Chapter 15: A Light in the Darkness

  The heavy wooden doors of the chapel slammed shut behind them, sealing out the horrors of the night.

  Lucien barely registered the gasps of the villagers as he strode inside, his arms wrapped tightly around Caelan’s battered body.

  Blood soaked through his tunic. His face was pale, streaked with crimson from the vicious slash across his cheek. His breathing was shallow but still present.

  Lucien moved with purpose, heading straight for the altar.

  "Clear the way!" he barked, his voice sharp and commanding.

  The few priests and villagers inside scrambled back, making space. Lucien laid Caelan down gently upon the cold stone altar, his hands already moving to assess the damage.

  His tunic was ruined, drenched in blood, the gash on his shoulder deep and raw. The wound on his face—a brutal mark left by the beast’s tail—would scar if not treated properly. His side was also bleeding heavily.

  Lucien clenched his jaw. He needed bandages, clean water, anything to stop the bleeding.

  "What happened to my son?!"

  The furious voice boomed through the chapel.

  Lucien turned his head just in time to see Duke Adrien Forneaux storming toward them, his expression thunderous. His cloak billowed behind him as he approached, his gaze locked onto Caelan’s motionless form.

  His expression, so often unreadable, shattered into pure fury and concern.

  Lucien forced himself to stand straight, despite the exhaustion weighing on him.

  "He fought," Lucien said, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. "He fought the beast alone."

  The Duke’s fists clenched. "And you let him?"

  Lucien gritted his teeth. "We didn’t let him—he didn’t give us a choice."

  Adrien’s eyes flashed with barely contained rage. He stepped forward, his presence like a force of nature. "Then tell me, Lucien—why is my son bleeding out on an altar instead of standing beside me?!"

  Lucien exhaled sharply. Now wasn’t the time for arguments.

  "Because that thing was smart," Lucien said, his voice clipped but controlled. "It baited him into a duel, isolated him from the rest of us. It wanted him."

  The Duke’s fury flickered with something else—something colder.

  Lucien met his gaze without flinching. "And if he hadn’t killed it, none of us would be standing here right now."

  Silence hung between them.

  Finally, the Duke’s gaze shifted back to Caelan. His son. His heir.

  A flicker of something almost like fear crossed his features before it vanished beneath his usual cold mask.

  He turned to the knights standing nearby. "Bring me a medic. Now."

  The order was met with immediate movement.

  Lucien took a step back, breathing deeply. His hands were still slick with Caelan’s blood.

  He had gotten him back. Barely.

  But as he looked at the pale, unconscious figure on the altar, Lucien swore to himself—

  This could never happen again.

  And if another beast lurked in the Verdainne?

  He would be the one to bury it.

  The chapel was alive with movement.

  Villagers, the very people Caelan had fought to protect, gathered around, desperate to help. They brought whatever they could—clean cloth, bowls of water, herbs from their meager supplies.

  "Here—take this!" an old woman said, shoving a roll of fabric into a knight’s hands. "For the bleeding!"

  "Boil the water!" another man called. "We need to clean the wounds!"

  The knights, initially wary of letting peasants interfere, quickly abandoned pride. They needed every hand, every resource.

  Caelan was slipping away.

  Lucien pressed down on the gaping wound in Caelan’s shoulder, his hands coated in slick, warm blood. His jaw was tight, his heart pounding.

  "Stay with me, you bastard," he muttered under his breath. "Don’t you dare die on me."

  Then—

  A voice.

  "Make way."

  It was soft, but firm. Commanding in its own way.

  Lucien barely registered it before the crowd parted, revealing a young woman stepping forward.

  She was no older than twenty, dressed in a simple yet well-kept linen dress. A woolen cloak hung from her shoulders, her brown hair neatly braided. But what stood out most were her eyes—deep green, sharp with certainty.

  Lucien immediately raised a hand, ready to push her back. "No one touches him except—"

  "I can use healing magic."

  The words froze him.

  The entire room fell silent.

  The girl didn’t flinch under Lucien’s intense stare. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t stammer. She had come for one reason.

  To save Caelan.

