Chapter 4: First Blood
"Move!" Steve barks, his voice cutting through the tension, and every soldier instantly falls into position. They spread out, weapons drawn, eyes darting between the trees and the shadows. Bucky's hand tightens around his rifle, his heart hammering in his chest.
There's nowhere to hide here. This is not the battlefield; this is something far worse.
The horse emerges first from the mist—an enormous black steed, its coat sleek and glistening like obsidian, muscles rippling under the pale moonlight. It charges through the fog, the sound of its hooves echoing off the trees like the growl of some ancient beast, long forgotten.
And then—through the shroud of mist—the rider.
A dark figure cloaked in black, his silhouette barely visible beneath the swirling fog. The only thing that shines with clarity is the cold, gleaming armor wrapped around his body, catching the moonlight with an otherworldly gleam. His form is tall, intimidating, yet there is something about him. Something that doesn't belong.
He has no head.
The sight sends a wave of nausea through Bucky's stomach. A headless rider. A creature of legend. The Horseman. The one the villagers had warned them about.
Before they can react, the beast barrels through their formation.
The horse's hooves strike the ground with brutal force, splintering rocks and sending dirt flying as it passes in a blur. The soldiers scramble, some falling to the ground, as the shadowy figure charges through their midst, the wind of its passing slapping their faces. They barely manage to dodge the oncoming beast—just enough to avoid being trampled.
Then, a scream pierces the night—a scream so full of terror that it echoes in Bucky's chest. He turns instinctively, only to see one of the soldiers being lifted off the ground.
It happens so fast, it almost feels surreal. The soldier is hoisted into the air as if by some invisible force, his legs flailing in desperation, his hands reaching toward the sky. But then—before anyone can move—his head is cleaved clean off in one swift motion.
Blood sprays out in a thick, crimson arc, splattering the trees around them. The soldier's body drops to the ground with a sickening thud, his severed head tumbling away into the mist like some twisted prize.
Bucky's stomach churns as the blood stains the leaves, the ground, the air, and his heart feels like it stops for a split second. He turns to Steve, eyes wide, disbelief gripping him.
Steve is already in motion—already moving, his body a blur as he hurls his shield at the figure on horseback. His arm extends, muscles taut as the shield flies through the air in a perfect arc, cutting through the mist with deadly precision.
But it doesn't hit.
The shield passes straight through the Horseman's body, as if he's nothing more than a phantom. The metallic clang of the shield hitting the ground echoes in the silence that follows.
The Horseman turns toward them—toward Bucky.
The air around them feels colder, heavier, as though time itself is slowing down. Bucky's blood runs cold. This isn't a man. This isn't a soldier. This is something far worse. A myth, a nightmare, alive and breathing in the flesh.
And then the first shots ring out.
Gunfire erupts from the men. The soldiers, panicked but trying to hold their ground, open fire on the rider. Their bullets rip through the air, but they do nothing. They hit nothing. It's as if the Horseman isn't even there, and yet the horse—its enormous frame, its thundering hooves—remains solid, tangible.
But the rider... the rider is something else entirely.
With terrifying speed, the Horseman charges.
The soldiers scatter, but it's no use. The rider is upon them in seconds, his spectral blade—a sword dark and gleaming like blackened steel—swinging through the air. The blade cuts through the men like they're made of paper, slashing effortlessly, cleaving through flesh, bone, and armor alike.
Screams echo in the night as bodies fall, one after another, each man that gets too close to the rider meeting a grisly fate. Blood splashes across the trees, turning the forest floor into a grotesque canvas of red.
"Retreat!" Steve roars, his voice barely carrying over the chaos. "Get back to the village, now!"
But Bucky doesn't move.
His feet are rooted to the ground, his eyes locked on the Horseman. The words barely register in his mind as adrenaline surges through him. He's been in the thick of battle countless times before, but this—this is different. The Horseman's presence is suffocating, his very being a terror that even Bucky's iron resolve can't shake.
Steve, seeing Bucky still standing, reacts instantly. He dives forward, slamming into his friend's side, knocking him to the ground just as the Horseman's sword swings down with lethal precision.
The blade misses them by mere inches, slicing through the air with a sound so sharp that it feels like it cuts the very atmosphere itself.
"Come on!" Steve grunts, pulling Bucky up, but it's no use. The Horseman is already moving again, already charging, and the chaos has spread too far. Men are dying left and right, their blood soaking the earth beneath them.
And then, as quickly as it all began, the Horseman pulls his steed to a halt. He fades into the fog, his figure vanishing like smoke in the wind. The sound of the horse's hooves slowly fades as well, until there is nothing but silence once again.
