The Bastard and the Prince

The caravan moved out, the wagons creaking and horses' hooves crunching against the forest floor. The dim light of dawn filtered through the canopy, but the oppressive gloom of the forest lingered, as if the day refused to fully release its grip.

Alaric held Lysandra firmly against him as his horse followed the wagons. Her body was limp, her head resting against his chest. Every so often, she stirred, letting out faint groans of discomfort. His arm tightened around her protectively, his eyes scanning the forest.

The tension in the group was palpable. Knights and mercenaries rode in tight formation around the wagons, their weapons drawn, their eyes darting nervously toward the tree line. The attack from the ghouls had shaken even the most seasoned among them, and the forest now felt like a living thing, holding its breath as they passed.

Roderic rode alongside Alaric, his face set in a grim mask. "We'll make it to the outpost by sunset if we keep this pace," he said. "No signs of pursuit so far, but I don't trust it."

"Neither do I," Alaric replied, his voice low.

He glanced down at Lysandra, who remained pale and barely responsive in his arms. Her breathing was shallow but steady.

"She needs rest—and more than a temporary fix from the healer."

Roderic nodded, his tone softening slightly. "She's tough. She'll pull through." He hesitated, then added, "But you know what this means, don't you? If anyone —"

"I know," Alaric snapped, cutting him off. "I'm handling it."

Roderic's brow furrowed, but he didn't press the matter further. Instead, he urged his horse forward to check on the wagons, leaving Alaric alone with his thoughts.

As the caravan pressed on, the forest began to change. The dense canopy thinned slightly, allowing more sunlight to filter through, and the oppressive silence gave way to the sound of rushing water. The air felt fresher, cooler, and for the first time in hours, there was a faint glimmer of hope.

The outpost came into view just as the sun slowly decending into evening in the sky. It was little more than a cluster of crumbling stone buildings, their walls covered in moss and vines. A wooden palisade surrounded the perimeter, though parts of it had fallen into disrepair. Despite its state, it was defensible, and the caravan quickly began unloading supplies and securing the area.

Alaric dismounted carefully, holding Lysandra as he slid from the saddle. Her eyes fluttered open briefly, her lips moving as if trying to say something, but no words came. He carried her into one of the larger buildings—a former barracks, now stripped bare save for a few broken cots—and laid her down gently on a makeshift bed of blankets.

The healer followed close behind, kneeling beside her with fresh supplies. "I'll need some time to treat her properly," they said, their tone brisk but confident. "The venom's slowed, but it's still there. She'll need another dose of the tonic, and I'll do what I can for the wounds."

Alaric nodded, stepping back to give them space. He stood by the doorway, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he watched the healer work. Every so often, his gaze flicked to Lysandra's face, pale and drawn but still stubbornly clinging to life.

Outside, the knights and mercenaries worked quickly to fortify the outpost. Roderic barked orders, directing men to patch up the palisade and set up watch points. Donall and Kellan stood guard at the main gate, their eyes scanning the forest for any sign of movement.

As the sun was setting, Alaric finally allowed himself to step away, his legs heavy with exhaustion. He found Roderic near the gate, overseeing the placement of sharpened stakes around the perimeter.

"She'll make it," Alaric said quietly, answering the unspoken question in Roderic's eyes. "The healer's with her."

Roderic gave a short nod. "Good. We'll rotate watch through the night, but I don't trust the quiet. Ghouls don't usually attack like that unless something's driving them."

Alaric frowned, his grip tightening on his sword hilt. "Something, or someone."

Roderic's expression darkened, but he said nothing. The two men stood in silence for a moment.

Back inside the barracks, the healer finished their work, wiping their hands clean on a cloth. Lysandra stirred, her eyes opening slightly as she looked around, her voice weak but defiant. "Still alive, then?"

The healer smirked faintly. "Barely. You've got a knack for surviving impossible odds."

She let out a soft, dry laugh, then winced as the movement pulled at her wounds.

"Alaric?"

The healer gestured toward the door.

"Keeping watch. Seems he's got an eye on you."

Her lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile before exhaustion claimed her again, her eyes slipping shut. The hours passed in uneasy stillness as the healer tended to others and the camp settled into its tenuous rhythm of watchfulness and rest.

When Lysandra woke, it was to the oppressive heat of fever burning through her veins. Her body ached as though a thousand needles were pricking her skin, and her mind felt heavy, disoriented. She blinked, trying to focus on the room around her, but the edges of the space seemed to shift and waver, the light taking on an unnatural hue.

Her breathing quickened. Something wasn't right.

The faint noise of the camp outside faded, replaced by a sound that didn't belong—a hollow, echoing laughter that sent a shiver down her spine. She tried to sit up, but her muscles refused to cooperate. Panic set in as her surroundings dissolved, replaced by something more familiar.

She was no longer in the outpost. The stone walls and flickering torchlight had transformed into the cold, dim corridors of her childhood estate, the air heavy with the scent of damp stone and old blood. Shadows danced across the walls, their movements unnatural and malicious.

