Wyatt left the side gate that he and he alone had found. He didn’t know if he was doing the right thing, but he knew that he had to do something. With Marek down in the basement being consumed by Claire and whatever else was in this accursed castle, he knew he needed help.

And he was going to get it one way or another.

Marek hadn’t come upstairs in over a day. When Ako had gone down to see him and try to talk sense into him, Wyatt had feared the worst for her. It had been hours since he had seen her too, then there had been a loud bang followed by a roar of anguish and anger. Anton had been ready to rush downstairs, but no one else had wanted to move, including himself. Ever since he had lost his family to magic, Marek represented his greatest fear: helplessness.

I have power, a hidden strength that I barely understand, and I don’t know how to use it.

Wyatt looked back, shifting the weight of the sack on his shoulders. It was his armor. He had stripped it down and stuffed it in the sack so he could carry it. There was no one in the courtyard, no one inside except for five souls and Claire.

There was a sense of amusement that wasn’t his as Wyatt turned back. It was knowing and smug like it knew what Wyatt was doing, the inevitability of it. It knew he would soon return to it, with a force that would hopefully be capable of fighting her and ending whatever this place was.

Wyatt closed his eyes, straining his senses. He didn’t channel any magic. He listened. Vaguely, he heard shouts and cries. Wyatt stiffened, every instinct in him telling him to drop his sack, to put on his armor, and to rush in. He reached down with one hand, gripping his sword tightly. He wanted nothing more than to draw it.

Instead, he continued to listen. The same sounds from his dream returned. The sounds of battle were all around him, tantalizing him. He need only to accept it, to welcome it, and it would consume him. He would be part of it, with no way to escape. He would fight, and die, and fight, and continue the cycle forever.

A small part of Wyatt’s mind was screaming at him. Wyatt shuddered, so tempted to succumb. Clashing swords and the cries of battle sounded all around him.

You must fight, a familiar voice whispered to him. It sounded sincere, and yet Wyatt could tell that there was an undercurrent of hatred within it. A hatred for the world of the living. Fight, the voice crooned to him. Wyatt’s hand jerked, and his sword was half-drawn from its scabbard before he could force the weapon back down. It was one of the hardest things he had ever done. Fight, for those that you love and for the world. Fight to save them. Save them, Wyatt. Save them all.

“No,” Wyatt growled. Tearing his attention away from it. He didn’t know how, but the sounds of battle were immediately silenced to a dull murmur. “Damn you, Claire. I won’t. I will return, with enough men to kill you and drive you from these cursed walls. I will kill you myself if I must step over the bodies of every man within a hundred miles. You will die, Claire, I swear it upon Diev himself.”

The hatred that had been so carefully hidden surfaced, and Wyatt flinched back as the being that called itself Claire roared within his mind. He stumbled, catching himself at the last moment before he fell.

Go then, hero, Claire’s voice sneered. All traces of amusement were gone. There was no humanity within Claire’s voice, just a malevolent loathing that echoed through his bones. Go.

Wyatt found himself pushed by an invisible force, not flying backward but the closest thing to it. Soon he was outside the gate, which slammed shut behind him.

Wyatt whirled back, his sword drawn. His sack fell to the ground, his armor crashing down and no doubt alerting everyone within a few hundred yards of the gate.

There was nothing there except the closed gate. Wyatt walked up to the gate and pulled upon it with one hand. The black metal under his fingers was cold, bitingly so. Wyatt pulled harder, straining himself. It didn’t budge.

“I will return,” Wyatt said softly. His thoughts turned to Anton, his head bandaged as he had been out of commission after their strange encounter with Talon. He had still been willing to lead the charge down into the depths of Ashenstead to save Marek and Ako. He was there now with the two that were left. Three men out of what had once been dozens.

Soon there will be more, Wyatt thought grimly. Many more.

Wyatt sheathed his sword and picked up his armor, throwing the sack over his shoulder as he turned back to the river. It trickled gently, illuminated by the moon in parts where its light could reach over the treeline. Wyatt made his way down the river, looking for a way across. Yarran’s camp, wherever it was, would be on the other side of the river.

For a wild moment, Wyatt was tempted to throw his armor and sword across the river and then swim across. After a moment’s consideration, Wyatt dismissed the idea. The distance wasn’t massive, but the weight of his armor made a potential throw a difficult proposition. Wyatt shook his head and moved on, looking for a bend in the river, a log, or something else he could use to cross. He had a dagger sheathed and buckled to his belt and another in his boot, but he didn’t want them as his only means of defense.

Eventually, Wyatt found it: a trio of small rocks just above the water, each barely large enough for a foot. It would be a long jump but doable. Wyatt frowned down at them thoughtfully, considering. A few moments later, he shrugged. He didn’t have time to waste. Something had happened in the bowels of the castle, and he didn’t have much time to save Anton and the others. Marek and Ako too, if possible.

I won’t save anyone standing here, Wyatt thought, preparing himself. He put one arm over his shoulder, securing the sack. He then grabbed his sword, holding it tightly down and against his side so it wouldn’t get tangled up in his legs.

“Here I go,” Wyatt muttered, feeling foolish as he leapt forward. He almost didn’t make it—the hefty weight of both his sword and armor throwing him off. His landing wasn’t graceful. Wyatt landed hard, trying to capture some sort of balance before he fell into the water and lost his armor and potentially his sword. He jumped again, barely making that leap, before he jumped again, his foot slipping on the rock.

Wyatt’s upper torso made it across, but the bottom half of his body didn’t. Wyatt grunted as his chest hit the riverbank, his sack of armor getting wet and heavier as the water began to weigh it down.