Bucky and Steve remain where they are, kneeling in the dirt, their breaths heavy, hearts racing. Around them, the camp lies in ruins. Bodies are scattered across the clearing, their faces frozen in expressions of horror, their eyes wide open in shock.
Bucky's chest heaves as he tries to process what just happened. He can't. None of it makes sense. This is madness.
Steve slowly gets to his feet, pulling Bucky up with him. His eyes scan the clearing, the fog rolling in, the bodies scattered like broken dolls. He looks down at the man closest to him—his headless corpse—and grimaces.
"We have to go," Steve says, his voice low, steely. "Now."
But Bucky, despite everything that just happened, can't tear his gaze away from the place where the Horseman disappeared. The fog seems to swallow him whole, the darkness claiming him.
And then he hears it—the faintest sound, distant, but unmistakable.
The sound of hooves.
They're coming again.
They run.
The sound of hooves fades into the night, but the panic does not. Steve's pulse thunders in his ears, his breath ragged as he scans the forest around them. The fog rolls like an ominous tide, creeping through the trees, smothering the clearing where so many of his men had fallen. The smell of blood lingers thick in the air, sharp and metallic. The silence that follows feels unnatural, as though the world itself is holding its breath.
"Move," Steve growls again, his voice tight with urgency. He pulls Bucky along and shoves the others forward, the weight of his friend's hesitation pulling at his every step. Bucky's eyes dart across the clearing, still searching for any sign of the Horseman. His face is pale, his mouth set in a grim line.
"Steve," Bucky murmurs, his voice distant, strained. "That... that wasn't real."
"It was," Steve replies, his jaw clenched. "It's real, Bucky. And if we don't get out of here, it's gonna keep happening. We've lost enough men."
Around them, the remaining Howling Commandos are gathering, stumbling from where they'd taken cover in the forest. Their faces are ashen, some of them covered in blood from the scattered bodies they'd tried to protect. Dugan, still nursing a bruise from where he'd thrown himself to the ground, grumbles under his breath, wiping his face with a dirty hand.
"That... that thing," Dugan spits, clearly disgusted. "You expect me to believe we just got attacked by a goddamn ghost? A headless rider? You saw that, right? I'm not imagining things."
"None of us are imagining it," Steve retorts sharply, his voice carrying an edge of authority. "We need to move. If the Horseman comes back, we won't survive another attack."
Falsworth, ever the pragmatic soldier, takes a moment to survey the situation. His face is grim, but there's a glint of reason behind his tired eyes. "Where do we go?" he asks, his voice low.
Back to the village," Steve answers immediately, glancing over at Bucky. "We need answers. This doesn't make sense, and we're not going to find them out here. We need to figure out who or what we're up against."
The men exchange uncertain glances, some of them too rattled to speak, their bodies stiff with fear. There's no arguing with Steve's orders, though. His reputation as a leader is solid, even in the worst of times. They begin to move, albeit slowly, their boots crunching softly on the earth as they push through the dense underbrush. The fog presses close, making the path ahead hard to see.
Bucky lingers at the back, his mind a whirlwind of questions and doubts. He can still feel the cold air around the Horseman, the oppressive weight of his presence. The image of the soldier's head being cleaved clean off by an unseen force flashes in his mind again, and his stomach churns. His fingers twitch on the rifle slung across his back, itching for something tangible to fight. But there's nothing. Not here. Not now.
As they approach the edge of the forest, the faint glow of the village lights appears through the trees, a soft, welcoming beacon in the distance. Steve leads the group, his pace quickening as they near the safety of the town.
When they finally break through the tree line, the villagers are waiting for them—dozens of them, standing in clusters near the edge of the village, their faces anxious and wary. They exchange whispered conversations, their eyes flickering between the soldiers and the dark forest from which they emerged.
One man steps forward—a tall figure with graying hair and a long, weathered coat. His eyes are dark, intense, and he looks as though he's seen more than his fair share of nightmares. There's a small, polished talisman around his neck, a worn trinket shaped like a raven's claw, dangling from a thin silver chain.
"You survived the Horseman," the man says, his voice low, gravelly, and filled with disbelief.
"It wasn't easy," Steve replies, his tone tight, trying to catch his breath. "We need answers. We need to know what we're dealing with."
The man nods gravely, his eyes flicking over to the men behind Steve, his gaze lingering on Bucky. "We can provide shelter for the night. Your tents will not protect you now he has seen you."
He leads them into the village, to an abandoned home, with barred windows and locks on the doors, and offers it to them for the night.
Sitting on the cold wooden floor, Steve pulls his legs up to his chest. His men sleep, the panic of the day's events exhausting them. But Steve can't close his eyes, can't bat away the image of a headless man swinging his sword at Bucky, inches from his friend's head.
