The knock came before dawn.
Sharp. Two taps.
Leon opened the door already dressed, boots laced, blade strapped.
Yundar stood in the corridor holding a folded parchment and a grim expression. "Dress light. You're riding."
Leon nodded. No questions.
Yundar handed him the parchment. "Order from Lord Cedric. Supply check south of the ridge line. Escort detail."
Leon opened it. The seal was real.
"Why me?"
"You need the experience. And the roads need a sword that knows how to stay quiet."
Leon stepped out and followed.
The horses were already saddled in the lower yard.
Three others waited near the gates—two guards in leather mail, and a young knight barely older than Leon, adjusting his gauntlet like it was too tight. The knight spotted Leon and nodded politely, but said nothing.
The air smelled like wet stone and iron.
Yundar passed Leon a waterskin. "It's not a patrol," he said low. "You're meeting a merchant convoy halfway. Make sure they're intact."
"If they're not?"
"You've got steel."
Leon mounted.
Yundar stepped back. "Ride with your eyes open."
The ride started quiet.
Wagon ruts marked the dirt trail, shallow but recent. The road curved through thinning trees, frost still clinging to their lower branches. Leon kept his hand near his hilt and watched the brushlines.
The knight introduced himself halfway to the ridge. "Callen," he said, adjusting his saddle strap again. "Third banner of the Valhart line. I trained with Roderic."
Leon gave a nod. "You fight like him?"
Callen smiled. "A little less polite."
The two guards chuckled.
By midday, they found the first signs of trouble.
A cart, tipped and half-burnt, sat in a ditch off the road. One wheel shattered. A few sacks torn open. No bodies.
Just drag marks.
Leon dismounted.
He crouched near the wheel and touched the ash with two fingers.
Still warm.
He stood. "They're close."
Callen's jaw tightened. "Bandits?"
"Maybe."
Leon drew his blade.
The guards followed.
They found the convoy in a clearing less than a mile further.
One cart was intact. The rest scattered—some overturned, some broken. Three bodies slumped near the fire pit. Another groaned from under a collapsed barrel.
Leon moved fast. Rolled the barrel aside. A man coughed blood and reached up blindly.
"Help—please—"
"We've got him!" Leon called.
Callen moved to cover the ridge.
One of the guards checked the bodies. "Traders. No armor."
Leon turned to the man. "What happened?"
"Riders," the man gasped. "Black... armor. One had horns. Not natural..."
Leon's stomach twisted. "How many?"
The man's eyes fluttered. "Five. No more. But strong."
Then he passed out.
The sound came from the trees.
Not hooves. Not boots.
Clicking.
Leon stood and raised his blade. "Form up!"
Callen turned just as the first figure emerged—tall, lean, wrapped in black leather with bone plating along its arms. No eyes. Just smooth, stretched skin and a mouth full of too many teeth.
Demonic.
Two more followed, then a fourth. No horns. But the energy coming off them made Leon's spine tingle.
The fifth came last—taller, cloaked, no face beneath the hood. Just darkness.
"Back to the cart!" Leon shouted.
The guards didn't argue.
They regrouped near the broken wagon. Leon took the front.
The demons circled.
Then they attacked.
The first struck like a wolf—low and fast.
Leon blocked the blade, stepped inside the swing, and drove his elbow into the creature's ribs. It didn't flinch. But it staggered. That was enough.
Callen parried the second, shouted as claws raked across his vambrace.
A guard screamed—dragged to the dirt.
Leon twisted and slammed his sword down into the neck of the closest demon. The blade bit deep, caught bone, and didn't let go.
The creature hissed, blood spraying across Leon's chest.
He yanked the sword free and turned.
Too slow.
The hooded one moved—no sound, no warning.
Just a pulse.
Like pressure in his skull.
Leon stumbled.
It didn't attack.
Just watched.
He gritted his teeth and moved between the guards and the hooded figure. "Back off."
Nothing.
Then it raised one finger—long, blackened, almost delicate.
Pointed at Leon's chest.
Spoke without a voice.
"You're not supposed to be here."
Leon's vision dimmed.
Then the pressure lifted.
The hooded one turned and vanished into the trees. The others followed.
Silence returned like a slap.
Callen limped forward. "What the hell was that?"
Leon looked down at the blood on his blade.
Then back at the trees.
"Something worse than bandits."
The guard who survived checked the unconscious merchant. "Still breathing."
Callen wiped his face. "We need to get back."
Leon didn't move right away.
His sword felt heavier now. Not from blood.
From recognition.
The way the hooded one looked at him—like it knew him. Like it was checking to see if he was really him.
That didn't sit right.
He sheathed the blade.
"We ride," he said. "Now."
The ride back was fast. No one spoke much.
Callen winced every few minutes, gripping his side beneath the armor. The guard behind him kept glancing over his shoulder, eyes scanning the trees like the silence would break again any second. Leon led the way, reins tight, sword still streaked with drying black blood strapped across his back.
His jaw stayed clenched the whole time.
The closer they got to the estate, the heavier something sat in his chest. That demon hadn't attacked. It could've. It looked like it wanted to. But it hadn't.
It pointed.
Not at the guards. Not at Callen.
At him.
Like it knew.
As they passed the outer gate, Leon kicked his horse ahead and veered toward the east wing. He didn't wait for Callen. Didn't stop for the stable hands. He slid off the saddle, left the reins loose, and marched straight into the manor.
He needed answers.
If the old war stories were true—if what he saw was what he thought it was—then someone had lied.
Not just about what lurked past the border.
But about why they were still alive.