Oathbringer - Part 1

The fog clung low to the forest floor, curling like fingers around the roots of ancient chestnut trees. A bit of Elira's copper hair sticking out past her hood gleamed like blood in the bleak, obscured moonlight as she stepped past the broken boundary stone. No birds sang here—only the rustle of something unseen pacing just beyond her sight. Legends warned that the dead did not rest in Greymire Wood, and tonight, the ground felt restless. 

Clutching her father's dagger, Elira whispered a prayer she no longer believed in. A prayer that once brought her joy now only brought emptiness. How could he leave her? He was all she had left. Now she stood alone over what may very well become her own grave. The rain fell like the tears she could no longer hold back. Still, she had to continue. 

With a steady hand and a shattered heart, Elira turned the dagger inward, its worn hilt still warm from her grip. The blade kissed her palm, and blood bloomed like a dark flower and flowed between her alabaster fingers, pattering into the mud with a sound too close to weeping, as if the earth mourned what she was becoming. As blood fell from her palm onto the summoning circle she'd drawn in the mud, she continued her plea. Someone had to answer. The alternative was more than she could bear.

The air was still as if the earth itself held but only a shallow breath. Elira’s voice trembled as she spoke the final word, one forbidden even in the oldest elven tongues. The shadows around her twisted, recoiled, and then, as if that shallow breath had been released, they blew away from her. 

A figure began to form within the circle—neither flesh nor spirit, but something caught between worlds–its form wreathed in shadows that writhed like living smoke. It knew her name. It did not ask why she had summoned it. But Elira’s eyes widened, and her breath hitched. This was not the answer she had begged for—this was something far worse–this was dangerous, ancient. A creature from the deepest depths, the kind spoken of in whispers and bedtime threats, where even the bravest parents turned the lantern low. Its form flickered like smoke over bone, eyes glowing like dying stars, filled with the memory of fire and ruin.

She took a step back, heart pounding like a war drum in her chest. She flipped the dagger, still slick with her blood, around, the point positioned between her and the dark form. The creature tilted its head—not like a beast, but like something studying a thought too fragile to hold. It didn’t advance. Didn’t speak. It only watched her, waiting. Before long, it bowed. And that terrified her more than any roar might have.

Elira expected hunger, wrath, the seizing of her soul. But its clawed hands didn’t reach for her. It didn’t lunge, run, or do any of the things she expected. It rose, uttering words in a tongue older than the trees, its voice layered like wind through hollow bones. Elira stood frozen, unable to respond, the dagger trembling between them. The creature began to glide around her in a slow, deliberate circle, never breaking its gaze. Her heart pounded as she pivoted with it, blade raised, breath ragged, her fear thick enough to taste. Then, with the grace of falling ash, it extended a single claw-like finger and pressed it gently to her forehead.

Elira gasped, but before she could move, her vision snapped away like a lantern extinguished. Suddenly, she stood in a forest not her own, beneath a black sun that never warmed the sky. The trees wept ash instead of leaves. A war horn echoed, and she watched through the creature’s eyes as fire tore across the land. Elves screamed, their city fallen. And there, in the heart of it all, stood the creature… not a monster, but a warrior, betrayed by those it once swore to protect.

She stumbled back into herself with a choking cry, the cold mud beneath her knees biting through her dress. The creature still hovered before her, eyes fixed, expression unreadable. But now, she understood the weight behind its gaze—the ruin it carried, the silence it wore like armor. And as it spoke again in that grave-dust tongue, the meaning bloomed in her mind like blood in water. “I remember,” it said. “Now… so do you.”

Elira stared, words caught somewhere between breath and thought.

 She should have screamed. She should have run. But the weight of the memory–the creature’s grief, its fury, its loss—held her fast. It hadn’t attacked. It hadn’t lied. It had shown her. Why?

But before the question could rise to her lips, a low growl curled through the fog behind her—wet, guttural, close. The creature’s head snapped toward the sound, eyes narrowing, no longer reflective but burning.

The thing from the woods. It had never left. Elira whipped around, the hood of her cloak flying off, freeing her hair, now flaming red in the now-bright moonlight. Something massive shifted just beyond the edge of the summoning circle—too large to be a wolf, too quiet to be a bear. The shadows seemed to thicken, and branches groaned as if something hungry brushed towards them. As it moved closer, the moon’s light illuminated the immense form.

The creature raised its hand, palm open toward Elira—a silent warning: Stay still. The growl turned into a snarl—then a blur of fur, fangs, and fury lunged from the tree line. Elira barely had time to flinch before the beast was airborne, its claws outstretched, jaws yawning wide—and in a single motion, the creature beside her raised its hand and unmade it.

No flash. No sound. Just a sudden, awful stillness where the beast had been—then ash, drifting down like black snow.

Elira stumbled back, heart hammering, breath ragged. “W-what was that?”

The creature turned to her, calm as ever, voice now perfectly clear in her mind.

 “Not what. Who. And it was the first.” It glanced toward the trees, where the mist had grown darker, heavier. “We need to move. Your blood and presence have summoned more than just me…and the forest remembers far darker things than myself.”

The creature’s words echoed in her mind, heavy and dark. Elira swallowed hard, staring into the thick, suffocating woods ahead. This wasn’t the path she had chosen; all she wanted was her father back—or at least a chance to say goodbye, not to be thrust into shadows she didn’t understand. This wasn’t the path she had chosen; all she wanted was her father back—or at least a chance to say goodbye, not to be thrust into shadows she didn’t understand. Her heart ached with the weight of everything she hadn’t said, the emptiness left in his absence growing louder in the silence. Now there was this… thing, standing where comfort should have been, beckoning her into darkness with no promise of light. 

Tears she hadn’t realized she was holding slipped down her cheeks, and for a long moment, she stood frozen, caught between fear and hope, unsure if following the creature would lead her to salvation—or to her doom. The fog seemed to curl closer, whispering secrets she wasn’t ready to hear. Her hand trembled around the dagger’s worn hilt—blood still drying on its edge.

           “Where do we go?” she finally whispered, voice barely steady, still unsure if she should trust this thing.

The creature’s form shifted, rippling like smoke, and it moved toward the tree line. “Forward. But beware—this forest is older than any memory, and every shadow hides a story.”

