Uncle Gradios, the leader of the guards, stepped forward.

  He looked like a giant wall of muscle and iron, standing tall while the world around us was falling apart.

  He reached out and handed Frans two heavy bags of supplies, the leather creaking as he pulled the straps.

  "Young Master Frans," he said, and his voice was so calm it made me want to scream.

  Why was everyone so calm when everything was burning?

  "You go first. We will hold them here."

  Frans froze.

  His hand was halfway to the bag, but he stopped, his fingers twitching.

  "But Uncle Grad…"

  Uncle Gradios cut him off.

  He didn't even look at Frans.

  His eyes were fixed on the forest, staring at the dust cloud that was getting closer and closer.

  "You see it too, right?"

  He didn't have to explain.

  I could feel it.

  Even though I was only seven, I felt a cold, heavy weight pressing down on my chest, making it hard to take a full breath.

  It felt like the air was getting thick and oily.

  Uncle Gradios's eyes were narrowed.

  "I can sense it. Three extremely dense mana signatures are coming with them."

  My chest tightened so hard it hurt.

  Mana signatures? Was it more monsters? Huge, scary ones with too many teeth?

  No.

  Father had told me about that kind of pressure.

  That kind of heavy, suffocating feeling only came from monsters in human form.

  Knights who had killed so many people that they didn't feel like people anymore.

  Or worse.

  "We will hold them here," Uncle Gradios continued, his voice like grinding stones.

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  "The cave entrance is narrow. That gives us the advantage. They can't bring all those horses inside. They'll have to fight us one by one."

  He looked at Frans firmly, his gaze like a command that couldn't be broken.

  "You go with Young Master Rick. There are monsters inside. Someone must open the way. Someone must make sure the bloodline reaches the other side."

  Frans clenched his fists.

  I could see a tiny drop of blood where his nails were digging into his palms.

  For a moment, he didn't move.

  He looked like he wanted to stay and fight, to stand with the "Old Lions" and die like a hero in the songs.

  But then… his shoulders slumped, just a tiny bit.

  "…Yes."

  The word sounded like it was being pulled out of him.

  He turned and walked toward me, his boots crunching on the gravel.

  He shoved one of the supply bags into my hands.

  It was heavy and smelled like dried meat and iron, and then he did something that made my heart jump.

  He handed me a small sword and a large shield with a metal rim fitted for an adult.

  "Rick. You don't need to use the crossbow anymore."

  I blinked, looking at the heavy wooden bow on the ground.

  I felt a weird mix of relief and terror. "Use these," he said.

  As I fumbled with the straps, putting on the bag that felt like a mountain on my back and trying to get my small arm through the shield's loops, Frans didn't stop talking.

  He helped me fix the sword's scabbard to my waist, his hands moving fast and sure, even though I was shaking so hard the scabbard kept clicking against my leg.

  "Listen carefully," he said, his face inches from mine.

  His eyes were still glowing, those four rings of the Avenir looking at me with a scary intensity.

  "We will move fast. I will open the way. I will be the edge of the blade."

  "You block the flank," he continued.

  "Watch the sides. If a goblin jumps, or a spider lunges, you put that shield between you and it. Only stab when you successfully block them. Don't chase. Don't be a hero. Just block and stab."

  He stared straight into my eyes, and for a second, I felt like I was drowning in those rings. "Do you understand, Rick?"

  I swallowed a big, dry lump in my throat.

  I looked at the shield.

  It was solid.

  It was real.

  It wasn't a "coward's bow" that hit from far away.

  Father always said a shield was the brother of the sword. In our village, people sometimes laughed at shield users and called them "turtles," but they were still accepted.

  They were still warriors who stood in the dirt and felt the blow.

  Unlike archers.

  If Father could see me now, at least he wouldn't call me a coward.

  I nodded, my head feeling heavy.

  "Yes, brother."

  "GO!" Uncle Gradios shouted.

  The sound of hundreds of hoofsteps was already shaking the ground, a rhythmic thump-thump-thump that felt like the mountain was about to collapse.

  The dust was so thick now I could taste it.

  I heard the first of the Empire's war-horns. A long, low, terrifying blast that sounded like a dying giant.

  We didn't look back.

  We couldn't.

  I knew if I looked back and saw Uncle Gradios fall, I'd never be able to move again.

  We ran.

  We ran away from the sun, away from the sky, and into the dark, damp throat of the dungeon.

  The air changed instantly, turning cold and smelling of old water and something rotten.

  Behind us, I heard the first CLANG of shields meeting and the screams of men.

  Ahead of us, the darkness was deep and black, but I could hear things.

  Skitter-skitter.

  The sound of many tiny legs.

  Grrr.

  The low growl of something hungry.

  My heart was a frantic, panicked bird trapped in my ribs, but I gripped the handle of my shield until my fingers went numb.

  Toward the dungeon. Toward the monsters.

  Toward our only path to survive.

  "Don't stop, Rick!" Frans yelled, his sword already out, glowing faintly in the dim light of the cave.

  "If you stop, you die!"

  I sobbed once, a small, sharp sound that was swallowed by the cave, and I ran into the dark, praying that the shield would be enough to keep the nightmares away.