Veran rode at the head of the company, his hands gripping the reins tightly. The sun wasn’t kissing their skin. The birds didn’t welcome them with their songs. No wild beasts, no villages in their way. It was as if the forest had held its breath, hoping they would do their business quickly and never return.

Veran knew that feeling well, and it was mutual. In the damp forests of the east, marching through the mud at the head of a group of weary men. If the forest was the host, then Veran was the guest that didn’t want to come in the first place. He got used to the weather, constant rain, and the darkness under the trees. But that mist he would never get used to. A thick white blanket that you could barely see through covered the land. It hugged and gripped the trunks of the trees and smothered the land. It spoke to men’s most primal fear - the fear of the unknown. Oh, and Veran had plenty of fear in him. The forest deprived them even of the calmness of the march.

The longer one looked into the swirling mist. The more his imagination started to play. Veran had seen quite a few things in his life as a soldier, and the fog reminded him of all of them. All one hundred men marching through the forest knew there was no village anywhere near them. Nothing but ancient trees for miles and miles. But that white wall of smoke gave them no comfort. The more the old soldier looked at it, the more he thought about what could be on the other side, watching them.

But Veran wasn’t afraid for his life. He didn’t fear dropping dead in combat. He didn’t fear losing any of his men. He dreaded only one thing - not fulfilling his duty. His life was devoted to one cause, to keep the boyar and his family safe. He had failed to do this once, and as he marched with House Bozmaroff’s heir, he knew one thing - he had to keep the boy alive.