Elira hesitated still, unable to unstick her feet from their place frozen in the mud. But something in the creature’s gaze told her there was no turning back. With a trembling breath and the dagger clutched tightly in her hand, she stepped forward, feeling the weight of unseen eyes pressing down.

The creature turned as she moved, its gaze catching hers for the briefest moment. There was something behind those endless eyes—an awareness of her fear, maybe even something like regret. It looked as though it might speak, but the stillness around them shifted, and it turned away instead.

No time. No explanations. Not yet.

She followed, legs heavy, breath uneven. The forest seemed to fold around them like a mouth closing. The trees leaned too close, and the path—if there was one—wound like a serpent. Her father had warned her never to enter this place. So had everyone else. She should have listened. But her father was gone, and she couldn’t follow his voice anymore.

They walked in silence, the only sound their footsteps squelching in the wet earth and the whisper of leaves overhead. Mist clung to the ground, thick as wool, curling around their ankles like something alive. Elira kept her eyes down, but the deeper they went, the more the silence twisted into something unnatural—too quiet. No birdsong. No insects. Not even the rustle of wind.

Then something tugged at her ankle. She gasped, stumbling. Vines—thin and dark as veins—had slithered from the underbrush and coiled around her boot. Before she could cry out, more vines struck like snakes, lashing for her wrists, her throat. Elira dropped low, slashing with her dagger. The blade was small, but it sang through the vine’s flesh with a satisfying snap. Another tendril wrapped around her waist—she twisted, planted her heel, and drove the dagger back over her shoulder. The vine shuddered and recoiled. She didn’t hesitate. Another cut. Then another. By the time the last tendril fell limp, she was panting, knees sunk in the mud, hair stuck to her face.

The creature hadn’t moved. It stood just ahead, watching—expression unreadable.

She glared up at it. “You weren’t going to help?”

“I was watching,” it said simply. It stepped forward, and for a moment, she thought it might scold her—but it only nodded once. “You are not as fragile as you believe.”

Elira scoffed, wiping her dagger on the grass. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”

“It is.”

The mist closed in again, the forest swallowing the remains of the vines as though they’d never been there. Elira stood, breath still uneven but heart steadier than before. She wiped her brow, then slid the dagger back into its sheath with a quiet breath. “We should keep moving before the undergrowth gets another idea,” she said, glancing warily at the towering trees above. “Or one of them does.” She nodded upward, thumb hooking toward the ancient trunks.

The creature simply nodded and continued to lead the way. They pressed on, the fog thinning in places but never fully lifting. The ground sloped upward, and Elira felt every step in her bones—mud clinging to her boots, thorns dragging at her cloak. Her arms ached from the fight, and her breath grew shallow, chest tight with exhaustion. Still, she didn’t complain.

But eventually, even the creature slowed. Its head tilted, as if listening to something she couldn’t hear. Then, ahead—an opening. A clearing, moonlit and still, rimmed with gnarled trees like watchful sentinels. Moss covered the stones scattered across its floor, and in the center stood a stump, hollowed with age and time.

The creature paused at the edge. “We’ll rest here. But not for long.”

Elira sank to the grass without waiting for permission. Her legs nearly gave out. She dropped her dagger beside her and leaned back on her hands, head tilted toward the pale sky.

“I thought I might die back there,” she muttered, not sure if she was talking to herself or the creature. More just announcing the reality of it. Her head shook back and forth, the heels of her hand digging slightly into her closed eyes, as if she could rub away the crazy and wake up back in her bed. The creature didn’t answer. It remained standing, motionless, its eyes never leaving the tree line. 

Eventually, Elira uncovered her eyes and then turned her head, glancing over at her new companion. “You could’ve helped, you know.”

“I told you—I was watching.” Its voice was low, calm. “Had you been in true danger, I would have intervened.”

She scoffed, a tired laugh escaping her lips. “I was in true danger.”

A pause.

“You survived.”

Elira exhaled through her nose, unsure if she wanted to be annoyed or proud.

 “You’re strange,” she murmured, half to herself. “You don’t act like a monster.”

The creature finally looked down at her, but its face betrayed nothing. “Not all monsters look the part.”

Its tone caused Elira to sit up slowly. She tilted her head in curiosity, but the creature said no more–instead, it turned its attention to their surroundings, watching for danger. Elira turned back away and sat with her knees drawn up, the dagger resting across her palms. It was heavier now than when she’d first held it—slick with mud, stained at the hilt. She turned it slowly in her fingers, watching the moonlight catch the edge.

Her father’s voice rose in memory, soft and patient. “Not like that. Here—loosen your grip. A blade isn’t just about strength, it’s about balance.” She could still see his hands guiding hers, still feel the warmth of his calloused fingers adjusting her hold.

She hadn’t understood why he wanted her to learn. “So I can cut bread better?” she had joked.

He had only smiled, a little sad. “No, Elira. So you can stand on your own feet, if ever you must.”

Now here she was. Alone. She blinked hard, swiping at her eyes before the tears could fall. With a soft exhale, she sheathed the dagger again, the weight of it somehow steadier in her grasp.

Elira rolled to the balls of her feet and pushed herself upright. Brushing dirt from her hands, she stepped closer to the creature. “We should probably find our way out of here,” she said, offering a small, uncertain smile.

The creature gave a single nod and turned toward the far edge of the clearing. Elira hesitated, lifting a finger as if to stop it. She meant to speak, but all that escaped was a confused grunt. Her brow furrowed. “Um… what should I call you?” she asked, voice tentative. I can’t just keep thinking of it as an ‘it.’ Her eyes searched its face. “You do have a name, right?”

Its head turned slowly back toward her, something like wonder flickering behind those strange eyes. “My name…” it whispered, voice low and distant, as if reaching through time itself. It looked skyward, where the stars blinked between the branches like ancient witnesses. “I have not spoken it aloud in…” Its voice trailed off for a second. “Ages,” it finished. “Seems like an eternity ago.” A pause. Then it said, “Veyrûn.”

The name lingered in the clearing, not loud, but heavy. The light of the moon seemed to dim for a second at the sound before shining brightly once again. Elira tasted the sound in her mind—foreign, sharp at the edges, but not cruel. “Veyrûn,” she repeated softly, trying the shape of it. Sounds so sad. She bowed her head, just once, and Elira thought she saw what looked like a tear slide down its face. “Few have ever dared speak it.”

