A profound hush enveloped the forest, thick and palpable, like an enchantment lingering just beyond the edge of realization. Towering trees soared towards the mist-laden sky, their gnarled branches draped in emerald moss, while their trunks stood massive and resolute, capable of concealing even the fiercest of beasts. Shafts of warm amber sunlight broke through the canopy, casting intricate patterns on the damp earth, where dewdrops sparkled like tiny jewels upon steel.

Beatrix glided through the underbrush with an effortless grace, each movement fluid and deliberate. Although she was far from the frozen cliffs of her homeland, she navigated this verdant realm as if it were a second skin, as if the very forest recognized her presence and welcomed her. At her hip, her flail rested with an easy familiarity, while her shield clung to her back like a vigilant guardian, prepared for any lurking threat. Her long silver braid danced behind her, radiant in the dappled sunlight, capturing fleeting rays like strands of spun moonlight.

Behind her, her companion followed—a formidable figure clad in tempered mail, his presence a quiet but powerful force. He remained silent, as he often did, yet his watchful gaze never wavered. Where she moved with the fierce energy of a disciplined storm, he advanced like an ancient mountain—steady, unyielding, and always at her side.

She glanced back briefly, not out of suspicion, but out of habit—and comfort. A faint smile curved her lips. “You walk softer than a shadow,” she murmured, almost to herself. “A rare thing in armor.”

He offered no reply, of course, but when their eyes met for a heartbeat, it spoke volumes. That connection was enough.

They pressed onward, their boots sinking into the rich loam and lush ferns, senses finely tuned to the profound silence surrounding them. The southern forests held a voice of their own—less brutal than the howling blizzards of the North, yet no less perilous. The vibrant green could hide dangers as readily as the stark white, if one neglected to listen.

As they crested a gentle rise, Beatrix paused, resting a hand against the rugged trunk of an ancient tree, its surface veined with pale fungi. “I don’t miss the cold,” she said softly, “but I do miss the silence. That deep, honest stillness that compels a person to sit quietly and reflect.”

Her voice lightened, filled with contemplation. She seldom shared such thoughts around others, but with her companion, it felt different. He never filled silence with meaningless chatter; he allowed it to stretch and breathe, creating space for her words to resonate.

Before them sprawled a clearing, a sunlit oasis amidst the thick greenery, encircled by gnarled roots and blooming vines. Yet a sense of unease permeated the air, a subtle but unsettling wrongness that clung to the edges of her awareness.

She raised a hand to signal him to stop, crouching slightly to scrutinize the area. Her expression shifted, hardening with an instinctive alertness. “Do you see it?” she asked quietly, knowing he would.

The clearing was unnaturally still. The foliage stood undisturbed, the plants void of life. No insects buzzed lazily among the blossoms, and the cheerful songs of birds were conspicuously absent. Something had moved through, but not recently. And it had not departed in the same manner it had entered.

With cautious determination, Beatrix descended into the clearing, her keen eyes scanning for any signs of disturbance. Her companion remained atop the ridge, a steadfast figure, silently observing, a reassuring presence she could rely on.

Then she spotted it. Near the edge of the clearing lay a Crusader’s body, face down and lifeless, encased in splintered armor. The faint drag marks leading here were but whispers on the forest floor, discernible only to her trained eye. Kneeling beside the fallen warrior, she delicately brushed her fingers over the bent helm. “Another of ours,” she muttered grimly. “Torn open. No blade marks... just rended.”

She didn’t require words; she could feel the tension emanating from her companion—his breath steady, his weight subtly shifting as he readied himself for what might unfold.

But then her gaze fell upon the sigil seared into the breastplate, and her brow furrowed in realization. “Again,” she whispered. “The same mark. It’s spreading.”

Time hung suspended in the air. The wind stirred the vines with a soft sigh. Nothing else moved.

She stood and turned toward her companion, her expression softening. “Thank you,” she said, her voice a gentle balm. “For being here.”

Her companion inclined his head in the slightest of nods.

Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer. “Most would ask questions, demand answers I don’t possess.” A faint smile graced her lips. “You simply watch. That’s far better.”

She reached up to adjust the crest of her helm, the purple horsehair catching the wind like a proud banner, then stepped forward once more, her flail swinging lightly at her side.

As they ventured deeper into the forest, she gravitated closer to her companion—not from fear, but from a profound sense of comfort. The path ahead was uncertain, shrouded in mystery, but her companion was steadfast. In a world where both monsters and men could shift unpredictably, that quiet certainty offered a solace more profound than any words could express.

Leaves rustled above, whispering secrets of the forest. Mist crept between the tree roots, weaving an ethereal tapestry. Somewhere ahead, the maker of the sigil waited, a sinister presence cloaked in shadow.

Yet Beatrix did not look back.

She didn’t need to.

Her companion was there.