The last thing Mills remembered was staring into the Abyss at the start of his day. Now he was sprawled in dirt, and his body throbbed in pain. The smell of warm iron reached Mills. It was blood.

  Mills forced his heavy eyelids open. He was on his side, face smashed against the ground. His sword was in front of him. Black blood caked the blade. Beyond the sword were bodies, both human and monster. There were more human bodies.

  Mills rolled onto his stomach, and his body wailed in horror. A plank of wood rolled off Mills’ back, and landed at his side. Right. He’d been hit by a wooden plank from the fallen watchtower. That must have knocked Mills out. He felt a dull throb of embarrassment, but couldn’t work up any larger emotion.

  The sky was a clear blue, and the sun hadn’t quite reached its peak. It was still morning; Mills hadn’t been out too long. The fighting was over, leaving only bodies strewn across the barren field. Nothing moved. But someone else must have survived. Camp 33 had around one hundred people, and if Mills survived, someone else must have.

  Mills grabbed his sword, then picked himself up. He looked the bloodied blade over, and thought about cleaning the blade with his gloved hands. As he walked through the field, he might run into another Abyss creature. He’d have to hack the monster down, and his sword would get bloody again. Cleaning the blade would be a wasted effort.

  Mills turned in a circle. Some soldiers had been beheaded, others torn in half, and others with their intestines spilled out next to them. Mills recognized some of the faces on the corpses.

  Mills took a deep breath. He would mourn the dead later, once he found the survivors.

  Mills made another check of the bloodied field. The tents had been shredded, and a breeze ruffled the limp canvas. Little fires crackled across camp. Beyond that, nothing moved.

  Camps studying the Abyss would sometimes face an attack. The story of Camp 11 was taught in schools; the camp had been struck by a massive force from the Abyss, but the survivors scraped together and continued their work. Mills didn’t think Camp 33 would have enough people to continue, but someone had to be out there. The reaver would be prowling the grounds too; Mills made sure it was trapped within the camp somewhere.

  Mills scanned the field again, this time, in search of the reaver. There was nothing.

  Mills forced himself to walk. He went in the direction of his tent. He had to step over bodies. He was careful to tip-toe around limp hands. The smell of blood was nauseating. Fires danced across the landscape. Mills should have found someone else at this point, at least that’s what he thought. He should have come across the reaver.

  Mills stopped, and took a harder look. Nothing.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Anyone there! Hey!” His voice cut across the silence.

  Mills waited. If someone was out there, they had to respond.

  A breeze rolled through and toyed with Mills’ hair. His chest tightened.

  “It’s Mills! Hey! Anyone!” Mills shouted.

  He got no answer.

  Mills pulled out his pen and blank cards, and wrote. If the world wasn’t going to help Mills on its own, then he would force it to help. He finished his card, pulsed magic to burn it, then carried on.

  His tent, like the others, had been ripped apart. The few belongings he’d brought had been strewn around like innards out of a body. Mills had seen plenty of bodies that morning, so the comparison came easy.

  “Hello! If you’re out there, answer me!” Mills shouted.

  Not even an echo answered.

  Mills glared at the Abyss. It’s force pulled on him.

  Mills should have run into someone else. Unless they had left Camp 33. The survivors might be on the outskirts, waiting for others to emerge from the slaughter. That was a good idea, one Mills wished he thought up earlier. He was certain that, once he got out of the camp, he’d find someone.

  Mills focused down on his tent and the strewn about belongings. It still reminded him of a body. He left everything where it was, turned away from the Abyss, and marched up the hill.

  He stared at the trees ahead. The leaves danced in the wind, and birds twittered in conversation. There were no bodies, either human or monster. That was a good thing; the fighting had never reached beyond the main camp.

  Dead leaves crunched beneath Mills’ feet. He approached the first of the trees.

  A spear rushed to meet his face.

  “Whoa!” Mills stumbled back.

  “Shit!” The spearman jerked his weapon away.

  Mills caught a root on his heel, and fell against a tree trunk.

  “Master Mills? You’re alive!” The spearman shouted.

  “Somewhat,” Mills answered.

  The soldier lowered his spear. The man looked like a hero straight out of an adventure novel–clear blue eyes, and a handsome scar on his square jaw. Mills knew this man. Tavo? No, Taver.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “You’re alive,” Taver repeated. He glanced toward the camp, waiting for someone else to appear. When no one else came over the hill, the light in Taver’s eyes dulled. The soldier turned his attention back to Mills.

  “The camp must have regrouped somewhere else,” Taver said.

  Mills hadn’t counted the bodies strewn across Camp 33, but there were a lot. There had to be more survivors, though.

  “Mills!” This new voice came deeper within the trees. Annalie popped her head out from behind a trunk. She limped forward. The leg of her left pant had been rolled up, and a strip of fabric was wrapped around the bottom. The fabric was soaked in blood. But Annalie was alive.

  Annalie stopped in front of Mills and Taver.

  “Is anyone else alive?” Taver asked.

  Annalie glanced to the camp, then she focused on Taver.

  “I didn’t chance upon anyone else,” Annalie said. “I honestly believed myself to be the sole survivor. It’s good to see others survived.”

  “How’d you get–” Mills was going to ask Annalie how she’d been injured, but that was a stupid question. She’d been injured during the attack, by one of the monsters the Abyss spat out. That bit of information wasn’t important; only the future mattered.

  “Should we change that bandage?” Mills gestured to Annalie’s leg.

  She looked down at the blood-soaked fabric, and frowned at it.

