warriors heart

Dren groaned softly, his hand pressing firmly against his temple as he opened his eyes. His face was pale, his brows furrowed in pain, and his lips were slightly parted as he inhaled deeply. The dull ache in his head pulsed with each beat of his heart, and his vision blurred slightly before coming into focus. As he tried to sit up, his movements were sluggish, almost hesitant, like a man wading through thick mud. He blinked rapidly, struggling to piece together the fragments of memory from the night before.

His gaze drifted across the room, squinting at the dim light filtering through cracks in the walls. The rest of the soldiers lay sprawled across the floor, some snoring faintly, others groaning and shifting in their drunken stupor. Their bodies were tangled in odd positions, clothes disheveled, and faces marked by faint smudges of dirt or dried sweat.

Dren winced as he rose to his feet, one hand on his knee for support while the other steadied him against the wall. His head spun violently, and his legs wobbled under him, forcing him to pause and take a deep, steadying breath. His expression twisted into a grimace, eyes narrowing as he scanned the room.

"MY KING," he muttered hoarsely, his voice barely above a whisper. His head tilted, searching, but the man was nowhere in sight. The knot in his stomach tightened.

He stumbled outside, the cool morning air hitting his skin like a slap. His eyes closed for a moment as he exhaled, trying to collect himself. Kneeling by a water basin, he scooped some water into his hands and splashed it onto his face with a sharp intake of breath. The icy touch seemed to jolt his senses awake. He leaned over the basin, droplets trailing down his jaw and dripping from his chin, and stared into the rippling surface.

Suddenly, it hit him—a chaotic storm of memories crashing into his mind. The laughter, the shouting, the recklessness of the night before—it all came rushing back with startling clarity. His eyes widened, and his jaw tightened.

Without another thought, Dren grabbed more water, filling a jug, and returned inside. "Wake up!" he barked, his voice sharp and commanding, as he poured water over the closest soldier. The man jolted upright, spluttering and groaning, clutching his head.

One by one, the rest stirred, their groans and curses filling the room. Faces twisted with pain, hands clutching temples, and expressions of regret—or in some cases, faint amusement—slowly surfaced. They moved sluggishly, some dragging themselves to the nearest source of water, others muttering under their breath as they sat up, heads hanging low.

A burly soldier, face flushed, chuckled as he wiped his damp hair back. "Last night… was something else," he mumbled, a faint grin tugging at his lips despite the pounding headache.

Another chimed in, laughing weakly, "Haven't had a night like that in years."

Dren's eyes darkened as he stood in the center of the room, arms crossed. His jaw clenched, and his expression hardened as he stared them down. "You think this is over?" His voice was low, cold, cutting through their groggy chatter.

The room fell silent, save for the occasional groan. The men exchanged uneasy glances, some shrugging dismissively, others shifting uncomfortably under his gaze.

One of them, a younger man with a cocky smirk, waved a hand dismissively. "Relax, Captain. Nothing will happen. He gave us the drink himself, didn't he? If he had a problem, we'd know by now."

Dren's nostrils flared as he took a step forward, his fists clenched. The tension in his shoulders was palpable, and his lips curled into a snarl. His voice rose as he snapped, "You fool! Do you think—"

Before he could finish, a calm but firm voice cut through the air. "It's time to go."

The room turned to Kane, standing in the doorway with an unreadable expression. His eyes were sharp, his posture straight, and his presence commanding. The soldiers stiffened, some straightening their backs while others avoided his gaze. Dren's anger simmered beneath the surface, but he bit back his words, his chest heaving with restrained fury.

The air grew thick with tension as Kane's eyes swept over the room. "Now," he said, his tone brooking no argument. The soldiers scrambled to their feet, their earlier bravado replaced with a quiet, uneasy obedience. Dren shot one last glare at the man who had spoken, but he fell in line without a word.

The soldiers marched in a steady rhythm, their boots hitting the ground with a muted thud as they followed Kane out of the palace gates. Kane rode at the front on his black horse, his figure imposing and composed, his sharp eyes fixed on the horizon. He sat tall in the saddle, his cloak billowing slightly with the breeze, revealing a hint of the armor beneath. His calm but unwavering demeanor gave no indication of where they were headed, and his silence weighed heavily on the group.

The Dark Squad kept pace behind him, their faces a mix of stoicism and unease. Dren marched near the front, his gaze occasionally shifting to Kane, a flicker of frustration crossing his otherwise hardened expression. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade as though ready for anything, his jaw tight with suppressed tension. The others moved with less grace—some hunched slightly, hands brushing against the hilts of their weapons, while others wore faint frowns as their eyes darted nervously at the passing scenery.

The palace faded behind them, and the path became rougher, more unpredictable. The air grew heavier, cooler, as they ventured into unfamiliar terrain. Kane's horse moved with steady confidence, its hooves barely disturbing the ground, while the soldiers stumbled occasionally over loose stones or creeping roots, muttering curses under their breath.

When they finally arrived, the wilderness stretched before them, ancient and foreboding. Massive, gnarled trees twisted skyward, their dark silhouettes casting strange shapes against the light. Thick vines hung low, swaying faintly in the wind, while the underbrush crackled underfoot as the squad came to a halt.

The soldiers shifted uneasily, their movements subtle—adjusting their stances, rubbing the backs of their necks, or wiping sweat from their brows. One man's lips parted slightly as he took in the surroundings, a faint whistle escaping him before he quickly fell silent, unnerved by the oppressive atmosphere. Another soldier swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly as he muttered, "This place feels… alive."

Dren's eyes scanned the trees with sharp focus, his expression unreadable but for a slight twitch in his jaw. His steps were cautious now, deliberate, as if the ground beneath him might give way at any moment. Though he said nothing, the tension in his frame spoke volumes.

Kane dismounted, his movements smooth and precise, the faint creak of leather breaking the silence. His expression remained unreadable as he turned to face the squad, his gaze steady and piercing. With a loud voice Kane spoke to them lower your weapons we're here.