The squad moved along a narrow forest road that looked more like a wound carved into the body of the world.

  Mud squelched under boots—thick, bck, soaked with rain and old blood. Branches cwed at armor, tore skin, left fresh scratches over old scars. High above the treetops crows croaked—hoarse, gloating, as though they already knew there would soon be fresh meat to feast on.

  The men marched quickly and almost in silence. The same exhaustion was carved into every face—not just physical, but bone-deep, soul-deep. Eyes dull, mouths pressed into thin lines, hands resting on weapon hilts as though sughter could erupt again at any second.

  Kane walked at the front.

  Always at the front.

  Drake tried to keep pace with Lohan—step for step, breath for breath. The boy was silent, but his eyes burned—not with childish curiosity, but with something dark, ravenous.

  For several hours they moved without a single word. Finally Drake couldn’t hold it in.

  “Uncle Lohan… when do the trainings start?”

  Lohan gnced down at him and gave a crooked smirk.

  “Drake, we’ve still got half a day of dragging ourselves through this shit-road.”

  He adjusted the strap over his shoulder and nodded ahead—toward where the forest grew thicker and darker.

  “By evening we’ll make camp. If we’re lucky, we’ll find a river. We all stink worse than a rotting troll by now.”

  Someone up ahead let out a short, mirthless snort.

  Lohan continued, voice lowered:

  “Then we eat—if the hunters manage to catch anything still breathing. The supplies from your vilge…” He cut himself off, swallowed hard. “…we have to finish them.”

  Drake only shrugged—indifferently, almost like an adult.

  “Don’t worry, Uncle Lohan.”

  He stared straight ahead, at Kane’s back.

  “I’ll take revenge for my vilge.”

  His small fist clenched so hard the knuckles turned white.

  “When all the demons are dead… then people can finally rest in peace.”

  Lohan looked at him more closely.

  For an instant something dark flickered in the boy’s eyes—brief, but so heavy it made Lohan’s skin crawl. This wasn’t a child’s gaze. This was the gaze of someone who had already died inside and was now just waiting for the body to catch up.

  Lohan coughed, shaking off the chill.

  “Well… if you still have any strength left after the march…”

  He smirked—nervously.

  “…then we can do a little training.”

  He nodded toward Kane.

  “The captain will be busy with papers and maps tonight.”

  Lohan scratched the back of his head thoughtfully.

  “I’ll show you the basic stances.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “And we’ll pick you a weapon while we’re at it. Sword or dagger?”

  Drake smiled at once—thin, almost predatory.

  “Sword.”

  He looked down at his own palms—small, but already calloused from the axe.

  “Father taught me with a wooden sword.”

  Lohan remembered that man—the body studded with demon spears, blood mixed with mud, empty eyes staring at the sky.

  He sighed heavily.

  This boy…

  Most children broke after something like that: flinching at every sound, crying in the night, wetting themselves from fear.

  But this one…

  Wanted to kill.

  By evening the march had wrung the st drops of strength from everyone.

  When the sun began to sink behind the bck silhouettes of trees, Kane raised his hand—sharp, wordless.

  “Camp.”

  The squad stirred—tiredly, mechanically.

  Soldiers began setting up: hammering stakes, stretching tarps, gathering wet branches for firewood. A few slipped away silently with bows and short spears to hunt.

  They found the river nearby—narrow, ice-cold, smelling of wet moss and iron.

  The freezing water washed away blood, dirt, and sweat—but not the exhaustion. Not the fear.

  Drake stood knee-deep in the current, furiously scrubbing his clothes. When he returned to camp, his shirt still clung to his body, wet and freezing.

  He sat by the fire and stared hungrily at the cauldron.

  “Drake, damn it!”

  The boy looked up.

  Lohan stood beside him, holding a bundle.

  “You’ll catch your death like that.”

  He tossed the clothes.

  “Here. Shirt and trousers.”

  Drake caught the bundle.

  The garments were huge—adult-sized, coarse, reeking of sweat and smoke.

  But the boy quickly drew his knife and sliced the sleeves and legs to size—precise, practiced movements.

  Soon everyone was eating.

  Thick broth—greasy, with chunks of meat of uncertain origin floating in it.

  Roasted meat—tough, tasting of smoke and iron.

  Soldiers sat around the fires—some spinning old tales of massacres, some ughing hoarsely at someone else’s death.

  That was how they tried to forget what they had seen that morning: torn bodies, empty eyes, the smell of burned flesh.

  After a while Lohan stood up.

  “Come on.”

  Drake jumped to his feet instantly—as though he had been waiting for exactly those words.

  They walked away from the camp to a small clearing.

  The forest had already swallowed the light—only firelight flickered between the trunks like the eyes of predators.

  Lohan drew a short sword and held it out to the boy.

  “Try it.”

  Drake took the bde.

  It was heavier than the wooden one—much heavier.

  But his hands found the grip at once—elbows slightly bent, wrists rexed, weight banced perfectly.

  The boy assumed a stance.

  Lohan opened his mouth to speak…

  Then fell silent.

  He slowly circled Drake.

  “Don’t move.”

  The boy stood motionless.

  The sword held steady.

  Shoulders rexed.

  Feet shoulder-width apart.

  Lohan raised an eyebrow in surprise.

  “Hm.”

  “Who taught you?”

  “Father.”

  Drake took a small step forward.

  Rotated his torso.

  The bde shifted—just enough, no wasted motion.

  Lohan exhaled quietly.

  “Damn…”

  He smirked—nervously, almost fearfully.

  “You already have the basics.”

  He drew his own sword.

  “And good ones.”

  Lohan stepped opposite him.

  “Let’s see what your father taught you.”

  He lunged forward suddenly.

  The bde hissed through the air—fast, without warning.

  Drake raised his sword in time.

  Steel met steel.

  The ring echoed through the forest—clear, cold, like a scream in the night.

  Lohan froze.

  Raised an eyebrow—astonished.

  “Wow.”

  He smiled—slowly, almost with respect.

  “You weren’t lying.”

  Drake gripped the hilt tighter.

  That familiar feeling fred in his chest again—hot, bck, familiar.

  “I told you.”

  The boy looked up at him.

  “I will kill demons.”

  Lohan stared at him for several long seconds.

  Then he said quietly:

  “It looks like… you will.”

  And at that moment the wind howled somewhere beyond the trees—low, drawn-out, as though the forest itself had been listening to their words.

  And approved.