"No," she whispered, her voice trembling. 

But the nightmare wouldn't relent. She could hear footsteps echoing down the corridor, slow and deliberate, accompanied by the faint scrape of metal against stone. A voice called her name, soft and mocking, and her heart clenched in terror.

"Lysandra…"

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She knew that voice. It belonged to him—the assassin who had come for her as a child, the one she had barely escaped. The figure emerged from the shadows, his face obscured by a mask, his blade glinting in the dim light.

"You thought you could run," the voice taunted, the words curling around her like smoke. "You thought you could hide. But I've always known where you are."

"No," she choked out, scrambling backward despite the sharp pain that shot through her body. Her injured leg burned, but she didn't care. Her instincts screamed at her to flee, even as her mind fought to remind her that this wasn't real.

The figure advanced, slow and deliberate, the blade gleaming as he raised it. "You've always been marked, Lysandra. No matter how far you go, no matter how strong you become, you'll never escape me."

"Stay back!" she screamed, her voice raw with terror. She reached for her dagger, but her hand grasped at empty air. The weapon wasn't there.

The walls closed in, the air suffocating as the figure loomed over her.

Just as the blade descended, a different voice cut through —a sharp, commanding voice that didn't belong in this memory.

"Lysandra! Wake up!"

Her body jerked as strong hands gripped her shoulders, shaking her. The assassin vanished, the cold corridor melting away into the flickering firelight of the outpost barracks. She blinked, her breaths ragged as she stared into Alaric's face, his expression a mix of worry and determination.

"Lysandra, it's me," he said, his voice steady but firm. "You're safe. It's not real."

Her heart continued to race, her body trembling uncontrollably as she tried to focus on his words. "It… it felt real," she stammered, her voice hoarse. "He was here. I saw him."

"It's the fever," Alaric said, his grip on her shoulders steady. "And the tonic. The healer warned me this might happen. You're hallucinating, Lysandra. It's not real."

Her breathing slowed, though the terror lingered in her eyes. "I thought…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "I thought I was back there."

Alaric's expression softened, his hands still steadying her. "You're here," he said quietly. "With me. And nothing's going to hurt you."

Her lips parted as if to argue, but the exhaustion in her body overpowered her once again. Her muscles relaxed, and she sagged against him, her eyes fluttering shut.

"I'll stay," he said softly, more to himself than to her. 

Alaric eased her back onto the makeshift bed, his hand brushing her damp hair from her forehead. He sat beside her, his sword resting against his knee, his watchful eyes scanning both her and the room beyond. 

The hours dragged on, the fever refusing to loosen its grip on Lysandra. Alaric stayed by her side, exhaustion weighing heavily on him. The camp outside was tense but quiet, the soldiers working in shifts to fortify the outpost. The healer tended to Lysandra regularly, muttering that the fever was the tonic's price—a necessary torment to fight the venom.

When Lysandra woke, her breaths were shallow, her skin burning with fever. Her gaze darted around the dim barracks, her voice trembling as she whispered, "They're here."

Alaric leaned closer, his hand brushing her damp hair back. "Lysandra, it's the fever. You're safe—nothing's here."

"No," she gasped, gripping his arm with surprising strength despite her condition.

"They're back. The ghouls."

Alaric frowned, her words twisting something deep in his gut. He opened his mouth to reassure her when the faint sound of scratching reached his ears. He froze, his eyes darting toward the door. The scratching grew louder, joined by low, guttural snarls.

A chill ran through him. It wasn't the fever playing tricks on her. She was right.

Before he could react, the door burst open, and Roderic stormed in, his expression grim, his sword already drawn.

"They're back," Roderic said, his voice sharp and urgent. "Scouts spotted them at the edge of the treeline. They're circling us—testing our defenses."

Alaric cursed under his breath, standing quickly and grabbing his sword. "How many?"

"Too many," Roderic replied. "More than before. We need everyone at the perimeter now."

Alaric glanced back at Lysandra. She was struggling to sit up, her fever-bright eyes meeting his. "You can't go out there," she said, her voice hoarse but firm. "Not without a plan."

"There's no time," Alaric said, his tone softening. "Stay here. The healer will watch over you."

"Alaric—"

"I'll be back," he promised, his gaze holding hers for a moment before he turned and followed Roderic out the door.

The camp was already in chaos. Mercenaries scrambled to reinforce the palisade, knights take up defensive positions. The torches around the perimeter flickered, their light casting jagged shadows as the growls and snarls grew louder.

"They're smarter this time," Roderic muttered, his sword gleaming in the torchlight. "They're waiting for us to make a mistake."

"They won't have to wait long if we can't hold the line," Alaric replied grimly.

As if on cue, a bloodcurdling shriek echoed through the night, followed by a sudden surge of movement at the edge of the forest. The ghouls emerged from the shadows, their glowing eyes burning with unnatural hunger. They moved with terrifying speed, their claws scraping against the ground as they charged toward the outpost.