Wyatt lifted the sack haltingly, the task much harder due to the water weight. Heaving it over his head, he tossed it onto the shoreline. Hauling himself after it, Wyatt glanced down to check and make sure he wasn’t missing anything else. Nothing was missing, and Wyatt began to dress as quickly as he could. He knew that he was probably being watched by more than a few Kulok scouts in the trees. Wyatt’s shoulders itched as he threw on his armor, the chainmail clinking as it went over his head and down his chest.

The weight on his body was comforting. Wyatt strapped on his shin guards, his bracers, and then the rest of his armor. He rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen them. It didn’t work.

It took only a few minutes before he was fully equipped, but it felt like hours. Wyatt wished he could have brought his shield with him, but if he had managed to fall into the river the extra weight could have drowned him.

“I’ll make do,” Wyatt muttered, before he looked at the treeline with narrowed eyes.

There was no movement. Nothing that told him he was being watched. Trees swayed gently as a breeze drifted by. Branches moved and leaves shuffled. Wyatt swallowed and forced himself not to put his hand on his sword. Instead, he started to walk like he didn’t have a care in the world, right up and into the trees.

The whoosh of desert wind that vanished nearly completely when he entered the forest, making every other sound he made much louder than it should’ve been.

The forest was dark, closer to black, with the trees blocking the moon. Wyatt held out a hand and could barely see it in the darkness. There was no flickering light of a fire nearby, which wasn’t surprising. They probably doused it the moment I stepped outside of the castle, Wyatt mentally grumbled.

Wyatt turned slowly, closing his eyes as he searched for any sign of life. A creature skittered nearby, no doubt frightened by his arrival. Wyatt sniffed, searching for the familiar scent of fire. It didn’t take long; he found it almost immediately. It wasn’t far either.

Wyatt set out for it, not bothering to disguise his movements. He tramped through the woods, kicking through dead leaves, sticks, and other forest debris as he walked toward the smell of wet wood. He kept a hand on his sword but didn’t draw it. If he did, he would probably be full of arrows before he could blink.

As Wyatt neared the fire, the smell became much more noticeable. He could also see faint movement up ahead in a clearing. That’s Yarran’s camp, Wyatt thought, taking another step forward. He winced as he trod over a particularly large branch in the near pitch-darkness, breaking it.

That was apparently too much for Wyatt’s watchers to take. They came from everywhere, all aiming bows at him. Wyatt turned, every part of him screaming to draw his weapon and to die on his feet. Instead, he merely tensed and waited because if they had wanted him dead he would have turned into a quiver the moment he was pushed outside of Ashenstead.

“Dni!” a voice shouted harshly in Kulok. Wyatt looked around for it, searching. “Dni!” the voice cried again. A torch appeared, followed by many others. Wyatt raised a hand from the sudden burst of light, blinking away spots as his eyes adapted.

Another voice snapped something in Kulok at Wyatt’s back. It was loud and angry and full of promise. Wyatt could hear bows strain all around him, a grunt or two from a few archers overextending themselves as they held back their arrows. He could see them, faint outlines of men and women who sought his death. All it would take is one, maybe two or three arrows, and he would be extinguished.

“Dni!” the first voice snapped again, sounding incredibly irritated. “DNI!”

Wyatt waited; his hand’s palm up to show he wasn’t there to fight. Not yet, a traitorous voice in his mind whispered. Then, you will lead them on a suicide charge straight through the gates of hell.

Wyatt shook his head, banishing the voice and his doubts with it. He had to be strong, he couldn’t give these people any sign of weakness, or he would be dead before he hit the ground.

There was a loud shuffling, and finally, Wyatt saw who the first voice belonged to. He was old, decades older than Wyatt at the very least. He had tufts of white hair, his back was bent, and he moved forward at a quick shuffle. However, his eyes were bright and clear, and Wyatt raised an eyebrow at his brown robes, startlingly like Marek’s. Is he some type of shaman or some other magical from Yarran’s people?

“What do you want?” the old man demanded in Common. His accent was thick, but his words were still clearly decipherable. “Tell me, Núwek, why should you live to see another sunrise?”

“Because I come to lead your people to war,” Wyatt said. The old man’s eyes widened as Wyatt stepped back, unbuckled, and then drew his dagger, and slit his hand. He clenched the bloodied hand, holding it above his head as blood seeped out of it. “Kyay pef ak whuvok kme ak dif oz whuv dva vyeva!” Wyatt shouted, hoping he got the pronunciation right. Ako had told him it was a traditional way that the Huzha settled disputes amongst clan leaders, a traditional challenge to the ruler of a clan for the right to rule them.

“You are no clan leader!” the old man snapped. “You make a mockery of our traditions!”

“I mock nothing,” Wyatt responded, sheathing his knife. He didn’t buckle it. “I am a leader of a clan. We are few, but I am their leader all the same. Take me to Chieftain Yarran.”

No one said anything as Wyatt and the man glared at each other. Bent and bowed, the man barely came up to his chest, but all it would take is a single word, and there would be no Challenge.

“Pina znifal,” the man said at last. Most lowered their bows, but a few must not have, as the man glared at someone directly behind Wyatt. “Pina znifal!” he snapped. Wyatt didn’t turn, waiting until the old man nodded and turned his attention back to him.

“Come,” he said. “Do not draw your weapon until the Challenge begins, or you will die.”

“I understand,” Wyatt said.

The old man hmphed and turned, gesturing impatiently for Wyatt to follow him. Wyatt did, making sure he wasn’t too close as he followed him into Yarran’s camp.