Elira moved her hand to comfort her, but stopped just shy, letting it fall to her side. She cleared her throat. “Time to move on. We’ve already been here too long.”

If Veyrûn noticed the aborted gesture, she gave no sign. Without a word, she turned and strode from the clearing, her movements silent as drifting mist. Elira followed close behind, the dagger at her side feeling just a little less foreign.

Though the forest remained alive with whispers and strange eyes in the dark, nothing stepped across their path. They heard plenty—distant howls, the rustle of unseen wings overhead—but whatever watched them from the shadows chose not to engage.

By the time the first threads of sunlight laced through the canopy, the trees began to thin. The oppressive weight of the forest lessened, though it never vanished. And still, Veyrûn pressed on.

Elira could just make out the clearing beyond the tree line, and she broke into a desperate run, hope surging through her limbs like wildfire.

“Wait!” Veyrûn shouted a sharp warning, but it was too late.

Elira was nearly free—just steps away from the forest’s edge—when something yanked her backward with brutal force. Her feet slipped out from under her, and a startled yelp tore from her throat before twisting vines muffled the sound. Wide-eyed, Elira struggled as thick vines and twisting branches surged from the undergrowth, weaving themselves around her arms and legs like living chains. The grip tightened with terrifying purpose, and a suffocating shroud of vines crawled over her mouth and nose, choking the air from her lungs.

Her vision blurred, panic clawing at her chest as breath became impossible to draw. Foliage wove its way across every inch of her body, pulling her back into the forest as if to become one of the still trees herself, trapped forever.

Just before darkness claimed her, a soft golden light blossomed nearby, bathing the tangled greenery in warmth. The strangling shrubbery loosened its hold, releasing Elira like a heavy, sodden cloth. Veyrûn’s form swirled swiftly beneath her, catching her before her head struck the earth.

Cradled safely, Elira felt the shadowy being’s ethereal tendrils wrap protectively around her. A single word, ancient and lilting, slipped from Veyrûn’s lips—Sylvaerë—spoken low enough for only herself to hear. The attack had taken more from her than she realized. Even as Veyrûn carried her beyond the threshold of the forest, Elira’s world slipped away. Darkness claimed her, quiet and complete, as they crossed into the light of morning.

Elira gasped as breath rushed back into her lungs, sharp and sudden. She bolted upright, eyes wide, chest heaving as if she'd surfaced from deep water. The world was quiet—too quiet. The oppressive hush of the forest was gone, replaced by the soft rustle of the morning breeze through tall grass. She blinked against the sunlight, now higher in the sky. A couple of hours must have passed.

Her fingers dug into the earth beneath her, as if to anchor herself. The last thing she remembered was the vines—tight around her throat—and then… that word.

Sylvaerë.

The whisper still echoed in her mind, a musical syllable that shimmered with strange power. Her gaze found Veyrûn a few feet away, standing with her back to the sun, silent as ever. “You said something,” Elira murmured, her voice hoarse. “That word… it let you cross, didn’t it?” She looked down at her scraped arms, then back at the towering trees behind them. “Why could you cross when I couldn’t?”

Veyrûn said nothing. But the look she gave Elira—calm, measured, just shy of pity—made it clear: the forest obeyed its own laws. And not all were meant to leave it easily. 

Elira turned slowly, eyes drifting back to the tree line just beyond them. From here, the forest looked… ordinary. Sunlight filtered gently through the branches. Birds chirped in the distance. There was no sign of the strangling vines or whispering shadows that had nearly taken her life. But Elira knew better.

She stared at the trees for a long moment, jaw tight, something cold settling behind her eyes. It looked so harmless—peaceful, even. But beneath those branches lived something ancient and cruel, a place that welcomed wanderers in silence and swallowed them whole when no one was watching.

She wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m never going back in there,” she murmured. “Not ever.” Drawing her knees to her chest, she buried her chin between them, trying to make herself small—as if the forest might still reach for her from behind the trees.

It had left something behind, a quiet, creeping fear that settled deep in her chest—cold and unyielding. Elira wished she could banish it, bury it somewhere too distant to touch her. But it clung to her like the vines that had nearly taken her life, winding tight around her heart, giving it a slow, steady squeeze each time she glanced back.

They sat in silence for a long while, the wind rustling the grass and brushing against Elira’s skin like a mother’s hand. Slowly, her breathing evened out. The weight in her chest didn’t vanish, but it dulled, tucked behind a thin layer of calm. She rested her forehead on her knees. “What now?” she whispered. “Where am I supposed to go?”

The answer didn’t come. Not right away. She looked out across the field. The horizon stretched far, the way behind closed, and the way ahead… uncertain.

“It would take more than a week to get back home,” she muttered, “if I go around the forest. And I’m not going through it again.”

Veyrûn’s voice came gently from somewhere behind her. “There’s a road. Not far from here.”

Elira looked up. “You’ve seen it?”

“I sense it,” Veyrûn replied. “The presence of others is faint, but steady. You’ll find it by noon if we move soon.” There was a pause. Then, quieter: “I won’t walk beside you. Not where others can see. But I’ll be close. Always. If danger comes… so will I.”

Elira blinked. Her throat tightened. She didn’t know what to say, so she gave a slight nod instead. Even unseen, the creature’s promise settled around her like a cloak. And though the road was still far off, for the first time in days, she didn’t feel entirely lost.

By midday, the grass thinned, and the trees gave way to packed earth and wheel-rutted stone. A road, just as Veyrûn had promised. Elira stepped out onto it slowly, squinting at the stretch of path ahead. It bent gently around a hill, one direction disappearing into forest-shadow, the other rolling toward golden plains and low, hazy ridges. The sun beat down, warming her face, but she couldn’t shake the chill beneath her skin.

A merchant passed first—an older man leading a donkey weighed down with packs. He gave her a curt nod, but his eyes lingered on her face a moment too long before he moved on without a word.

Not long after, two women on foot approached from the opposite direction. One murmured something to the other behind her hand as they passed, casting a disturbed glance over their shoulders once they’d gone by.

It wasn’t until then that Elira truly noticed herself. She looked rough. Her cloak was smeared with mud and torn at the hem. Her hair—usually braided back—was a mess of copper tangles, and the dried blood on her palm had begun to flake. No one would mistake her for a passing traveler.