  “Allow me to fret over it,” Annalie said. “What matters most is our understanding of the incident. We must piece together what happened.”

  So Mills told his story, from the bubbling Abyss to the moment he came across Taver.

  “What did the reaver look like again?” Taver asked.

  “It looks human, but it’s gray. Gray skin, gray clothes. Black sword,” Mills said.

  “I saw it,” Taver said. “That thing was tearing through people. I wanted to help, but all of the monsters…”

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t get close to it,” Mills said.

  Taver shrugged.

  “I saw it again, I think. The relics were marching down the road, and I think the reaver was with them,” Taver said.

  “Wait, what?” Mills asked.

  “Over there.” Taver pointed to the left, where the road was hidden by the trees.

  “I put a spell on the reaver,” Mills said. “The other relics might have left camp, but the reaver should still be here.”

  Annalie furrowed her brow.

  “Master Mills, if I may? You told me that your magic could be circumvented,” she said.

  “That’s why all those relics got into camp,” Mills said. “But, you know, the camp is still there.”

  “Is it?” Annalie whispered.

  The plot of land hadn’t disappeared into the Abyss, so yes, the camp was still there. But almost everyone who lived at the camp were dead. The tents had been torn up, and the watchtower had been reduced to splinters. The essence of Camp 33 was crumpled dead on the ground.

  Mills swore.

  “And the reaver was walking the path?” He asked.

  “I think so, along with the other relics,” Taver answered.

  Mills swore again. He looked around, hoping that more people would pop their heads out from behind tree trunks. The birds twittered. A breeze shook the leaves. Mills, Taver, and Annalie wouldn’t be able to fight a unit of relics, especially when the reaver was with them.

  “Those relics are marching on the settlements,” Mills said. “We’ll beat them there, and warn people about what’s coming.”

  “I should be able to handle it,” Annalie said.

  “Good. Then, Annalie, I want you to go to Burr. Do you know the path?” Mills asked.

  Annalie nodded. Good. Burr was, from Mills’ estimation, the closest city. Annalie would have to limp on her injured leg, but she could make it.

  “I can go with you,” Taver said.

  “No, please, I will be fine,” Annalie answered. “There are other settlements that must be reached. You should go to Cheau.”

  “I will go to Cheau,” Mills said.

  Annalie gave Mills a questioning look. She remembered the story Mills told her about Cheau. That had been a few months ago; Annalie had a good memory.

  “Are you sure?” Annalie asked.

  “Yes. I’ll head to Cheau,” Mills said. “Taver, would you be so kind as to visit Riverpaint?”

  “Of course.” Taver nodded.

  “Then we’ve got our missions,” Mills said. “Reach the towns. Don’t get spotted by the relics.”

  The three followed the main road together. The sun rose. A pit opened in Mills’ stomach, and his mouth dried out. He should have brought more with him than just his sword and a handful of cards.

  The trio came to a fork in the road, where a sign post pointed out their directions. The relics had left no tracks, so the group couldn’t tell where the monsters went. It was time for the group to split up.

  Taver put his fist forward, and Annalie did the same. Mills thrust his fist into the center.

  “For Camp 33!” Taver shouted. Mills and Annalie repeated the cry. Then the three walked down separate paths.

  * * *

  Mills had went two days on the path, and he hadn’t seen nor heard from the relics. The monsters from the Abyss had either gotten very sneaky, or they weren’t headed for Cheau.

  Mills paused when he encountered the red-leaved trees. The Abyss wasn’t the only threat in the world. The monsters might have ran into something else while on their path, something that Mills would run into as well.

  Mills took a deep breath, and walked the path among the red trees. As long as Mills stayed on the path, he should be safe from whatever dangers the Burned Gardens hid. Even so, as Mills walked, he kept his eye on the trees, and his hand on his sword. The path should be safe, but Mills heard stories about the Burned Gardens. He wouldn’t drop his guard.

  Something flitted in the corner of Mills’ eye. He spun around and drew his sword. Leaves trembled as something moved. Mills couldn’t see what it was.

  He clenched his jaw.

  The Burned Gardens went silent once more.

  Mills’ palms were sweaty, but they were in gloves that held a good grip on the sword. He was glad for his ever-present gloves.

  The Burned Gardens made no more noise.

  Mills’ hand was growing tired from holding his blade up. He lowered his arm, and made one more check of his surroundings. He saw nothing. He continued, but now he kept his sword out.

  The sun began its descend.

  The wind picked up. Voices in that wind tickled Mills’ ears. At first, they sounded like nothing, but after a few minutes, Mills picked up a sentence: join us.

  Mills had no plan to join whatever the hell was whispering to him. He decided to instead admire the Burned Gardens as a security system. It hadn’t been intended to protect Cheau, but it made a damn good border. An army would have to funnel itself down a narrow path, or risk getting lost in the Forest. It would be a slow march, and once the invaders reached Cheau, it would take time to get back into formation. The city would annihilate the invaders as they tried to organize themselves.

  The gaps in the trees grew wider. Mills sped up. He saw civilization through the gaps. There was a cliff in front, and on top of it, were buildings. That was Cheau.

  A stone gate came into view, with a stone statue on either side. The gate was carved with detail that Mills couldn’t make out, but even from a distance, he knew it was beautiful.

  This was where Mills should relax and unclench his muscles. He was out of the Burned Gardens, but the sight of Cheau made a new anxiety bloom in his chest. He almost wanted to turn around, but he forced himself forward. He would be fine, no matter what he faced within the city.