Cristalian wolves

The cold night air wrapped around Garmond like a shroud, each breath sending a chill down his spine. The decision to camp in the wild had been dangerous, but traveling under the cover of darkness felt like a gamble they couldn't afford. With the recent uprisings against the new Emperor, the roads weren't safe for anyone, let alone a ragtag group of villagers under the watch of Darius and his Karta soldiers.

Darius paced in front of his tent, a scowl on his face, his frustration barely contained. "These fools," he spat, his voice thick with disdain. "Why can't they just accept it? The Emperor's too powerful. You can't overthrow someone like him." His words hung in the air, heavy with a mix of anger and disbelief. The thought of the resistance clinging to hope after fifty years of failed attempts enraged him. He couldn't fathom their stubbornness—sacrificing their lives for a cause that had long been crushed.

At Darius's order, the Karta soldiers halted their horses, dismounted, and began setting up the camp. The soldiers moved with an efficiency that spoke of years under the commander's strict rule, their faces stern and focused as they prepared tents for the night. One tent was larger than the rest, meticulously arranged for Darius, down to the finest detail. Garmond couldn't help but notice the blend of respect and fear in the soldiers' movements—obedience born not out of loyalty, but survival.

The villagers, on the other hand, were left to fend for themselves. They weren't given the luxury of tents. They huddled together, exhausted and defeated, but too afraid to attempt escape. There was no point. The nearest village was miles away, and the harsh wilderness stretched far in every direction. Running was a death sentence without food, horses, or a plan.

Garmond, stomach gnawing at itself, accepted the meager rations handed to him—a small piece of hard, moldy bread and a few sips of icy water. The bread crumbled in his hand as he chewed, its taste bitter, but he forced it down, knowing it was better than nothing. It wasn't enough to stave off the growing hunger, but complaining would only draw unwanted attention.

His thoughts drifted back to earlier that day—back to the slaughter he had witnessed at the hands of Darius's men. The villagers they'd executed had been given no chance to plead for their lives, and the memory of their lifeless bodies littering the ground left a bitter taste in his mouth that even the water couldn't wash away. 

He eyed the Karta soldiers with envy as they tore into roasted meat, their laughter and chatter mingling with the crackle of the fire. The smell of grilled meat filled the air, rich and savory, torturing Garmond's empty stomach. He could feel his mouth watering, his body betraying him as he stared, imagining the taste of it.

"You really can't help yourself, can you?" Devine's voice broke through his thoughts, her amused chuckle snapping him back to reality. She stood nearby, watching him with a smirk. He hadn't noticed her approach, too lost in his own hunger-induced daze.

"I wasn't doing anything," Garmond muttered, wiping the drool from his mouth and scratching the back of his head awkwardly. Devine laughed again, the sound light but fleeting. The mood in the camp wasn't one that invited humor, and even she seemed to realize it quickly.

Her laughter drew sharp glares from the other villagers. The night was cold, and their hearts were colder, weighed down by fear and hunger. There was nothing to laugh about, and her lightheartedness struck a sour chord with them.

"I just wanted to ask—" Devine began, but before she could finish her sentence, a chilling howl ripped through the night.

It silenced everything. The camp went still, every muscle tensing as the sound echoed across the forest, a warning carried on the wind. Devine's face lost all trace of amusement, her eyes wide with fear.

Darius emerged from his tent, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The commander's face was hard, his eyes scanning the darkened trees. "That wasn't an ordinary wolf," he muttered under his breath. "Prepare yourselves," he ordered his men, his voice low but firm. 

The Karta soldiers leapt into action, drawing their weapons and forming a defensive line around the camp. Darius turned to the villagers, his gaze cold. "You lot, find shelter. Stay out of our way."

A young boy, no older than Garmond, spoke up, his voice trembling but laced with dry humor. "Shelter? Out here? I don't see much of that."

Garmond couldn't help but chuckle at the boy's quip, but the laughter quickly died in his throat when he noticed the others glaring at him. No one else found humor in their situation. Even Devine, who had been his partner in levity moments ago, now looked at him with a mixture of frustration and worry.

"Yeah... wrong timing," Garmond mumbled, his awkward laugh fading as the tension in the air thickened.

Another howl pierced the night, closer this time, and with it came a rising sense of dread. Darius unsheathed his sword, the blade glinting in the firelight as the fog began to creep in from the forest's edge, thick and unnatural.

"Those who can fight, defend yourselves," Darius called out, his voice steady but urgent. "The rest, stay low and stay quiet." He wasn't sugarcoating it. This was a battle for survival.

Garmond's heart raced, but his instincts kicked in. He scanned the terrified faces of the villagers and knew that if they didn't act quickly, many of them would be slaughtered before the night was through. He couldn't afford to stand by and watch.

"Stay together!" Garmond's voice rang out, louder than he intended, but clear and commanding. "Form a circle. Those who can fight, up front. Everyone else, stay low and help where you can." 

Devine stared at him, her eyes wide with surprise. His tone had shifted—gone was the awkward man who had been joking minutes ago. In his place stood someone she didn't recognize, someone whose words carried the weight of authority, of experience.

The villagers moved quickly, following Garmond's orders without hesitation. They huddled together, forming a defensive ring as best they could. The stronger among them stood at the front, gripping whatever makeshift weapons they could find, while the others crouched behind, trembling with fear.

The fog thickened, rolling over the camp like a wave. Through the haze, Garmond could see their enemies—wolves, their eyes glowing in the dark, fangs bared and dripping with saliva. But these weren't ordinary wolves. Behind them, the fog pulsed with an eerie, magical energy.

Garmond's blood ran cold. "Magical beasts," he muttered, recognizing the danger they faced.

"They've been more frequent these days," the young boy beside him said, his voice barely a whisper. "The Empire's magic stirs them."

"Things have changed more than I realized," Garmond replied, his grip tightening on the little knife in his hand. 

The fog swallowed the camp whole, and with it, the wolves descended.