Voices rose ahead. Elira’s heart jumped as a wagon came into view, creaking along the road behind two mottled horses. A family, it looked like—an older man at the reins, a woman beside him, and a boy in the back tossing stones at a wooden crate.

Elira froze.

She could already see how it might look: a girl alone, stepping from the tree line, looking half-feral. If they knew where she came from… if they guessed— But she needed to know where she was. She stepped forward, hesitant. “Excuse me,” she called out, her voice a little hoarse. The man pulled the reins gently, slowing the horses. The woman narrowed her eyes, leaning forward as they drew near.

 “Are you… All right?” she asked, not unkindly.

Elira nodded, though she didn’t feel all right at all. “I’m… I just need to know what road this is. I think I got turned around. I’ve been walking all night.”

The man frowned. “You come from the forest?”

Elira faltered. “No. I—around it. Got a little lost.” A partial truth, but still safer than the whole.

They exchanged a glance. The boy in the back stopped throwing rocks and peered out between his parents. After a pause, the man pointed with his chin. “This here’s the West road. Follows the outer forest rim until it meets the trader’s path. There’s a village not far, if you need rest.”

“Thank you,” Elira said quickly, already stepping back. “Really. I just—thank you.”

The woman gave her a long, lingering look. “Be careful,” she said softly.

Elira nodded and turned away, heart pounding. As the wagon rumbled off behind her, she felt a presence fall in beside her—silent, unseen, but steady. Veyrûn had kept her word.

Elira pulled up her hood once they had passed. She wanted to avoid many more pointed eyes. Her copper hair would certainly cause remembrance of her ragged looks, but with the hood on and cloak wrapped around her tightly, perhaps she could be easily forgotten by any other passerby.

The road sloped gently downward as Elira followed it, the village nestled at its base like a quiet promise of shelter. Stone cottages with slanted roofs clustered together, smoke curling from chimneys, and the scent of bread wafted faintly in the breeze. Her boots scuffed the dirt as she walked past a pair of children chasing a dog, their laughter cutting briefly through her thoughts.

She kept her hood low, slipping past a weathered wooden sign too worn to read from a distance. As she neared the center of town, her eyes caught a larger placard nailed to the side of a tavern: “Welcome to Drelheim.” The name sounded vaguely familiar. It wasn’t home, but it was close enough to the trade routes her father had once taken her along. That helped. She wasn’t completely lost.

People passed her in twos and threes, and though none stopped her outright, several gave her that familiar sidelong glance. She looked away quickly, only to spot her reflection in a dusty windowpane. Her cloak was smeared with dried dirt and blood, her hair matted at the edges where sweat had dried it to her cheek. Elira pulled her hood down farther and tightened her cloak.

She needed a place to sleep—somewhere inconspicuous, someplace that wouldn’t demand coins she didn’t have. She spotted a humble inn with a crooked sign that read: “The Swaying Lantern.” It didn’t look expensive, and that was enough. Inside, the tavern was dim and smelled of stew and spilled ale. Elira approached the woman behind the counter, her voice soft. “I don’t have coin, but I can sweep floors or chop firewood. Just a night’s rest.”

The woman gave her a long look, then sighed. “We’ll see about your work ethic in the morning. The room’s upstairs, second on the left. Don’t make trouble.” She dropped a heavy iron key into Elira’s hand, giving her a sidelong glance, seeing the mixture of blood and mud smudged along her arm. Elira quickly covered the grime up and gave a grateful nod, already halfway to the stairs, not wanting the lady to change her mind.

She didn’t go up just yet. Near the hearth, three men were gathered close, voices lowered beneath the ambient chatter. She didn’t mean to listen—but one name made her stop cold on the step.

“…Old Sorin’ll still craft a pendant for the right price,” one of them said.

“I thought he was dead,” said another.

A third leaned in, lowering his voice further. “He is. Didn’t ya hear? Wasn’t sickness that took ‘im. Got himself murdered—refused to craft fer someone, from what I heard.”

Elira’s blood turned to ice. Her legs locked in place. The men moved on to a new subject, laughing over something else, unaware they’d just split her world apart.

Elira shut the door to her room with a soft click, leaning back against it as if it might somehow hold up the weight suddenly pressing down on her shoulders. She crossed to the small wooden bed and sat heavily, the straw-stuffed mattress creaking beneath her. The inn was quiet upstairs, the occasional clatter of dishes and muffled voices from the tavern below only heightening the stillness.

Her fingers moved absently to her cloak, tugging free the simple leather cord around her neck. From it hung a small pendant—wooden, worn smooth from years of fidgeting, the edges etched with careful lines. Her father had carved it for her on her twelfth birthday, a sigil of protection, he'd said, though she never knew if it truly held any power. He’d always laughed and told her that a father’s love made the most potent magic of all.

She turned it over slowly between her fingers.

“Didn’t you hear? He was murdered…”

The words echoed in her mind, over and over, each time hitting harder than the last. The pendant caught a glint of the last sunlight spilling through the window, and she stared at it like it might answer the flood of questions rising in her chest.

Had it really been murder? Or just drunken speculation? Men in taverns said all kinds of things, especially when ale loosened their tongues. She hadn’t been home when it happened. She’d been days away—helping an old merchant her father trusted. By the time she returned, he was already gone, the healers saying it was sudden. No wounds. No violence. No signs. But had that been true?

Why would someone want him dead? He was just a carpenter…

But then again… he hadn’t been just anything. Her father’s hands had carved more than chairs and cabinets. He had created staffs, pendants, and small wooden rings for men in robes who always paid in coin heavier than their smiles. She’d never questioned it before. Now, it pressed against her like a storm building at the edge of her thoughts.

She drew her knees to her chest and rested her chin atop them, the pendant curled tightly in her palm. Outside, the sun dipped low, casting a dusky orange glow through the glass pane. Shadows lengthened, crawling slowly across the wooden floor like reaching fingers.

Her thoughts swirled, too jumbled to make sense of. But one thing settled like a stone at the bottom of her heart: She had to know the truth, even if it was nothing. Even if those men were wrong, she couldn’t just let it go.