  Lucien’s knees hit the stone floor before he even realized what he was doing.

  "Please," he said, his voice breaking with raw desperation. "Save him."

  The girl nodded without hesitation.

  "That was my intention from the start."

  She stepped forward, placing her hands over Caelan’s battered body.

  And as she closed her eyes, a soft glow surrounded her fingertips.

  The air itself shifted.

  For the first time since the attack—since the bloodshed, the fear, the horror—

  Hope filled the room.

  The air inside the chapel grew still.

  The villagers watched in silent awe, their breath held as the young woman placed her hands gently over Caelan’s worst wounds.

  A soft golden glow flickered around her fingertips, dim at first, then brighter, warmer. The light pulsed in slow waves, casting faint, shifting shadows across the chapel walls.

  Lucien, still kneeling beside Caelan, watched with bated breath. Magic.

  He had seen it before—**battlefield sorcery, arcane weapons—but never something like this. Never something so delicate.

  The glow sank into Caelan’s torn flesh, seeping into the deep gash on his shoulder. The bleeding slowed… then stopped.

  The ugly, open wound began to seal itself.

  It wasn’t perfect—the skin remained raw, red, scarred—but the flesh knitted together enough to prevent further damage.

  She moved next to his side abdomen, her hands trembling slightly as she repeated the process. The same golden light bloomed against his skin, mending the punctured flesh, stopping the relentless flow of blood.

  Caelan’s breathing, once ragged and shallow, steadied. His body, previously so deathly still, loosened slightly, as if no longer caught in the grip of agony.

  The worst of it was over.

  Then—the glow flickered.

  And died.

  The young woman staggered backward, her body suddenly weak. She gasped, catching herself against the altar.

  Lucien shot forward, steadying her by the shoulders.

  "You—" He felt her trembling. Her body was drained of strength, as if she had run a great distance without stopping.

  She shook her head, exhaling sharply. "I—I'm fine."

  Her eyes flickered toward Caelan. "But… I can’t do more."

  Lucien followed her gaze.

  The bleeding had stopped. The worst wounds had closed. But not everything had healed.

  The deep slash across Caelan’s face remained untouched, an ugly, crimson wound running from his cheek to just beneath his eye.

  His body was still battered, still bruised. He would need proper care, rest.

  But—he was alive.

  The girl straightened, her exhaustion clear, but her determination unwavering. "I’ve done what I can," she said softly.

  Lucien, for the first time since the night had begun, let out a breath of relief.

  "That was enough."

  The knights, who had been silent and tense, now relaxed slightly. Some exhaled deeply, some murmured quiet thanks.

  Then—

  "Your name."

  The girl blinked and turned.

  Duke Adrien Forneaux stood before her.

  His piercing gaze held none of the fury from earlier. It was still hard, still unreadable—but there was something else now.

  Respect.

  "You have saved my son’s life," the Duke said, his voice measured. "Your name."

  The girl hesitated only briefly before meeting his gaze.

  "émeline." the girl responded.

  The Duke nodded once.

  "You have my gratitude, émeline."

  She bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment, though exhaustion still weighed on her body.

  Lucien, still supporting Caelan’s unconscious form, looked at her. A healer. A rare find.

  And now—she had saved the life of the Duke’s heir.

  Things were about to change for her.

  The heavy tension in the chapel had lifted, if only slightly.

  The worst had passed—Caelan still lived. Thanks to émeline, the bleeding had stopped, and his wounds, though still painful, were no longer fatal.

  But the night was far from over.

  Duke Adrien stood tall, his gaze never leaving émeline. His usual unreadable expression was still in place, but his tone, when he spoke, was measured.

  "You are a healer."

  émeline, still catching her breath, nodded. "To a degree," she admitted. "I do not possess advanced magic. My abilities are limited. But… I did what I could."

  The Duke studied her for a moment, his piercing gaze unreadable. Then, he nodded.

  "You have done enough," he said simply.

  émeline exhaled slowly, relief flickering in her tired eyes.

  Lucien, still kneeling beside Caelan, looked up at the Duke. "What now, my lord?"

