The forest groaned with secrets.
Duskgrove was no ordinary woodland. Gnarled trees curled upward like blackened ribs clawing at the sky, and the underbrush reeked of rot and rain. Even in daylight-if the sun ever pierced its choking canopy- there was no warmth. Just the unrelenting whisper of leaves and the quiet crush of damp soil underfoot. This was where things that shouldn't live, lived. And where those who weren't meant to survive came to die.
Veyne stirred awake on a bed of moss and rags.
His limbs were heavy, stitched together by pain. The world swam before him in dull, gray tones; blood loss, hunger, and exhaustion still dragging at his senses. Something rough and itchy was tucked beneath his neck, and his fingers twitched reflexively around the dull steel hilt of one of his short swords.
Alive.
That was the only word he trusted right now.
Nearby, the old man sat beside a withered stump, back turned, poking half-heartedly at a smokeless fire. No words. Just the soft rasp of metal against flint.
Veyne's throat burned. "Still here?"
The old man didn't look back. "Didn't drag you this far to watch you bleed out on a fern, did I?"
Veyne smirked dryly. His voice rasped. "Could've fooled me."
A huff. Not quite a laugh, but something like it.
Veyne shifted, groaning. Every inch of his body screamed. Deep gouges across his ribs were stitched hastily—some with thread, some with something that looked like sinew. His hands were bruised, his left shoulder dislocated then roughly reset, judging by the throbbing swell.
He glanced around. Duskgrove. The name clicked from stories he'd overheard in back-alley dens and opium bars. A cursed forest. People entered, but didn't leave. Smugglers avoided it. Hunters cursed it. Rumor had it beasts here didn't just kill—they stalked. Waited. Listened.
He didn't like that.
"You could've left me behind," Veyne said, tone unreadable. "Would've saved you the limp."
The old man finally turned. His face was hollow with fatigue, a fresh gash across his temple crusted in dried blood. "And you could've died quicker if you shut up and let yourself bleed out. Yet here we are."
They stared at each other. No warmth passed between them, only a brittle tension.
"What now?" Veyne asked.
The old man scratched his jaw. "We rest. You recover. Then we move. Sanctum doesn't let go."
Sanctum. The name alone itched beneath Veyne's skin like an old wound. He remembered the blades, the masked face, the burning lungs as he ran, the blood loss. He remembered the courier scroll, tucked deep in his satchel, still sealed.
He hadn't dared ask what it was.
He shifted, biting back a groan. "What did I carry?"
The old man gave no answer.
Instead, he stood and threw a wrapped bundle at Veyne's chest. The impact nearly winded him. Inside: stale bread, dried meat, and a flask of bitter leaf brew that stung his cracked lips but cleared the haze behind his eyes.
"You're either very foolish," the old man said quietly, "or very persistent."
"I've been called worse," Veyne muttered, chewing mechanically.
A pause.
"Where'd you learn to fight like that?" the old man asked.
Veyne blinked, then gave a raspy laugh. "Fight? That wasn't fighting. That was survival."
The old man watched him with those glacier-sharp eyes. "Sloppy. Wild. No stance. No discipline. But you moved with purpose. You didn't panic when bleeding out. Didn't scream when they gutted your side. You just kept running. That's something."
Veyne shrugged. "City life teaches you."
"And city life would've killed you two alleys later."
A moment passed.
Then the old man stepped forward, slowly, and without warning, struck toward Veyne's neck with a sharp jab. Veyne instinctively twisted, gritted his teeth, and raised his forearm to block. It wasn't graceful, but it deflected the blow.
"Better than yesterday," the old man said, stepping back.
"Was that a test?" Veyne growled.
"More like a correction. You flinch with your shoulder. Drop your elbow too soon. You swing like a drunk butcher."
"Then don't ambush a recovering man," Veyne spat, sitting up further.
The old man crossed his arms. "And if I were a Sanctum blade you'd be dead."
Veyne said nothing. He hated that the man was right.
"You want to live?" the old man asked. "Then you learn. I won't teach you, boy. But I'll stop you from embarrassing yourself."
Veyne leaned back, exhaling slowly. The pain was dull now,manageable.
"Fine," he muttered. "Correct away."
****
Days passed, though time lost meaning beneath Duskgrove's endless dusk. There was no sun to mark hours, no moon to cut the gloom. Just the rhythm of pain, breath, and silence.
True to his word, the old man never formally trained Veyne. But he corrected him. Repeatedly. Constantly. Every time Veyne picked up a blade wrong, every time his balance faltered, every time he dropped his weight unevenly, the man would grunt, mutter, or physically adjust his arms with an impatient shove.
And Veyne learned.
He hated the old bastard for it, but he learned. His footing became quicker. His swings more precise. Less wasted movement. Less sound.
They said nothing about where they were headed. The old man had plans,Veyne could see it in his eyes,but didn't voice them. Fine by him. Veyne didn't trust easily. Didn't care to. He still didn't know the man's name. Didn't ask.
In the quiet of one night, as fog rolled through the trees like ghost-breath, Veyne sat sharpening one of his blades. The other hand rested on the hilt of the second, lying across his lap.
His thoughts were not on survival. Not on the old man. Not even on Sanctum.
They were on the thing that had happened in the alley.
The shadow.
It had moved when he struck that man. Twisted with his blade. Coiled unnaturally. For a second, it felt... heavier. Alive.
He hadn't said anything. Hadn't shown it. But he remembered.
The old man had looked at him strangely once, briefly, during their escape. But then said nothing.
Good.
Veyne didn't understand it yet. And he didn't trust what he didn't understand.
He pressed the whetstone along the blade again. Steel whispered under stone.
In the distance, an owl hooted.
something else answered,
Low. Guttural. Wrong.
The old man froze across the fire, fingers stilling on his waterskin. His eyes met Veyne's.
Neither spoke.
There it was again-closer. Wet breath. A shuffle of leaves.
Veyne rose silently, twin blades in hand.
The fire crackled.
The bushes rustled to their left.
Then...
"Halt. Don't move."
The voice was a bark. Cold. Close. And not alone.
Figures emerged from the gloom, crossbows raised. Their cloaks bore no symbols. Their faces were masked.
Veyne did not recognize them.
But the intent behind their weapons?
That, he understood well.