With a long breath, Elira turned her head to the window. The last light was fading fast, and her eyes were already heavy. I’ll think more clearly in the morning, she told herself. When the sun is up, and my head doesn’t feel like it’s been filled with smoke. She lay back slowly, still holding the pendant close, letting the words she’d overheard settle into the silence as the village outside slipped into sleep.

Sleep came in fits. Shallow. Restless.

The silence in the room dissolved, replaced with the hushed rustling of leaves—first soft, then swelling into a roar. Elira stood once again at the edge of the forest. Fog coiled around her ankles like living things. The trees were darker than before, their trunks stretching impossibly tall, blotting out the sky.

A breeze stirred her hair, curling around her ears. It carried a whisper—faint, familiar: “Don’t go into the forest, Elira. Promise me… You must never enter those woods.” Her breath caught. She turned in a slow circle. “Papa?” Her voice trembled in the stillness. “Papa, is that you?”

She turned, and there he was. Her father. Standing just out of reach between the trees, half in shadow. His shoulders slumped beneath a worn shirt as if his strength was nearly gone. His hands—hands that once shaped wood with care and strength—now hung limp at his sides. His skin was ashen, his eyes dulled, lifeless. The warm glint they once held was gone.

“Papa…” Elira took a hesitant step forward. “I’m here.”

He tilted his head at her, his face sorrowful. “You left, Elira.”

She stopped.

“Why didn’t you come?” he continued, his voice as rough as bark and distant as thunder.

Elira ran toward him, heart pounding, reaching—but the vines from the forest lashed around her legs again, holding her fast. “I didn’t leave the village for long,” she said quietly. “It was only a few days… I wanted to help. I thought—”

“You left.” His voice was brittle as dead branches. “So I left, too.”

A sick feeling coiled in her stomach. “I would’ve come back sooner if I had known,” she whispered. “I didn’t know you were in danger. I didn’t know they would…”

“You weren’t there.” His eyes locked onto hers, hollow and accusing. “You should have been there.”

The fog grew heavier. She clawed at it, dragged herself through the roots, her hands raw and bleeding. “I would’ve come. I would’ve saved you.”

He looked at her like he didn’t believe her. Then he turned his back.

“No!” she shouted, lurching forward, forcing her feet to move. The trees bent around her like cage bars. “Please, don’t leave me again!”

“I was alone,” he said softly, before the fog swallowed him whole.

She dragged herself forward, through dirt and twisted roots. Her hands bled from unseen thorns. But when she reached the place where he had stood, there was no man—only a chair. Wooden. Half-carved. The back split down the middle, as if broken in grief. And resting on the seat: a pendant. Her pendant. The one he had made for her. Cracked. A whisper drifted on the wind: Murdered… for what he knew… The trees loomed in, and darkness swallowed her whole.

Elira gasped awake, heart pounding, breath ragged. She sat bolt upright in the narrow bed, sweat soaking her collar. She blinked the dream away, but the weight in her chest remained. Like something left unfinished. Something urgent. The first gray light of dawn had begun to stretch across the sky, casting the world in cold, colorless tones. The pendant at her neck burned with memory. She clutched it tight, eyes falling to the wooden grain her father had so carefully shaped. If no one else would uncover the truth, she would.

The floor creaked beneath her bare feet as Elira moved to the small mirror hung beside the window. The glass was cloudy, its surface warped with age, but it reflected enough. Her face looked pale, eyes sunken from lack of sleep. Her hair—once a soft, brushed copper—was a tangled mess of curls and dried leaves, a few stubborn twigs still clinging to her cloak’s collar.

She frowned and reached for the basin on the washstand, splashing cold water on her face. It stung her skin but helped anchor her in the present. She combed through her hair with her fingers, wincing as she tugged out the worst of the knots. There was no disguising how worn she looked, but at least now she didn’t appear completely feral.

A rumble in her stomach reminded her of how little she’d eaten. She placed a hand over it with a sigh. Food first, she told herself. Then questions. She glanced toward the door, silently thanking whoever had decided not to take the room before her. The innkeeper had been wary but kind enough to offer shelter in exchange for work. Elira hadn’t forgotten that promise—and hoped it would extend to breakfast as well.

Downstairs, the inn smelled of damp wood, old ale, and something warm—possibly porridge. Elira kept her head low as she descended, her hood tugged forward once more, though she had done her best to appear more presentable. It hadn’t helped much.

The innkeeper, a thick-armed woman with streaks of gray in her braids, glanced up from behind the counter. Her eyes narrowed, scanning Elira head to toe. “You sleep all right?” she asked, not unkindly, but not without suspicion either.

Elira gave a tight nod. “Yes. Thank you again for the room.”

“Haven’t forgotten your promise, have you?”

“No,” Elira replied. “I’ll earn my keep.”

The woman grunted, her eyes lingering a moment longer before turning back toward the kitchen. “We’ve got porridge, if you’ll take it. No sweetening, though. Not for free.”

“I don’t mind.” Elira’s stomach growled loudly enough to make her wince.

The innkeeper returned a moment later with a chipped clay bowl, steaming faintly. She passed it over with one brow cocked. “You look half-starved. Been in a storm?”

Elira looked down at herself. Her cloak still bore the faintest grime of the forest floor, though she had tried to brush it clean. “Something like that,” she murmured.

The woman didn’t press further but muttered, “See you don’t bring trouble in with you,” before turning away to tend to the hearth.

“Yes, ma’am,” Elira replied quietly as she scooped up the bowl of porridge. She quickly found a seat at a table not too far away. The morning light from the windows across from her gently lit the table's worn wood. She cradled the warm bowl in her hands, letting the steam rise to her face. It wasn’t much—thick, bland oats with no garnish—but it was sustenance. She took one spoonful, then another.

As she lifted her third, the movement across the room caught her eye. A man slumped against a bench in the corner, the same one from last night. He looked as though he hadn’t moved an inch since the night before. She recognized the wild beard, the patchy cloak stained with drink, and the way his head lolled just above his chest. For a moment, she simply stared, spoon hovering over her bowl.

A dollop of porridge slopped back into the bowl with a soft plop. Her hunger forgotten, Elira stood abruptly. She glanced once back at her food, then left it behind. She crossed the room with quiet urgency, boots soft against the rushes. The man didn’t stir as she approached, still trapped in whatever stupor or sleep had claimed him.