  Duke Adrien turned toward him, his eyes flickering to Caelan’s unconscious form.

  "We remain here for the night," he said. "We will reinforce the village defenses and ensure no more attacks occur before dawn." His expression hardened. "Then, at first light, we leave for the capital."

  Lucien tensed slightly. "The capital? In his condition?" He gestured toward Caelan. "He needs rest, time to recover."

  Duke Adrien’s eyes narrowed. "And you think we are safe here?"

  Lucien’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. He knew the Duke was right. The Verdainne Forest was not yet done with them.

  "The chapel will serve as shelter for now," the Duke continued. "But at sunrise, we move. Caelan will recover on the road, and once we reach the capital, he will receive the best care available."

  Lucien gritted his teeth. He hated it—but he understood.

  émeline, still standing nearby, shifted slightly.

  The Duke’s sharp gaze turned back to her. "You will accompany us."

  émeline blinked. "My lord?"

  "You saved my son’s life," the Duke said. "And if his condition worsens before we reach the capital, I expect you to ensure he survives the journey."

  émeline hesitated only briefly, then nodded.

  "As you command, my lord."

  Lucien let out a quiet breath. Good.

  At the very least, Caelan would not be without a healer.

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  The Duke turned back to the knights. "Strengthen the watch. I want every entrance guarded. No one sleeps until we are certain those creatures will not return tonight."

  The knights snapped into action, moving swiftly.

  Lucien glanced down at Caelan, his face still pale but peaceful now.

  The worst was over.

  But this night would never be forgotten.

  And as they prepared for the journey ahead, one thing was clear—

  The Verdainne Forest had left its mark on them all.

  Morning came slowly, the first light of dawn casting a muted glow over the ravaged village.

  The attack had left scars—not just on the land, but on the people.

  The knights spread out, moving cautiously through the settlement. There had been no further attacks during the night. No sign of the creatures returning, no guttural growls in the darkness.

  But that did not mean the threat was gone.

  Their first priority was to search for survivors. Some villagers had gone missing during the chaos, dragged away by the beasts into the abyss of the Verdainne. But perhaps—just perhaps—some had survived.

  Others focused on finding their horses—many of which had panicked during the night and broken loose. If they were lucky, the animals had scattered within the outskirts of the village rather than deeper into the forest.

  Duke Adrien Forneaux sat on a wooden chair near the altar, his tired eyes staring at nothing in particular.

  He had not slept. Not even for a moment.

  His mind had remained locked in calculation, strategy, and the weight of responsibility.

  Now, as dawn arrived, he made his decision.

  The village could not remain standing. Not after this.

  If those creatures were truly lurking in the Verdainne, if they were organized hunters, then this village was no longer safe.

  He needed to ensure that the survivors were protected, and that meant relocation.

  The nearest Forneaux military garrison was not far—a day’s ride at most.

  It was equipped with lodging, food supplies, and most importantly, armed men. Enough manpower and firepower to push back a beast threat if it arose again.

  It was the best possible option.

  Adrien exhaled, rubbing his forehead briefly before reaching for a quill and parchment.

  His hand moved steadily across the paper as he wrote:

  To the Commander of the Forneaux Garrison,

  Be advised, the village of Beaucourt has suffered a catastrophic attack. A threat from the Verdainne has emerged. Many have perished, and those who remain cannot stay.

  You are to prepare for the arrival of survivors—peasants who will need shelter, food, and protection. Have your men establish lodging facilities.

  Ensure they are cared for. The safety of these people is now your responsibility.

  I will personally assess the situation once I have completed my business in the capital. Until then, I expect your full compliance with this order.

  Duke Adrien Forneaux

  Finishing the letter, he let the ink dry before sealing it with his personal crest.

  The Duke set the letter aside and leaned back in his chair, exhaling deeply.

  He had done what needed to be done. The villagers would have a new place to stay, one where they would be safe.

  But still…

  His gaze flickered toward the altar, where his son lay. Caelan had fought. Caelan had nearly died.

  And as much as Adrien had prepared for war, for politics, for leadership…

  He had not prepared for the feeling of almost losing his heir.

  His grip on the chair’s arm tightened.

