The hero they threw away.

The air grew heavier the deeper they ventured into the forest. Trees arched like skeletal hands, their twisted forms casting crooked shadows on the mossy path.

Leah paused first.

"Blood," she whispered.

Ahead, slumped against the remains of a tree hollow, a figure writhed. His armor was cracked, dented, and soaked in gore. His eyes—once intelligent—were wild and unfocused. His mouth moved in silent words as he gnawed on a piece of blackened meat.

"That's… him," Mario said, voice laced with revulsion.

The knight.

The one they were sent to retrieve.

His sword, once polished, now rusted with dried blood, lay nearby. He didn't even flinch as they approached.

"Sir," Leah called gently. "We've come to take you back."

The knight's head twitched. Then he let out a low growl.

Mario stepped forward. "He's lost it. He's been feeding on corrupted beasts."

The knight surged up with a scream, slashing his blade wildly. It grazed Mario's shoulder before Leah's barrier activated.

"Enough!" Mario roared and struck the knight across the face. The man staggered but did not fall. "Come with us, or die here like an animal!"

The knight mumbled something—"They left me… They left me to rot…"

Another punch. Another grunt. Eventually, after the struggle, they shackled the broken warrior and dragged him with them.

They moved faster now, all uncomfortable. The forest seemed to close in tighter.

Then Leah stopped again.

A clearing. Faint embers of an old fire. A torn bag. A cloak. An empty canteen.

Andrew's.

She picked up a folded parchment beneath a flat stone. It was sealed crudely.

To: Leah.

Her hands trembled as she broke the seal. The words were scrawled, uncertain, but sincere.

"Before this madness started… I just wanted to say I admired you. Your strength. Your kindness. I guess I never had the chance to say it aloud… So here's my truth, even if you never read it: I liked you."

Leah said nothing.

Mario glanced over. "What's that?"

"Nothing," she replied, slipping the letter into her satchel.

From high above, Andrew watched. Hidden. Silent.

The strategist in the shadows.

He remembered writing that letter, foolishly, naively, before the ceremony. Before betrayal. Before he became a ghost in the trees.

Now he saw them—dragging a mad knight, reading the words of a boy who no longer existed.

He wasn't that boy anymore.

He was strategy incarnate. He was vengeance in the making.

And the next time they saw him, they would see the real Andrew.