The air was thick, heavy as wet cloth, suffocating in its stillness. The oppressive silence seemed alive, a beast breathing slow and deep, lurking just beyond sight. Even the moonlight filtering through the fractured treetops looked unnatural—thin and ghostly, casting warped shadows across the path. It wasn't soft or gentle. It was cold, almost clinical, as if even the moon feared to linger too long in this place.
My pulse throbbed under the skin, echoing the pain from the wound. Every breath scraped my throat and burned in my chest. The cart rolled forward into the narrowing path, wheels crunching softly over dry earth, the only sound in a world that had gone unnaturally quiet.
Gamir slowed the cart just slightly, tension stiffening his posture as his eyes flickered rapidly across the landscape.
He lifted a finger, holding it steady for a breath, then began to trace a rune—his fingertip moving slowly through the air. The pattern was more intricate than anything I'd seen before.
He exhaled, his shoulders loosening just a fraction.
"Nothing nearby. Yet" he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
"But stay sharp. This place... it doesn't want us here."
So it was a detection rune.
Azel tightened his grip on his weapon. He stood rigid, breathing shallowly, eyes wide and alert.
Namur at the front was calm but poised, a blade ready in his hand. They didn't question Gamir.
The landscape around us closed in, the path narrowing until it felt like a corridor—claustrophobic and tense. Tall reeds rose on either side, their dry stalks brushing together with a faint, restless whisper. Pale, jagged stones jutted from the cracked soil, sharp-edged and strangely out of place.
Suddenly, beneath the soft groan of the wheels, something stirred. It wasn't a tremor; it was subtler, stranger—a faint, uneven vibration, constant and irregular, as if something deep underground was shifting or crawling closer.
Suddenly, Gamir halted the cart with a sharp pull on the reins. The wheels skidded briefly before locking, and the cart rocked in place. Dust rose from the dry earth in soft clouds.
Namur twisted around, irritation tinged with worry in his eyes.
"Why are we stopping?"
Gamir didn't respond immediately. Instead, he swept his gaze across us, his expression grim, haunted by shadows only he seemed to see.
"We're in trouble" he finally said, voice flat, emotionless.
A silence stretched taut, pressing in from all sides.
Gamir continued, his voice barely audible.
"They're the Children of the Guardian."
Azel's calm broke momentarily, eyes widening in unmistakable shock. One hand rose instinctively to his chest—then stopped halfway, fingers curling into a fist as if to crush the panic before it reached his throat.
Namur turned sharply, disbelief etched across his features. His voice came clipped, brittle.
"By 'Guardian'… you mean—?"
"Yes." Gamir nodded slowly, almost reluctant. "The Guardian of the Cedar Forest."
Namur shook his head, as if denial alone could rewrite reality.
"That's impossible. The forest's weeks to the west. What the hell would they be doing this far out?"
Gamir didn't answer immediately. When he spoke again, the heaviness in his voice deepened, colder and harder.
"I don't know. But if they attack, we won't survive long enough to ask."
Namur's grip on his blade tightened until his knuckles blanched. He didn't speak. Just shifted his stance ever so slightly—like a soldier bracing for an arrow he couldn't see.
I forced myself upright, ignoring the violent protest of pain in my shoulder. Sweat ran down my back, stinging where the wound had festered.
"What kind of creatures are they?"
Namur and Gamir exchanged a glance. The tension in the air tightened.
"They're fragments of the Guardian" Namur said, choosing his words carefully.
"Born when sacred boundaries are disturbed. Primal things—vicious, relentless, drawn to imbalance. The Guardian itself was made by Enlil to protect those boundaries. But no one's ever seen its children this far from the Cedar Forest."
"Then why are they here?" I asked, my voice rough with tension and pain.
Gamir's reply came fast and sharp as a blade.
"No idea... but if I had to guess? Some kind of imbalance. A big one. I just hope we're not standing right in the middle of whatever brought them here."
He paused briefly, eyes still scanning the reeds.
"Luckily, they haven't moved yet. They're watching. Waiting."
I didn't say anything. My mind was already moving—trying to find a way not to slow them down if things turned violent. I wasn't in shape to fight properly, but maybe I could still help. Distract. Draw them away. Do something—anything—that might give the others a better chance.
No one broke the silence. Everyone was listening, waiting for someone to speak.
Gamir shifted in his seat.
"We keep moving. Slowly. No sudden moves. If they rush us, we don't stop—we accelerate, push through, fight if we have to. Stopping means dying. Our best chance is to break through."
He looked at Namur, then at Azel—steady, even with the strain in his voice.
"I don't like it. But it's the only shot we've got."
Namur nodded once, a sharp movement—too sharp. His throat worked in a dry swallow, but he said nothing.
Azel let out a slow breath through his nose, barely audible. His fingers trembled for a second before tightening again around the hilt.
The cart began rolling forward again, each rotation of the wheels a painful reminder of our vulnerability. The quiet deepened further, the atmosphere growing so thick it pressed against my lungs. Every muscle tensed, every nerve screamed.
I peered through the slit in the canvas, scanning the tall reeds for movement. My heart thundered against my ribs, louder than it should have—each beat a drum calling death closer.
Suddenly, I saw a shadow crouched low between the stalks, still and half-formed. Its shape was wrong. Twisted. The spine arched at angles no body should follow.
I narrowed my eyes, trying to focus, but the moonlight made everything swim—lines blurring, details slipping away.
Then it moved. Not much—just a slow tilt of the head, then a shift.
Toward me.
It knew.
It had seen me too.
Gamir's voice whispered from up front, tight with suppressed fear.
"They're letting us pass. For now. Don't look directly at them. Don't provoke them."
I turned slowly, forcing myself to breathe evenly. My fingers dug into the wood beneath me, desperate for grounding. The rot in my shoulder throbbed, a reminder that the infection was spreading. Death, it seemed, was following me closer than ever—patient, certain, inevitable.
As the cart inched forward, each moment stretched taut with dread. The Guardian's Children had chosen not to attack—yet.
But we weren't safe.
And deep down, a question burrowed into me:
What kind of sacred balance had been broken, to bring them this far from home?