  This journey to the capital had already become far more than he anticipated.

  And it was only just beginning.

  The village of Beaucourt was left behind.

  The Duke’s escort rode at a steady pace, leading a somber procession of displaced villagers. Those who survived the night of terror carried what little they could—bundles of clothing, sacks of grain, whatever small valuables they had managed to salvage.

  The road stretched before them, winding through rolling hills and open fields, leading toward the Forneaux military garrison in the next town.

  Among the villagers, whispers and quiet conversations passed between weary voices.

  A blacksmith, a burly man with soot-stained hands, walked beside his wife and son. He had been one of the first to grab what he could before leaving Beaucourt—a hammer, a few iron tools, but no forge.

  He muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "A smith without a workshop is just another man with heavy hands."

  His wife, walking beside him, gave a quiet sigh. "You’ll find work again, Julien. They’ll need craftsmen in the garrison town."

  Julien grunted but said nothing. He wasn’t so sure.

  Further back, a woman with tired eyes clutched her young daughter’s hand tightly, her fingers trembling.

  She had lost her husband in the attack. Dragged into the dark.

  Now, she was alone. A widow, a mother, with nothing but the clothes on her back and the weight of an uncertain future pressing against her chest.

  She glanced at the knights leading them and then at the unconscious noble boy draped over his horse.

  He had saved them. Fought a monster to protect them.

  A noble—caring for peasants.

  "Do you think they’ll let us stay?" another villager, an older woman, asked softly.

  The young mother exhaled. "I don’t know. But we have no choice."

  At the back of the group, an elderly farmer with a sun-worn face trudged along, his legs aching with every step. He had lived in Beaucourt his entire life—born there, raised a family there, tilled its soil for decades.

  Now it was gone.

  "Feels wrong, leaving like this," he muttered. "Like we ain’t supposed to."

  A younger man beside him shook his head. "What else can we do? Stay and wait for the monsters to finish what they started?"

  The old man didn’t respond. He knew the younger man was right.

  But Beaucourt had been home.

  Would they ever find another?

  As they walked, the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows over the road.

  Ahead, the Duke of Forneaux rode in silence, his face unreadable. Lucien rode beside Caelan’s unconscious form, watching over his friend with quiet vigilance.

  The villagers followed, each step taking them further from the only home they had ever known—

  And into a future they could not yet see.

  The road stretched endlessly before them, each step taking them further from Beaucourt and closer to the Forneaux garrison.

  Among the displaced villagers, émeline walked in silence.

  Her cloak fluttered lightly in the breeze, but she barely noticed. Her mind was elsewhere—lost in thoughts of what her future now held.

  She had never left Beaucourt before. Never strayed far from the life she had known.

  But now?

  She glanced ahead, her gaze settling on Duke Adrien Forneaux. The nobleman rode in somber silence, his expression unreadable as always. His mind was elsewhere, but émeline knew that eventually, he would turn his attention to her.

  Because healers were rare.

  Even her limited magic—barely enough to close a severe wound—was valuable.

  And she knew what that meant.

  She wasn’t na?ve.

  If the Duke wanted her to accompany him to his lands, to serve his house as a healer, it would change her life forever.

  No more struggling to survive in a small village.

  No more wondering where her next meal would come from.

  No more fear of what would happen if a sickness took hold of her father and she couldn’t afford a remedy.

  Her future would be secure. Comfortable, even.

  And yet—the thought filled her with unease.

  She lowered her gaze, gripping the edges of her cloak as she walked.

  Because if she left…

  Her father would be alone.

  émeline had never known her mother. She had died in childbirth, leaving only her father to raise her.

  It had always been just the two of them.

  He had worked hard—too hard—to provide for her. His hands, once strong, were now worn with age, calloused from years of labor.

  If she left with the Duke…

  If she became part of something greater…

  Who would care for him?

  Would he tell her to go? To take the opportunity and never look back?

  Yes. Without hesitation.

  And that only made her feel worse.

  She exhaled softly, shaking her head. It was too soon to think about it.

  The Duke had not yet spoken to her about what came next. Perhaps he wouldn’t ask anything of her. Perhaps she was worrying over nothing.