She crouched beside him, hand hovering uncertainly before nudging his arm. What if I imagined it? What if they were just stories? Drunken nonsense?

“Excuse me,” she finally said, softly, “You were talking last night… about someone named Sorin?” The man stirred. Groaned. She tried again, firmer this time. “You said he was murdered. That he wouldn’t craft something for someone. That’s what you said, isn’t it?”

The man blinked blearily at her, bleached by the morning light. He squinted as though trying to focus on a thought just out of reach. “Sorin…?” he muttered, voice rough like crushed gravel. “Old carpenter, aye…”

Elira’s heart was thudding now, beating painfully in her throat, but she forced her voice to remain calm. “Tell me what you meant. Please. What did you hear?”

The man groaned, dragging his arm over his eyes as if to shield himself from the sliver of sunlight creeping through the window. “Go ‘way,” he slurred, voice muffled and rough. “Too early to be talkin’ about dead men…”

“I need to know,” Elira pressed, her voice firmer this time. “You said something about Sorin—about him being murdered.”

He flinched at the name, his hand falling away from his face. Bloodshot eyes blinked up at her. For a moment, he just stared, confusion shifting into recognition. “You…” He squinted harder, sitting up a little straighter. “Yer his girl, ain’t ya.”

Elira didn’t speak, but the answer was clear in her expression.

The man exhaled, slow and bitter. “Well… damn.” His hand fumbled at the table for a mug that was no longer there. Giving up, he rubbed his temples instead and leaned back against the wall, eyes closing again, as if thinking might hurt. “I didn’t see it myself,” he said hoarsely, “but there’s talk… Always was talk. Said your pa was good with more than just chairs and shelves. Said he carved things that... held magic, if you knew how to use 'em. Made ‘em for mages, quiet-like. That’s why folk came from so far.”

Elira’s brows pulled together, fingers tightening around the edge of the bench.

“Last I heard,” the man went on, voice trailing like smoke, “some rich cloaked bastard came askin’ for a piece. Somethin’ rare. Sorin told him no—‘cause of principle, I guess. Or fear. Or maybe he just saw what kind of man he was.” The man’s voice dropped. “Next week, Sorin’s found dead. Everyone said it was his heart. But not everyone believed that.” He turned his head toward her, eyelids heavy. “But what do I know, eh? Just a drunk’s tale…”

Then, with a faint huff, he slumped sideways again, cheek pressing against the wood. Within seconds, soft snores escaped his lips.

Elira sat frozen, the words echoing in her skull. She might have asked more. Pushed. Demanded. But the moment shattered as a sudden clatter made her jump. The innkeeper stood beside her, brow raised, a battered mop in her hand and a bucket at her feet.

“Thought I said you’d earn your keep,” she said, not unkindly but firm. “Breakfast don’t pay for itself.”

Elira stared at the sleeping man for a moment longer, then stood and accepted the mop without protest. Her heart beat a little faster now—not from shame or labor, but from the slow, creeping unease settling in her gut. The seed of doubt had grown, and she couldn’t ignore it anymore. Her father hadn’t just died. There was more to it, and she was going to figure out who and why.

Elira spent the better part of the day scrubbing floors, wiping tables, and rinsing dishes behind the inn. The work was exhausting, but it gave her time to think—and more importantly, to listen. Patrons came and went. Some were passing through. Others, regulars. The name Sorin wasn’t mentioned again, but she caught snippets of gossip, names of nearby towns, vague warnings of trouble on the northern roads.

When she had finished her work, she wandered the edge of the village, cautious but curious. She didn’t know where she was headed, only that her feet seemed to choose a direction for her. She let them.

A crowded thoroughfare brought her to a bustling square, with market stalls lining the street, offering vibrant fabrics, roasted meats, spices, and trinkets. Her eyes drifted from stall to stall until they stopped, sharply, on a man standing near a merchant’s cart. He wasn’t like the others—cloaked in deep red, rings on every finger, a heavy belt hung with pouches and scroll tubes. His posture screamed importance. Or at least, his need to be noticed.

But it was the pendant that caught her breath. A carved disk of pale wood, hanging proudly from his neck, etched with the exact same looping designs her father had always used. She’d seen it on the pendant she wore now—her father’s last gift. Only this one was different. Incomplete. The lines had grown sharper halfway through, less delicate. As if someone else had finished it... poorly. Despite the shoddy craftsmanship, his seemed to glow with an ethereal light as if the bright sunlight was floating inside.

Her fingers reflexively closed around the pendant at her own throat. A chill whispered through the fabric of her cloak.

“Darkness clings to him,” came the low, breathless voice of Veyrûn, startling Elira, having forgotten she wasn’t alone. She didn’t appear, but Elira could feel her presence just behind her shoulder, and her heart beat slowed. “Twisted magic. Born of blood. Do not follow him. If you value your life.”

Elira’s lips parted slightly, eyes locked on the stranger as he turned to speak with a merchant. Her heart thudded. “I have to,” she whispered. “If he knew my father, if that pendant came from him, I need to know. I need to understand why—why someone would’ve killed him.”

The presence at her back tightened, tense and watchful, but Veyrûn said no more. The man moved off, deeper into the crowd, unaware of the eyes tracking his every step. Elira followed—carefully, quietly, and with her heart in her throat.

Elira kept her distance, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. The man’s deep red cloak stood out, making him easy to follow as he wound his way past food stalls and shouting vendors. He didn’t speak to many—just the one merchant—and even then, his words had been curt. She watched the way people moved aside for him, some bowing their heads slightly, others avoiding eye contact altogether.

Who was he? And what business did he have with a pendant her father might’ve made? The questions piled fast, each one feeding the knot of dread forming in her chest.

Then—suddenly—shouts rang out. A horse reared nearby, kicking over a cart. Chickens burst from a cage, squawking and flapping into the street. A young boy ran after them, yelling apologies. The crowd shifted, jostling together like a sea crashing inward. Elira lost her line of sight. She pushed through bodies, eyes straining above the heads of the crowd, but the man in the crimson cloak was gone. She turned in a circle, hoping to spot the flick of red fabric—anything—but he had vanished as quickly as he’d appeared.

Her shoulders sagged. The chance was lost. With heavy feet and a heavier heart, Elira returned to the inn. The day had darkened into late afternoon, the golden light outside casting long, thin shadows through the windows. The scent of stew hung in the air.

