The city breathed with a nervous rhythm, like a heart uncertain of its own strength. Lanterns flickered along the narrow streets, merchants spoke in hushed tones, and even the church bells seemed muted, their chimes swallowed by a restless silence. War had not yet touched the gates, but the shadows of conflict stretched long across the walls.Clara walked the marketplace with a basket tucked against her arm, her veil drawn low. Her steps were steady, but her ears caught every word traded like stolen coin. The whispers had grown bold in recent days—whispers about Michael.“They say he’s fled,” a woman murmured as Clara passed. “That the phantom was nothing more than a frightened man, hiding in the woods until the warlord’s shadow fell.”Another voice answered with disdain. “Fled? No—he’s dead. Kael returned broken, yes, but not without victory. The son-in-law died in the ambush, and his men scatter like leaves.”A third voice, lower, almost reverent, added: “Dead men don’t haunt the li

The warlord’s camp shifted in mood with terrifying speed. Fear still lingered in the ranks, but now it was sharpened into a different shape—anger, forged by their leader’s will. Orders rang out like hammer blows. Scouts rode through the forests in greater numbers, patrols doubled, and runners carried sealed messages to allied bands along the river.The whispers of the phantom still haunted the men, but now their commanders wielded those whispers as justification: “He mocks us. He spares us to shame us. Will you let a shadow humiliate you?” And the soldiers, though still uncertain, began to cling to rage as the only shield against their gnawing dread.But the warlord was not satisfied with merely hardening his men. No, he hungered for spectacle, something so devastating that it would shatter the phantom’s growing legend. And so, he turned his eyes toward the city—the place where Michael’s absence was felt most keenly, and where his wife’s defiance was slowly becoming a rallying point.

The forest lay silent under a moonless sky. Branches clawed upward like bony fingers, and the earth was damp with the scent of autumn decay. To most, it was a place to tread carefully, a place where light was swallowed and sound carried too far. But for Michael and his small band, it was the perfect cover.They had marched for hours, avoiding paths, stepping only where Jonathan signaled. At last, they crouched on a low ridge that overlooked a clearing below. In that clearing, dozens of enemy wagons sat haphazardly around low fires. The warlord’s soldiers lounged near them, laughing, sharpening blades, or drinking. They were careless, certain that no one would dare to stalk them so deep in the night.Jonathan leaned close to Michael, whispering. “Supplies. At least three weeks’ worth. If we take them, the enemy will bleed for it.”Michael’s eyes scanned the wagons. Barrels. Sacks. Tents stacked with tools. But more than food and gear—he saw something else: crates marked with strange ru

The warlord’s army stretched across the plains like a coiled serpent. Fires burned at its heart, lines of tents rose and fell with the hills, and banners snapped restlessly in the wind. Yet within the serpent, unease slithered.Men woke in the night, swearing they heard footsteps around their tents, only to find nothing. Sentries vanished without trace, their posts empty by dawn. Horses balked and sweated as though they smelled wolves, though none prowled near. Each disappearance, each whisper, deepened the shadow of the phantom.One soldier spat into the dirt, muttering to his comrade, “We fight for gold, not to be hunted like rabbits. I tell you, this phantom is not a man. He is death itself.”His comrade glared at him, though his own hand shook on his blade. “Keep your tongue. Speak of death, and death listens.”But the whispers spread, multiplying faster than the warlord’s captains could silence them. By the third night, a squad deserted entirely, their camp empty, fires still smo

The city had grown restless. Hunger gnawed at bellies, and doubt gnawed at hearts. Though the council kept the walls strong, and Clara gave voice to courage, the whispers seeded by the scribe had spread like a sickness. And sickness, if not cut away, soon festers into rot.That evening, in a candlelit chamber beneath the tavern, the scribe gathered his followers once more. His voice, smooth as silk but edged like a blade, carried across the table.“You have seen it with your own eyes,” he said. “The girl speaks of hope, but she offers no bread. The council speaks of Michael, but they cannot summon him. And while we suffer, they dine in their halls and drink from their cups.”A murmur of agreement swept the room.The scribe leaned closer, lowering his voice until it became a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you think Michael fights for you? No. He fights for himself. And when the enemy comes, he will throw open the gates and embrace them as brothers. I tell you—our true enemy is not outside