“Are you alright?”

Bess looked up with surprise when Crispin addressed her, her ears flicking before focusing forward again. “Of course, why?” 

The older stallion just smiled softly, his eyes sweeping over her from head to hock before nodding. “That was a large pack of hounds. Just making sure you’re unhurt.” 

Bess twisted to look over herself. Her flank stung where a hot claw had grazed her, and there were a few nips on her legs that had since stopped trickling blood, but she hardly noticed such minor wounds. Her armor, strapped tight, had deflected the worst of anything the hounds had thrown their way. She flexed her back, kicking out a back leg proudly to show off. “Fresh as a foal, sire.” 

Crispin snorted, looking up from where he’d been checking over his own armor. “It’s long time you stopped calling me that, Bess. You’ve trained well.” 

Bess opened her mouth to thank the stallion, when a low, breathy moan caught her off guard. She jumped at the desperate sound, and at once she and Crispin whirled around, blades unearthed from their scabbards to face the new threat. 

In the chamber they had chosen to rest in, dark vines tumbled down one of the walls, blooming with blood-red flowers. It was a strange sight in the furnace, but Crispin had told her they were a byproduct of the Harvester, who they had yet to meet. When they’d arrived, they’d been nothing but benign, singed plants, but now the space between their tendrils glowed with pale light, as if something more were beyond their protection than just a stone wall. 

Staggering out from between the parted vines was a figure; upright on two legs like the humans of legend, but much smaller, clad in armor as blue-gray and washed out as his figure. Bess could see the vines through him. She brandished her sword, but the ghastly figure looked up at her without fear. His eyes were sunk, gaunt, his mouth parted through his bedraggled beard. 

“The Forge…” the ghost rasped, “The Forge…” 

Bess cast a nervous glance back at Crispin, who met her eyes. “It’s alright,” He said around his sword, before sliding it back into its scabbard, “It’s a restless spirit. The Harvester will come for him soon.” 

Bess flicked her ears back uneasily, and turned back to look at the pale figure again, but-

It was gone.