Chapter 3 — Shadows in the Forest

Andries

The Silverwood Forest exhaled a chill, damp air that clung to Andries Thutruix’s skin and filled his lungs with the tang of moss and earth. Moonlight filtered weakly through the towering silver-barked trees, casting fragmented patterns on the ground as mist curled between gnarled roots and jagged rocks. The forest whispered with unseen movements—an owl’s cry, the rustle of leaves stirred by unseen creatures. It was a place of beauty and menace, a labyrinth alive with secrets.

Andries stood at the heart of this shadowy maze, the weight of the Shadow Wyvern Cloak pressing on his shoulders like a physical manifestation of his rebellion. The scales shimmered faintly, catching the fractured light, their iridescent sheen an unspoken promise of defiance and danger. Despite its mythical reputation, the cloak was heavy, its texture rough against the back of his neck, a constant reminder of both the wild power it symbolized and the expectations it carried.

The camp around him was a study in contrasts: desperate outlaws crouched beside discontented nobles, and hardened mercenaries sharpened their blades by the firelight. Their makeshift tents and scattered gear betrayed the fractious nature of their alliance. Yet these were not mere dregs of the kingdom—this patchwork of ambition and unrest was the foundation of something far greater. Andries could feel it in the tense murmur of their voices, the restless energy that thrummed through the camp. These were people whose resentments had festered into something sharp and unyielding, united now by the possibility of change.

He stepped forward, his boots grinding brittle twigs and leaves underfoot, and the murmurs faded. The crackling of the fire became the only sound as heads turned toward him. Andries let his gaze sweep over the crowd. Faces lit by firelight stared back—some hard with suspicion, others alight with fervor. The mercenaries regarded him with wary respect, their scarred armor reflecting their hardened lives. The nobles clutched their swords like talismans, trying desperately to mask their uncertainty. The outlaws, perhaps the most volatile among them, clung to hope with a ferocity born of desperation.

Andries drew a breath, steadying himself, and began. “Brothers and sisters,” he called, his voice cutting through the night like an unsheathed blade. “Look around you. What do you see? Not rebels. Not traitors. Warriors. Warriors for a kingdom that has forgotten its people.”

The forest seemed to hold its breath, the mist thickening at their feet as his words sank in. A ripple of agreement moved through the assembled crowd, tentative at first but growing stronger. Andries allowed the tension to build, his green eyes flashing as he stepped closer to the fire’s glow.

“My brother sits on the throne,” he continued, his tone steady but edged with fire. “A throne forged from fear and blood. He calls himself king, but what does he rule? A fractured kingdom, a people crushed beneath taxes and oppression, a council that whispers betrayal in the dark. This is not strength. This is not justice. This is not the Thutruix our ancestors fought to build.”

The murmurs swelled, a low rumbling chorus of assent. Andries felt the anger rising within him, sharp and hot, but he tempered it, refining it into something cold and focused. He raised his hand, and the crowd stilled once more.

“We have been cast aside, forgotten, betrayed,” he said, his voice gaining strength. “But here, in the shadow of the Silverwood, we forge something greater. Not a kingdom ruled by fear, but one built on unity. We will carve a legacy that will outlast every throne, every name. We will take back what is ours—not for revenge, but for justice.”

A cheer erupted—raw, unrestrained, and fierce. It soared through the forest, ringing against the silvered bark and fading into the mist. Andries remained still, letting the firelight dance over his face, though his features betrayed no triumph. Their belief in him felt as heavy as the cloak on his shoulders, a burden as much as a weapon. He turned away, his voice still echoing in their minds, and strode deeper into the forest.

The Silverwood swallowed him with its quiet, the riotous cheering fading into whispers. He sought solitude beneath an ancient tree, its bark shimmering like frost beneath the moonlight. The gnarled roots formed a natural throne, and Andries sank against them, the texture rough against his back. His hands rested on the roots, fingers curling into the moss and damp soil as his thoughts churned.

Elias’s face surfaced in his mind—gray eyes shadowed with something Andries had once thought was grief. He could see clearly now that it had been resolve. The same cold, unyielding resolve their father had worn like armor, a legacy Elias had inherited far too easily. Andries’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Duty,” he muttered, the word escaping like venom. “The word they use to strip away everything that matters.”

He closed his eyes, but the memories came unbidden, vivid and unrelenting. He saw himself and Elias as boys, their laughter ringing through the forest as they hunted together under the stars. He remembered the way Elias had once whispered secrets to him, the way their bond had felt unbreakable. But those days were gone, buried beneath the weight of betrayal and the shadow of their father’s favoritism. That boy was gone, replaced by the cold-eyed king who had exiled him.

A rustle in the mist brought him back to the present. His hand instinctively moved to the hilt of the dagger at his belt—a simple steel blade, unadorned but sharp. The sound of footsteps grew louder until a figure emerged from the gloom. It was Dalen, his most trusted lieutenant, dressed in mismatched armor that glinted faintly in the moonlight.

“You’re restless tonight,” Dalen said, his voice low and gravelly, carrying the weight of familiarity.

Andries relaxed slightly but didn’t loosen his grip on the dagger. “Dalen,” he greeted, his tone clipped. “Shouldn’t you be drinking with the others?”

Dalen shrugged, his movements deliberate. “Thought I’d check on you instead,” he said, stepping closer. “You have a habit of brooding in the dark.”

A faint smirk tugged at Andries’s lips. “Part of the job.”

Dalen snorted. “True enough. But you spoke well tonight. The men are ready to follow you.”

Andries’s smirk faded, his gaze dropping to the forest floor. “They follow the promises I make, not me. Belief is a fickle thing, Dalen. It shifts with the wind.”

“Maybe,” Dalen said, his voice steady, “but sometimes, wind is all it takes to start a fire.”

Andries looked up sharply, meeting Dalen’s gaze. His lieutenant’s words carried a quiet confidence that Andries envied. It lingered, a spark of reassurance that he wasn’t ready to embrace. He stood, brushing the moss and dirt from the cloak’s edges. The distant cry of a shadow wyvern echoed faintly through the trees, a sound that sent a shiver down his spine. Its eerie resonance felt like a warning and a challenge, as though the forest itself were testing him.

For a moment, Andries’s breath caught. He thought of the wyvern’s cry as a mirror of his own rebellion—wild, fierce, and full of peril. Then he turned to Dalen, his expression hardening.

“Enough talk,” Andries said sharply, though his voice carried a faint tremor. “There’s work to do.”

He moved past Dalen, his cloak trailing behind him like a living shadow. The camp’s firelight flickered in the distance, but it felt far away, as if the forest itself stretched infinitely between him and his followers. As he walked, his thoughts circled back to Elias—his brother, his rival, the reflection of a life Andries could no longer claim.

One day, he thought bitterly, we will finish this.

And as the mist closed in around him, Andries disappeared into the shadows, a man walking the fine line between justice and vengeance.