“Can’t we just go around it?” I blurt out, not even thinking twice. I know my cousin outranks me and that I should thereby heed his every command, but to me, he’s still just the family I never cared for.
Dimitri’s glare is like a hot iron to my face.
It’s almost imperceptible, but even from this distance I can still see Alphonse’s nostrils flare. “If you are so spinelessness that you would rather add two weeks to your journey, skirting the edge of the Shadowthorn where demons can leap out at any point, rather than simply walking through it to reach the castle in two days’ time, then by all means, initiate, take the scenic route. And while you’re at it, perhaps you should reflect on your decision to join the Crusade, a legion of the bravest warriors, not cowards.”
Cheeks burning, eyes raging, I bury my head as far down as it will go. If I had known the journey was that much longer, I wouldn’t have suggested it.
“No? No smart retort? Are you quite sure?” Alphonse taunts, though he’s not confident enough to give me too much time to respond. “Very well. Then, as I was saying, we go through the Shadowthorn. It is a short enough stretch of land, and the demons haven’t yet noticed that the Blight has swallowed our path. They do not yet watch it like they do the border towns.”
Alphonse motions for his men with a sweep of his arm. The horses that were leading us disperse. Two trot ahead, while the others circle back, two taking to the rear, and a few on either side until the new recruits and myself have at least one Crusader nearby for protection.
I watch the man next to me, large and bulbous, with unruly hair atop his head and chin. He’s the one that joined in on our jokes. He’s also one of the ones who didn’t have the markings on his face, but now I watch him reach up to a vial hanging from his neck. His hands are so large that they look like they’d break the glass if they tried opening it, but somehow, he manages to pop the lid off. A brush comes out with the lid, coated in inky black, and he presses it to his forehead.
Twisting from where I stand, I watch the other Crusaders do the same. They mark their faces with a cross on their forehead, a trail resembling tears beneath each eye, and a single line down their chins.
“As long as you keep up, you will be flanked by a Crusader on every side and therefore safe. But I do suggest you keep up. We need to be swift. There’s no reason to meander through the Shadowthorn and accidentally draw the suspicions of any nearby shadowcreatures.”
Alphonse flicks his reins. His horse whinnies helplessly, clearly distressed about venturing so close to the Shadowthorn. But Alphonse ignores him, as do the other Crusaders, and they press forward, across the black stain that marks the stolen, blighted earth.
Since Dimitri and I are near the rear of the group, we get to watch as one by one our future comrades step into the shadowed land, until all that’s left to do is follow.
I practically tiptoe across, tentatively sliding my foot into shadowcreature domain. My boots reach the black soil, and I swear it’s colder here, quieter. I’d heard that the Blight took everything in its path—squirrels, ferns, every flower imaginable—but I never realized just what that meant. How could I? From the outside, the Blighted land doesn’t look very different, aside from the darkness. The trees still stand, the grass still sways in the spring. From the outside, it almost just looks like a fire blazed through, but even that isn’t fully accurate. Fire destroys. The Shadowthorn takes what is there and turns it into darkness, toxin, death.
Unaware I’m doing it, I hold my breath. Others do the same, and I realize in a fit of injustice that this is wrong. No one enters the Shadowthorn without ink on their faces, and none of these Crusaders even offered us any.
“You can stop holding your breath,” Alphonse calls softly over his shoulder. His voice has lost its bravado. There’s no show left in him here, only survival. “The Shadowthorn isn’t poisonous to breathing. Just be wary of any fiends you might see. Believe nothing you see or hear.”
We continue to creep along the trail, black trees arched overhead, black rocks beneath our shoes, black grass bedded along the forest floor. It feels like walking through a dream, a nightmare, like I’ve forgotten how to see color.
When I glance to Dimitri beside me, his sage-green eyes are the only indicator that I’m wrong. All of this is real. I know because the same fear is reflected in them, and I trust his judgment better than my own.
My heart thrums louder against my chest, and I worry that it is a pounding drum that will signal the demons for dinner. I didn’t expect to be entering the Shadowthorn so soon. We haven’t even had a day of training yet, haven’t even picked out our shadowsteel weapons.
My hand grasps for my brother’s dagger and holds tight. If I learned anything from the night my parents were killed, it’s that I don’t have any idea of how to fight, but feeling the leather hilt in my hand is reassuring enough. It beats being completely defenseless. If any demon strikes, at least I will go down swinging, slicing through as many as I can before I take my final breath.
“We’ll be all right,” Dimitri whispers, his voice harsh and low. “They wouldn’t bring us through here if it wasn’t safe. We’re more important.”
I have half a mind to argue the opposite, that we are utterly dispensable, but even my argumentative self can realize that now is not the time, and it’s definitely not the place.
Up ahead, Alphonse stretches his arm out. There are too many bodies between me and him, and I’m too short to see over any of them anyway, but I think he’s pointing at our exit.
Salvation is just ahead. We only need to make it a little farther.
Really, this hasn’t been too bad. I expected my first trip through the Shadowthorn to be filled with a brutal battle with bloodthirsty demons whose teeth were as sharp as splintered bones and eyes as red as blood. Maybe that’s why Alphonse brought us this way. Maybe the whole point is to embolden us and show us that there is nothing to fear from—
A scream pierces the cold, dense air. We halt as one, every single member of our party.
An unsettling silence settles once more, denser, stiller. It’s so quiet that even from this distance, I can make out the conversation being exchanged in whispers between Alphonse and one of the Crusaders.
“Could be one of our own.”
“This far from Nigh?” Alphonse hisses. “Doubtful.”
“Could be a local,” the Crusader suggests. “Sometimes they wander back into the Blight to return to their homes, even when they know they shouldn’t.”
“If they are such incredible fools, then they deserve to perish.” Alphonse spits to the black earth. “Besides, it’s likely just those heathens from the Forgotten Forest of Eyve again, come to attempt another robbery on the catacombs for our ink.”
He glances to me when he says the word heathens, and I feel heat rise to my cheeks, almost steaming against the cold chill of the air.
Beneath him, his horse’s feet dance like the poor creature thinks it’s standing atop flame. Alphonse jerks the reins hard, turns his back to the screams that continue to sound in the distance, and repositions the both of them to facing north, in the direction of Nigh.
“Let them rot,” he sneers before ushering his steed forward.