The innkeeper met her at the door with a wary look.

“I need one more night,” Elira said quickly, pulling back her hood to meet the woman’s gaze. “I swear, I’ll be up at dawn to help you again. Just… one more.”

The woman crossed her arms. “Not many girls show up from the woods lookin’ like death and then ask for a bed and a meal. You causin' trouble?”

“No,” Elira said softly, honestly. “I just need to rest. I’ll be gone in the morning.”

The innkeeper studied her for a beat longer, then exhaled through her nose. “You’ll mop the floors and peel potatoes. No exceptions.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Elira bowed gratefully and swiped the keys before the woman could change her mind. She was given the same small room, a single candle flickering on the windowsill. As Elira closed the door behind her, she slumped back against it. Her pendant hung heavy against her chest. She touched it gently, brows furrowing.

Tomorrow, she’d leave. She’d return home—work, earn some coin, gather supplies. Then she’d come back. Better prepared. Wiser. Stronger. She would learn the truth.

Elira pressed the iron key into the innkeeper’s hand with a nod of thanks. Her fingers were sore, and her back ached from scrubbing floors and hauling water, but she’d kept her word. The woman behind the counter gave her a brief, unreadable look—somewhere between suspicion and approval—before tucking the key away and turning back to her ledger.

Outside, the morning sun filtered through the thin cloud cover, dappling the road in shifting light. Elira pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and stepped onto the worn path that led beyond the village walls. Her boots scuffed against gravel as she walked, each step a little more certain than the last.

Veyrûn stirred beside her, shadowy limbs weaving subtly through the sunlight, keeping low and half-hidden behind the brush. "Are you sure you want to go down that road?" Veyrûn’s voice was soft as wind over stone—neither accusing nor afraid, but edged with something old and knowing.

Elira glanced at her companion. “I have to. There are too many questions left. Too many things I don’t understand.”

Veyrûn’s dark eyes flickered with concern. “Revenge rarely gives what it promises. It burns more than it heals.”

Elira’s jaw tightened. “I’m not after revenge. Just the truth. But if it leads me to revenge, then I’ll deal with that when the time comes.”

The creature’s presence pulsed gently, as if breathing alongside her. “Truth can be heavy. Sometimes the answers you seek will change you, whether you want them to or not.”

“I know,” Elira admitted. “But I can’t stay here, waiting for shadows to grow longer. If someone wanted my father dead… I need to know who. Why. And if they’re still out there.”

Veyrûn’s tone grew more thoughtful. “When you return, you must be careful. The village may seem quiet, but whispers travel fast, and eyes watch for those who ask too many questions.”

Elira nodded slowly. “I’ll keep my head down. Maybe I can gather what I need bit by bit—quietly. If I’m careful, maybe I can learn without drawing attention.”

“Good,” Veyrûn said. “And if you feel the weight grow too heavy, remember you’re not alone. You have me, whether you see me or not.”

Elira smiled faintly. “I know. That helps more than you realize.”

A breeze stirred the leaves above them as the road stretched ahead. Elira squared her shoulders and stepped forward.

“The first step is to get home,” she said quietly. “Then I’ll figure out how to find the truth without losing myself.”

Veyrûn’s voice was a whisper in her ear, “And perhaps, how to forgive, even if the truth is dark.”

They walked on in silence, Veyrûn’s words echoing in Elira’s thoughts.

The village looked the same. That was the strangest part. After everything Elira had been through, the crooked chimneys, clattering shutters, and the familiar scent of baking bread made it feel as if no time had passed at all. Her boots crunched on the worn path between houses, drawing a few curious glances, but most people turned back to their business without much interest. She kept her hood up just in case.

“Is that you, Elira?”

She stopped. A woman stood on her porch a few paces ahead, broom still in hand, squinting against the light. Elira lowered her hood.

“Hello, Marda.”

The woman blinked, then offered a faint smile. “Well, where did you disappear off to?”

“I just... needed time. To think.”

Marda studied her with a cautious kindness, then gave a slow nod. “Thought you’d maybe joined your father. The house has been quiet. It’s good to see you in one piece.”

Elira only nodded. What else could she say?

When she reached her home, the door creaked in the same way it always had. Dust coated every surface, thin and grey, as if the house had taken to holding its breath in her absence. She crossed the threshold slowly, half-expecting something—or someone—to be waiting inside. But it was empty.

She walked through each room in silence, fingertips brushing across woodwork, shelves, and windowsills. Her father’s coat still hung near the door. She gripped it and brought in a deep breath, smelling the familiar scent of her father, automatically setting her at ease. A few dishes sat in the basin, where she’d left them in her rush to help the merchant weeks ago. Everything seemed untouched.

Except… The mantle was bare. Chills ran down her spine, chasing away the comfort she had just received from her father’s coat. A small carved box had always sat there—one her father had made when she was young. She couldn’t remember what was inside, only that it had never moved. She used to run her fingers across the grooves absentmindedly as he read to her by firelight. Now it was gone.

She turned toward the workshop in the back, heart thudding. The workbench still bore the nicks and gouges of years past, with tools lined neatly in their slots. It looked normal—too normal. But when she tried to open the bottom drawer, it stuck. Not like it used to be from old age. This time, something inside resisted. She gave it a harder tug. It scraped open with a low groan.

Veyrûn's whisper stirred against her ear. “Someone else has been here since you.”

Elira crouched down and peered behind the drawer. Her fingers caught on something smooth. She reached in and pulled it free—a leather-bound journal, the edges worn, the spine half-peeled. She recognized her father’s handwriting immediately. She sat on the floor and opened to the first page. The early entries were neat and orderly—sketches of chairs, staffs, pendants. Names of villagers beside measurements and brief notes: Marna, child’s flute. Torren, walking stick, simple pattern. Then, a shift. The sketches grew more detailed, more arcane.

A new name appeared, underlined twice. A noble’s seal was scrawled beside it. Elira flipped a few more pages.

“They want a pendant carved from elder pine, inlaid with silver from the riverbanks. No runes. They’ll supply their own. Odd request.”

“Something feels wrong. The silver’s dark—oily. I’ve worked with it before, but never like this.”