  But deep down, she knew the truth.

  She had been noticed.

  And when nobles took notice of something valuable, they did not let it go easily.

  émeline kept walking, her heart uncertain.

  The journey to the garrison continued.

  And with it, so did her unease.

  The stone walls of the Forneaux garrison loomed ahead, standing tall against the midday sky.

  The weary group of villagers and knights marched toward its gates, their steps heavy with exhaustion. The journey had been long, but finally, they had reached safety.

  From atop the battlements, guards spotted their approach. The Duke’s banner fluttered in the wind, a signal of authority that no soldier could ignore.

  Within moments, the massive wooden gates creaked open, and a squad of armored soldiers stepped forward in disciplined formation.

  At the head of the group stood a man in Forneaux military regalia—his armor polished but practical, his posture rigid with discipline. His sharp, observant eyes immediately sought out the Duke.

  As soon as Duke Adrien dismounted, the commander snapped into a salute.

  "Lord Forneaux!" The man’s voice was deep and commanding. "We received your message. The garrison is prepared to take in the villagers as you ordered."

  Duke Adrien gave a small nod of approval.

  "Good," he said simply. His gaze swept over the gathered soldiers, assessing their numbers, their readiness. "Are there enough provisions?"

  "We’ve made accommodations," the commander assured him. "The barracks will house as many as we can fit. We’ve set up tents in the courtyard for the rest. Supplies will be rationed accordingly."

  The Duke’s expression remained unreadable, but the slightest hint of relief flickered in his eyes.

  "See that they are fed," he instructed. "And posted guards at the perimeter. The Verdainne may not reach this far, but I will take no chances."

  The commander gave a firm nod. "Understood, my lord."

  As the Duke finished speaking, the villagers hesitated at the entrance of the garrison.

  For many, it was their first time stepping inside military grounds. The sight of armored soldiers, weapons lining the walls, and the rigid structure of the fortification was daunting.

  A young child clung to her mother’s dress, staring wide-eyed at the men with swords.

  An elderly farmer hesitated at the threshold, as if walking past the gates meant he was truly leaving Beaucourt behind.

  One by one, they stepped forward.

  The soldiers guided them carefully, directing them toward designated areas—some to the barracks, others to tents in the courtyard.

  Despite their exhaustion, some of the villagers still whispered among themselves.

  "Do you think we’ll be allowed to stay here?"

  "Better than wandering homeless on the roads."

  "At least we’re safe."

  As the villagers were led away, Lucien dismounted, his eyes immediately flickering toward Caelan’s still-unconscious form.

  "Where’s your infirmary?" he asked sharply.

  The commander gestured toward a stone building near the barracks. "Inside. We have medics prepared."

  Lucien wasted no time. He and a knight carefully carried Caelan off his horse, making their way toward the infirmary.

  émeline followed closely behind, her heart still heavy with uncertainty.

  Duke Adrien watched it all unfold, his mind already on the next steps.

  The villagers were safe—for now.

  His son was still unconscious, but alive.

  Now, he had to decide what came next.

  Would he remain at the garrison for a day longer to ensure stability? Or continue to the capital immediately, as planned?

  The Duke’s tired eyes flickered toward the horizon.

  He would have to make his decision soon.

  The stone walls of the garrison enclosed them, shutting out the dangers of the Verdainne Forest and the uncertainty of the road ahead. For the first time in two days, there was a sense of security.

  But Duke Adrien knew better than to grow comfortable.

  Standing within the garrison’s war room, he studied the large map spread across the wooden table. His sharp eyes traced the roads leading from Beaucourt, past the Verdainne, and toward the capital. Every route, every possible danger, every unknown factor had to be considered.

  Across from him stood Commander Reynard Montclair, the garrison’s leader. A seasoned soldier in his early forties, Montclair’s presence commanded respect. His armor was worn from years of service, and a thin scar ran along his jaw—a testament to his past battles.

  The war room was quiet, save for the occasional sounds of knights shifting outside. The weight of their next decisions hung in the air.