"Hold the line!" Roderic bellowed, his voice carrying over the din. "Don't let them breach the gates!"

Alaric joined the soldiers at the front, his sword slicing through the first ghoul that leapt at him. The creature screeched as it crumpled to the ground, but two more took its place, their claws slashing through the air.

Inside the barracks, Lysandra fought to steady her breathing. The sounds of battle filtered in—shouts, screams— she clenched her fists, frustration and fear coursing through her. She tried to sit up, but her body protested, the fever and venom sapping her strength.

"They'll overwhelm them," she muttered to herself, her voice shaking. "They always do."

A loud crash came from outside, followed by a triumphant howl that sent chills down her spine. Her heart pounded as she struggled to her feet, leaning heavily against the wall for support.

"I can't just lie here," she whispered, gritting her teeth against the pain. "Not while they're out there."

Summoning every ounce of strength she had, she stumbled toward her satchel, her hand closing around the rune stone hidden in its secret pocket. Its surface was cool and smooth, the faint symbols etched into it.

Outside, Alaric fought furiously, his blade cutting through the ghouls with precision. But the creatures were relentless, their numbers seemingly endless. A group of them swarmed the gate, their claws tearing at the weakened wood.

"They're breaking through!" Donall shouted, panic rising in his voice.

Alaric's eyes darted to the barracks, a knot of dread tightening in his chest. "Fall back to the inner defenses!" he yelled, trying to buy more time.

A burst of fire erupted from the barracks, the flames cutting through the night with blinding intensity. The ghouls screeched as the fire engulfed them, their bodies dissolving into ash and shadow.

Alaric turned to see Lysandra standing unsteadily in the doorway, the rune stone glowing brightly in her hand. Her face was pale, her body trembling, but her eyes burned with fierce determination.

"You didn't think I'd let you have all the fun, did you?" she rasped, her voice defiant despite her condition.

"Lysandra," Alaric breathed, relief and frustration warring in his expression. "You should be resting."

"No time for that," she shot back, stumbling forward as another wave of ghouls surged toward them. She raised the rune stone, her voice steady as she spoke the incantation.

"Ignis venire!"

Alaric moved to her side, his sword raised. "We'll talk about this later," he said, his tone half-amused, half-annoyed.

"If we survive," she replied with a faint smirk.

0

Together, they stood against the onslaught, their combined strength pushing back the darkness as the battle raged on. The ghouls poured through the breaches in the defenses, their snarls echoing in the night as they clawed and bit at anything in their path. Knights fought valiantly, their blades and shields flashing in the firelight, but for every ghoul they cut down, two more seemed to take its place. Blood slicked the ground, and the acrid stench of death filled the air.

Lysandra stood, leaning heavily on the doorframe of the barracks. The rune stone in her hand burned hot as she chanted another incantation. A wave of fire erupted from her palm, consuming a group of ghouls advancing on a wagon filled with wounded soldiers. The creatures screeched as the flames engulfed them, their bodies collapsing into smoldering heaps.

"Behind you!" Alaric shouted.

Lysandra spun just in time to see a ghoul lunging at her, its glowing eyes filled with hunger. She ducked instinctively, Alaric's sword cleaved through the creature, its head rolling to the ground. He stood protectively in front of her, his chest heaving, his armor splattered with blood and ichor.

"You're pushing yourself too hard," he said sharply, sparing her a glance before turning to fend off another attack. "You're still injured!"

They fought back-to-back, a seamless rhythm in their movements. Alaric's sword was a blur, cutting through the ghouls with practiced precision, while Lysandra's rune flared repeatedly, each burst of fire driving the creatures back. Still, the ghouls kept coming. The perimeter of the outpost was overrun, and the remaining defenders were forced to retreat toward the inner courtyard. Roderic's voice boomed over the chaos, barking orders to regroup and hold the line.

"Archers, cover the retreat! Form up by the wagons!" he shouted.

Lysandra stumbled as the venom still lingering in her veins made her limbs feel like lead. She fell to one knee, gasping for air as a ghoul charged toward her.

Before it could strike, Alaric was there, his sword plunging into the creature's chest. He reached down, grabbing her arm and pulling her to her feet.

"We need to fall back," he said, his voice urgent. "The others are regrouping."

"I can still fight," she protested, though her body betrayed her words.

"No, you can't," he said firmly, half-carrying her as they moved toward the center of the outpost.

The ghouls pressed harder, but the defenders fought with everything they had. As the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, the tide began to turn. The ghouls, their strength tied to the darkness, grew weaker, their movements slower and less coordinated as they retreated back into the woods. The knights and mercenaries seized the opportunity, pushing them back with renewed vigor.

With one final rally, the defenders drove the remaining ghouls into the forest. Their shrieks faded into the distance, leaving the outpost eerily silent.