Sif was traveling alongside the merchant atop the cart as the shadows of night slowly crept over the forest. With each step of the horses, a growing sense of unease filled him, just like the feeling he had when he once emerged from the Devil's Pit. It wasn't a foreign feeling, but now it was heavier, more suffocating.
Even the merchant beside him seemed nervous, glancing around anxiously from time to time.
The forest, which was usually full of the sounds of life—birds chirping, grass rustling, or the whisper of the wind among the branches—was now utterly silent. A strange, eerie stillness, as if life itself had fled. Sif tightened his cloak around him without saying a word.
The merchant frowned and said in a low voice, glancing about cautiously:
"I don't like this..."
Before he could finish his sentence, an explosion echoed ahead.
The leading carts suddenly rose into the air and crashed down upside down.
The two horses tied in front of their cart reared in terror, and their own cart jolted violently, flipping over and throwing Sif and the merchant to the ground.
Sif found himself trapped under the side of the overturned cart, gasping for breath and trying to understand what had happened.
He lifted his head slightly and saw six dark figures materializing in the middle of the road.
It was unclear whether they were men or specters; their bodies were hidden beneath heavy cloaks, colored somewhere between dark green and black.
One of them slowly approached without making a sound.
The merchant, realizing the situation was worse than he had feared, cried out in panic:
"Take what you want and leave!"
He clearly believed they were mere bandits.
But the mysterious figures gave no response.
One of them stepped forward, drew his sword slowly, seized the merchant by the shoulder with one hand, lifted him off the ground like a doll, and, in a cold, smooth motion, plunged his sword directly into the merchant's chest.
Sif, who had already drawn his sword, didn't hesitate.
Desperately, he lunged at one of the shadows, thrusting his blade into its body.
He felt the metal pierce through the cloak and into the flesh beneath, yet the attacker showed no reaction, as if he hadn't been wounded at all.
Before Sif could retreat, another specter appeared behind him, sword gleaming in the dark.
Sif twisted around to defend himself.
They exchanged several strikes, the clash of steel breaking the oppressive silence of the forest.
But Sif quickly realized this opponent was superior: faster, more skilled, with flawless swordsmanship.
In a brief moment of hesitation, Sif made a small mistake.
The attacker knocked his sword aside and landed a sharp blow to Sif's thigh, sending him crashing to the ground, groaning in pain.
The pain was unnatural.
It exploded throughout his limbs, amplifying the wound's agony, as if the blow carried some kind of dark magic.
Sif tried to get up, but he was exhausted and overwhelmed.
Lying on the ground, he watched as the six shadows closed in, their swords raised.
There was no doubt: this was the end.
But suddenly, he heard a voice speaking in a language he didn't recognize.
A seventh specter emerged from the mist, his voice commanding.
As soon as he spoke, the other six halted in their tracks, lowering their swords slightly.
The seventh figure approached Sif slowly.
Half-conscious, Sif raised his eyes with difficulty.
He didn't see a human face behind the hood and cloak—only a faint mist swirling inside, like living dust.
Yet somehow, there was something strangely familiar about him... something Sif couldn't explain.
Without another word, the specters all began to fade away, as if carried off by a cold breeze.
In moments, the forest was empty once more, even more silent and desolate than before.
Sif, barely able to move, crawled toward the merchant's corpse.
He tore a cloth from the overturned cart and wrapped it tightly around his wounded thigh to stop the bleeding.
The wound was small, but the searing pain spreading through his body confirmed that the blow had been enchanted with some kind of wicked magic.
After catching his breath, he searched the merchant's body.
Around his neck, he found an old golden dagger, along with ten gold coins and five silver coins in his pockets.
But the strangest discovery was under the overturned cart:
a set of weapons, wrapped in old leather, each stamped with the royal insignia of the Fourth Battalion.
Sif realized that the merchant had lied—he wasn't merely a trader.
He had been smuggling royal weapons, probably from the prison to the city.
There was no time to think.
One of the horses was still alive, trapped beneath the cart.
With great effort, Sif freed it, then climbed onto its back despite his lack of skill in horseback riding.
He had no other choice.
Digging his heels into the horse's sides, he urged it forward, racing toward the city, praying he could reach it before his body gave out completely.
sif, barely holding onto consciousness, urged the horse forward through the thick forest. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain through his body, and the poisoned wound burned with every breath he took, making even the air feel heavy and suffocating.
Finally, after hours of agony, he glimpsed faint lights flickering in the distance, swaying behind the cold mist.
It was the stone city of Frostmoor, known for its perpetual chill and towering fortresses.
The road leading to the main gate was slick and muddy from the recent rain, and the exhausted horse stumbled with each step.
When Sif reached the main entrance of the city, where two guards stood beneath a massive stone archway, he was barely able to stay upright.
His eyes were half-closed, and his legs weakly clung to the horse's sides.
The guards exchanged cautious glances, their hands instinctively moving to the hilts of their swords as the bloodied, ragged stranger approached.
Sif, having lost the last of his balance, suddenly slumped from the horse.
Without even trying to save himself, he collapsed heavily onto the cold stones in front of the guards.
One of the guards gave a short shout of alarm, rushing to check on him while the other remained alert, his eyes scanning the dark forest behind them.
Sif said nothing.
All he could manage was a feeble attempt to open his eyes before the darkness claimed him once again, dragging him into a cold, deep unconsciousness