  Montclair folded his arms. "We’ll shelter the villagers, my lord. But I assume you don’t plan on staying long."

  Adrien shook his head. "No. We continue to the capital tomorrow morning."

  Montclair’s expression didn’t change, but there was a glint of unease in his eyes.

  "With your son in that condition?" he asked carefully.

  A flicker of tension passed through the Duke’s face, but it vanished as quickly as it came.

  "He will recover on the road," Adrien said firmly. "I will not delay."

  Montclair exhaled. "Then I assume you want additional men to escort you."

  Adrien nodded. "Yes. We need to reinforce our numbers. Whatever lurks in the Verdainne may not be done with us."

  Montclair frowned. "And what of the village itself? Beaucourt is abandoned. If those creatures attack again, there will be nothing but ruins left."

  Adrien’s gaze hardened.

  "That place is lost," he said coldly. "I will not waste men defending a graveyard."

  Montclair gave a slow nod. It was the only logical choice.

  The Duke leaned forward, tapping the map near the garrison’s symbol.

  "The survivors will remain here under your protection," he said. "They will need work. Find them roles that suit their skills—laborers, cooks, stable hands."

  Montclair scratched his chin. "Some will be useful, but not all. What of the old? The sick?"

  Adrien’s expression remained unreadable. "They will stay regardless. It is my duty to protect my people, even if they can no longer serve."

  Montclair raised an eyebrow. A noble with such a sense of responsibility was rare. But he did not question it further.

  "I’ll see to it," he said.

  Adrien straightened. "I will leave at sunrise. Prepare twenty of your best men to ride with us."

  Montclair gave a sharp nod. "Consider it done, my lord."

  The Duke turned, heading for the exit. His mind was already on the next step.

  The capital awaited. And with it, whatever political games, hidden agendas, and unknown dangers would come next.

  But for now—he would rest.

  Tomorrow, the journey would continue.

  And Adrien Forneaux would be ready.

  The dimly lit infirmary carried the faint scent of herbs and clean linen. The walls were lined with wooden beds, most unoccupied, save for one.

  Lucien stepped inside quietly, his boots barely making a sound against the stone floor. His eyes immediately landed on Caelan, lying motionless on the cot.

  For the first time in hours, his friend looked peaceful.

  His breathing was steady, his wounds cleaned and bandaged. The deep gash on his shoulder, the slash across his face—they were still there, but no longer raw and bleeding.

  And beside him—

  Lucien’s gaze flickered to émeline.

  The young healer stood at Caelan’s bedside, her hands hovering just above his chest, faint golden light flickering between her fingertips.

  She was focused, her brow furrowed in concentration. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead.

  Lucien exhaled, arms crossing over his chest. "You’re pushing yourself too hard."

  émeline flinched slightly, as if she hadn’t noticed his presence. She turned her head, her eyes filled with exhaustion.

  "I’m… just trying to speed up the healing," she admitted, her voice quiet. "His wounds are deep. Even with proper care, they’ll take time."

  Lucien studied her for a moment. The girl had already done enough.

  But still, she remained here. Helping. Trying.

  He sighed, stepping closer. "He’s alive. That’s what matters."

  émeline nodded, but her fingers still trembled slightly as she let the magic fade.

  Lucien pulled up a chair, lowering himself beside the cot. His eyes softened slightly as he looked at his best friend—the reckless noble who had nearly gotten himself killed.

  "You really are an idiot, Caelan," he muttered under his breath.

  émeline let out a tired, amused breath. "He fought to protect everyone. That’s not idiotic."

  Lucien shook his head. "No, but throwing himself at a monster alone? That was."

  Silence settled between them.

  émeline glanced down at Caelan’s sleeping form, then at Lucien. "You care for him a great deal."

  Lucien exhaled, resting his arms on his knees. "He’s my master," he said simply. Then, after a pause— "And my friend."

  The two sat in quiet understanding.

  Outside, the garrison prepared for departure. But here, in the infirmary, time seemed to slow.

  Lucien would wait. No matter how long it took.

  Because when Caelan woke up—he’d be there.

  And then, they would move forward.

  Together.

  End of Chapter 15