followed immediately by war cries from the forest.
Men poured out of the trees like a flood of steel and fury. Not bandits. Not irregular troops. Professional soldiers in matching armor. Moving with the coordinated precision of a unit that had trained together for years.
They hit the scattered Baron's men like a hammer striking glass.
The fighting was brutal and one-sided. The Baron's column had been caught completely unprepared. Strung out along the road. No formation. No defensive positions. No leadership.
Sir Marcus appeared through the chaos like an armored ghost. Still in full plate. Still radiating deadly competence. His sword cut through the attacking soldiers with mechanical efficiency.
But even he couldn't be everywhere at once.
I watched a group of enemy soldiers break through the melee. Heading straight for the supply wagons. Straight for Elisabeth.
I was moving before conscious thought kicked in. The hidden knife in my boot found my hand with practiced ease. Five years of training with the Guardian had prepared me for this moment.
The first soldier never saw me coming. My blade found the gap between his helmet and gorget. He dropped like a stone.
The second one turned just fast enough to raise his sword before I reached him. Our weapons met with a ringing crash that jarred my entire arm.
He was bigger than me. Stronger. More experienced.
But I was faster.
I ducked under his second swing and opened his femoral artery with a precise cut. He had perhaps thirty seconds to live. He spent them falling.
The third soldier had seen his companions die. Was ready for me. Professional enough to know that size and experience meant nothing if you were careless.
We circled each other like wolves. Looking for openings. Testing defenses.
He came at me with a combination that would have killed me five years ago. Overhead strike followed by horizontal slash followed by thrust toward my center mass.
But five years of dawn training with the Guardian had taught me something about reading opponents. About patience. About waiting for the right moment.
I parried the first strike. Sidestepped the second. Let the third slide past my ribs by inches.
Then I drove my knife up under his arm where the armor plates didn't quite meet.
He died with surprise in his eyes.
I turned back toward Elisabeth's position and felt my heart stop.
She was fighting. The kitchen knife in her hand moved with deadly precision as she fended off two attackers. Her years of secret training with the Guardian showing in every movement.
But there were too many of them. And she was backing toward a position where she'd have no room to maneuver.
I started running.
The arrow took her in the chest just as I reached her.
She looked down at the shaft protruding from her ribs with something like surprise. As if she couldn't quite understand how it had gotten there.
"Elisabeth!" The scream tore out of my throat.
She looked up at me. Her face was already going pale. Blood on her lips.
"Erik," she whispered. Using my assumed name even now. Even with her life pouring out onto the forest floor.
I caught her as she fell. Gathered her into my arms like she weighed nothing at all.
"It's all right," I said desperately. "You're going to be fine. I'll get you help. I'll—"
"No." Her voice was barely audible. "No, you won't."
The blood was spreading too fast. The arrow had found something vital. Something that couldn't be fixed with bandages and hope.
"Don't leave me," I begged. "Please. I can't do this without you."
Her hand found my cheek. Weak but still warm.
"You don't have to," she said softly. "Look."
I looked up from her face and realized the battle was lost.
The Baron's men were dying or fleeing. Those who couldn't run lay scattered across the road like broken toys. Sir Marcus was down, his armor dented and bloodied. Still moving but slowly. Badly hurt.
And the enemy soldiers were regrouping. Forming up for the final assault that would finish off any survivors.
Including us.
"Together," Elisabeth whispered.
"Together," I agreed.
She died in my arms as the enemy soldiers approached.
I should have run. Should have tried to escape into the forest. Should have attempted to complete our mission somehow.
Instead, I stayed beside her body and waited for the end.
The enemy commander was a tall man with graying hair and intelligent eyes. He looked down at me with something that might have been sympathy.
"You fought well," he said in accented Norse. "Both of you. Brave children."
"We're not children," I said quietly.
"No. I suppose you're not."
He raised his sword. The blade caught the filtered sunlight streaming through the forest canopy.
"Any last words?"
I thought about the village that had saved me. About Henrik's kindness and the Guardian's patient teaching. About five years of peace and healing that these soldiers would probably destroy when they moved on.
I thought about Elisabeth's laugh. About morning training sessions and quiet conversations by the river. About all the things we'd never have the chance to do together.
I thought about the tyrant in the marble hall. About my parents dying while I watched. About how I'd spent five years preparing for a fight that was ending before it had really begun.
"Is this how it ends then?" I asked.
Not to the enemy commander. He was just doing his job. Soldiers following orders. Men who probably had their own families to protect.
I asked the question to the forest. To the sky. To whatever gods might be listening.
Five years of healing. Five years of learning to be human again. Five years of careful preparation for a mission that was supposed to matter.
All ending on a forest road with arrows and blood and the bitter taste of failure.
Is this how it ends?
Elisabeth's hand was still warm in mine. Her face peaceful despite everything. Like she'd found some kind of answer I couldn't see.
Maybe that was enough. Maybe dying beside someone you cared about was better than dying alone. Maybe choosing to stay rather than run was its own kind of victory.
The sword came down.
Is this how it ends?
Yes.
This is how it ends.
But not how it began.
It began with a village that chose kindness over suspicion. With people who saved strangers because it was right. With a community that stood together against forces too large to fight alone.
It began with Elisabeth pulling a half-drowned boy from a river and deciding his life was worth saving.
It began with hope.
And perhaps that's enough.
Perhaps that's how all stories should begin, even if this is how they end.
The darkness came gently. Like sleep after a long day's work.
Like coming home.