The horse's hooves pound the cracked earth as Garon rides hard through the night. His breath comes in ragged bursts, lungs burning, eyes scanning the dark horizon for any sign of Charlotte. Smoke curls thick and black from the town ahead—too much smoke, too many fires. The whole place seems to be ablaze, orange tongues licking the rooftops. He veers sharply, following a thinner trail of gray rising from the wooded ridge beyond the settlement.
**Cut to Charlotte**
She lies on her back in the moonlit grass, the blades cool and damp against her skin. Her body trembles beneath the heavy weight pinning her down. Tears pool in the corners of her eyes, silent and steady, refusing to fall. Her mind flees.
**Flashback – Childhood**
A sunlit meadow. A much younger Charlotte, no more than six, runs barefoot across wildflowers. Her mother steps from the treeline, a fresh-killed deer slung over her shoulders, fur still warm. Her father follows, laughing, bow in hand.
"Mom! Dad! Welcome back!" Charlotte's voice is bright, arms flung wide.
"Thank you, Charlotte," they say together, smiling down at her with the kind of warmth that feels eternal.
**Another memory**
Armor clinks as her parents prepare to leave. Steel plates gleam in the dawn light. Charlotte clings to her mother's leg, then her father's, small fists knotted in their cloaks.
"Don't go. Please."
"We'll be back, little one," her father promises, kneeling to kiss her forehead. "We always come back."
She throws herself to the ground, kicking up dust, sobbing, pleading.
"Mama, stay! Please!"
Her mother lifts her gently, presses a kiss to her tear-streaked cheek.
"We promise, Charlotte."
**Present**
Back on the grass, Charlotte's lips move in a broken whisper.
"Mom… Dad… save me. Please."
Her voice cracks.
"Somebody… save me."
The man watching from a few paces away shifts uncomfortably, scratching his neck.
"Enough," he mutters. "Finish it already."
A twig snaps in the nearby woods. The lookout freezes, then strides toward the sound, hand on his dagger.
A wet, choking scream rips through the trees.
The man on top of Charlotte scrambles up, buckling his belt with shaking fingers. He leaves her crumpled and exposed, stepping forward into the shadows.
"Who's there? Come out! I'll gut you!"
From behind Charlotte, Garon explodes out of the underbrush. He swings wildly with a branch—crude, desperate—cracking it across the bandit's skull. The man staggers but recovers fast, spinning with a knife already drawn. He slams Garon to the ground, knee on his chest, blade at his throat.
Charlotte forces her eyes open. Through tears and blur, she sees Garon above her—shielding her, bleeding from a split lip, fury and terror warring on his face.
"What do you think you're doing, brat?" the bandit snarls. "Want to die?"
"I'm going to kill you," Garon spits, voice shaking. "You son of a bitch."
Tears streak his cheeks as the horror of what he's interrupted sinks in.
The bandit leans closer, knife pressing harder—
A low, guttural growl rolls from the woods. Then another.
Black shapes burst from the trees—demon dogs, eyes like burning coals, jaws dripping red. One leaps, teeth sinking into the lookout's throat. The others swarm the rapist in a frenzy of claws and fangs. Screams turn to gurgles, then silence.
Garon scrambles backward, pulling Charlotte into his arms.
"I've got you," he whispers fiercely. "I won't let them touch you. I swear."
Tears spill freely down her face now. She clings to him, shaking.
The pack turns toward them, hackles raised, growling—
The woods erupt again. More demon dogs thunder past, veering toward some distant call. They flow around Garon and Charlotte like water around stone, barely brushing them.
Garon's hand finds the hilt at his side—Skógrimr.
**Flashback – Two weeks earlier**
The cabin is warm with the smell of broth. The old man ladles soup into a wooden bowl and slides it across the table.
"Old man… you promised to tell me about this sword."
"Eat while it's hot."
Garon waits.
"I don't know its full origin," the old man says at last. "But I knew one of its wielders—not a king, just a slave. No one understands why the blade chooses, or how. All I know is this: Skógrimr has a mind of its own. When it decides you're worthy… it makes you *invisible* to what would destroy you."
**Present**
Garon draws the sword. The blade ignites with soft silver light, runes pulsing along the edge like heartbeats.
The remaining demon dogs flow past them—close enough to feel the heat of their breath, yet never touching. Not one snaps. Not one lunges.
Garon exhales, stunned.
"Hold on to me. Tight."
Charlotte buries her face in his chest. He lifts her in his arms—careful, gentle—and carries her through the dispersing horde, back toward the inn.
**Three days later**
Dawn breaks pale over the hillside. Garon stands dressed in traveling clothes, cloak fastened, sword at his hip. He embraces the old man one last time—long, wordless.
Then he mounts his horse and rides toward Thornhold, tears drying on his cheeks as the wind whips past.
**Charlotte's voice (narrator, soft, trembling)**
*I know you might think less of me after this… but please, try to remember me the way I used to be—the funny one, your friend… your family.*
*Please don't think less of me. To me, you've always been both my family and my first love.*
*I wish I could say more, but my hands are trembling as I write this. I truly hope you find the path you've always wished for.*
*You're worth so much more than how you see yourself.*
*Please don't hate me.*
*I'm still me,*
*Charlotte.*
**Flashback – Two days earlier**
The inn is quiet except for the slow, rhythmic creak of rope swaying overhead. Charlotte's body hangs gently from the rafter. One of her shoes has slipped off, lying on its side beneath her—small, still, forgotten. The note is clutched tightly in her cold hand, fingers stiff around the paper. Garon finds her first. He stops.
For a second… he doesn't understand what he's seeing. Then it hits. His scream is raw, animal. He rushes forward, hands shaking so badly he fumbles with the rope before finally cutting her down. He collapses with her in his arms, cradling her, rocking back and forth as sobs tear through him. "No… no, no, no…" The old man stands in the doorway, face carved from stone, eyes wet.
**The next day**
They bury her beside the inn, beneath the old oak. A simple wooden marker. Wildflowers already pushing through the fresh earth.
**Present**
Garon rides on, wiping his face with the back of his glove. The road to Thornhold stretches ahead—long, empty, unforgiving.
Behind him, the inn grows smaller, the grave smaller still.
He does not look back.
Chapter ends