The line of soldiers filed through the gates, their weary feet brushing the dust behind them. They marched with hollow purpose, as if their bodies carried more than armor—shields weighed down by the gravity of what lay ahead. Far above, atop a gnarled branch, He perched in silence, amber-yellow eyes reflecting flickers of torchlight. The scent of sweat and stale ale rose from the line, mingling with the evening's chill.
'Humans....' His voice was a grave whisper only he could hear. 'So predictable in their despair....'
Time felt still until he saw the one: a soldier trailing thirty paces behind, footsteps dragging, world-weariness etched into every line of his face. No comrade offered a hand. Perfect.
He faded downward like a wisp of smoke, capturing the man in a silent grip.
The woods had fallen into silence.
Even the crickets had stopped singing.