Then another, messier entry:

“It’s not a gift. It’s a tether. A prison. They think I’m a fool.”

And finally:

“I won’t finish it. I’ve sent word declining the commission. If they press, let them come. I won’t carve a cage, no matter how they dress it.”

Her breath hitched. The journal ended there, but not cleanly. The final pages were torn out, jagged bits clinging to the binding. She stared at the broken spine of the journal for a long moment. In her lap, the carved pendant her father had made her years ago twisted in her fingers.

He’d seen something—learned something—and refused to be part of it. And someone hadn’t liked that. Elira rose as the light from the window slipped across the floor in fading streaks. The village outside felt quieter now, like the wind itself had stilled to listen. She didn’t know what she would find. But she was going to find it. Tomorrow.

That night, sleep crept over Elira like a blanket pulled gently across her shoulders.

At first, the world that formed around her was one she knew well. Her childhood home glowed with firelight, the hearth crackling softly, shadows dancing across the wooden walls. She sat cross-legged on the rug, small hands tucked beneath her knees to keep them warm. Her father sat in his favorite chair, broad shoulders hunched comfortably as he whittled a sliver of wood.

He’d always made it look easy—sharp blade gliding through the grain like a brush through water. Shavings curled lazily down, falling into a growing pile near his boots.

“Now this,” he said, voice rich and warm, “this will be a good one.”

Elira leaned forward, eager. “What is it?”

“A pendant,” he said with a playful grin. “And not just any pendant. This one wards off wandering spirits and keeps dreams sweet.”

“You said that about the last one,” she giggled.

“Aye,” he chuckled, “and it worked, didn’t it?”

He held up the piece, half-finished but already beautiful—spiraling patterns carved with practiced skill. His hands were rough, strong, every movement precise. He was a carpenter, yes, but more than that: a man whose talent made even simple wood feel special.

“Who’s that one for?” young Elira asked.

He paused. For a moment, he didn’t answer. His knife froze mid-cut. The shadows in the room shifted. Then he smiled again—too quickly. Too tightly. “Someone who needs protection,” he said lightly. “That’s all.”

But the fire dimmed.

Elira blinked. When she opened her eyes again, she wasn’t a child anymore. She was herself—older, kneeling before him. The room had changed. The walls looked warped, bending like the trees in Greymire. Cold air seeped through the cracks. The pendant in his hands had changed, too—no longer light and simple, but dark and heavy. Its design–twisted, wrong.

“Papa?” she whispered.

He didn’t look up. His knife moved again—slow, careful, trembling. He paused his carving, turning the pendant in his fingers. His brows pinched together.

“…something wrong with these symbols,” he murmured, almost too soft to hear.

He brushed his thumb over the unfinished grooves — they started out like the elegant patterns he usually carved, but they’d twisted into something strange. These were sharp. Constricting. Like a trap closing around its prey.

He set the pendant down and reached for a leather-bound book by his elbow. Its spine was cracked, pages worn from years of thumbing. A book of warding sigils. Of protection. Of counter-magic.

He flipped through page after page, eyes darting, comparing the sketch beside him to the mark in the book. His lips moved — not words, just sound. Frustration. Worry. Fear.

Page after page, he flipped through the worn book, but none of the symbols matched the one he was carving well enough. He came across one for binding, but it wasn’t quite exact. The symbol he carved now was darker in design. He tapped the book thoughtfully and placed the pendant on the table.

“I’m not finishing this until I understand these runes,” he said quietly, eyebrows knit together.

A shadow passed over her father’s face — daylight fading faster than it should have. The room around him dimmed. The candle beside him sputtered.

She blinked — and the scene changed.

The room was dark. No fire in the hearth. Only the moonlight poured through the window, cold and pale. A chill hung in the air, sharp enough to bite. Her father lay slumped in his chair, head tipped forward as if he’d simply fallen asleep there.

But he wasn’t alone.

A hooded figure leaned over him, hands positioned near his temples — not touching, but close. Too close. Elira couldn’t see the stranger’s face, but something about their stillness made her blood run cold. It was like staring at the surface of a frozen lake — beautiful and deadly.

No weapon. No knife. No bruises.

Her father wasn’t moving.

The hooded figure withdrew a single object from their cloak — a pendant. The same pendant her father had been working on. Unfinished. The figure tucked it into a pouch, patting it for good measure.

And then, as if remembering something, the stranger placed two fingers to her father’s neck — a mockery of checking for life.

A sinister whisper rippled through the cold air: “Sleep well, craftsman.”

A cold chuckle, then the figure slipped out of the workshop door, closing it without a sound.

Elira tried to move. To scream. To run to her father. But the dream held her frozen, helpless, watching as frost crawled slowly over the window’s edges.

The last thing she saw was her father’s journal falling from the workbench, pages fanning open across the floor.

Then everything went black.

Elira woke with a violent gasp, sitting upright in her bed. Her breath trembled in her throat. Her pendant throbbed warmly against her skin, as if remembering the same nightmare. She pressed a shaking hand to her eyes.

Elira pressed a trembling hand against her eyes, willing her heartbeat to slow. The room was dim, dawn still stretching thin fingers of light through the shutters. Her breath came in shuddering waves, the images of her father — alive, working, then cold beneath the moon — clinging to her like damp cloth.

“You saw something.”

Elira jolted, whipping her head toward the corner of the room.

Veyrûn stood half-formed in the shadow near the doorframe, her shape flickering like smoke caught in a beam of light. Her eyes — pale and deep as winter starlight — were fixed on Elira.

“How long have you been there?” Elira whispered.

“Long enough to feel the fear rip through you,” Veyrûn replied quietly. She stepped closer, though her feet made no sound. “Your sleep was… troubled.”

Elira swallowed hard. Her fingers curled around the pendant at her neck. “I dreamed of him. My father. And someone else. Someone who—”

She couldn’t finish.

Veyrûn didn’t press. She simply watched, as still as carved stone.

“There is magic,” Veyrûn said after a moment, “that lingers in the mind long after its maker has gone. Magic that can leave impressions, echoes… warnings.” Her voice lowered, almost reverent. “The forest whispered such things. Old memories kept like bones under roots.”

Elira’s hands tightened. “So it wasn’t just a dream?”

Veyrûn tilted her head. “Dreams can be truths wearing different faces.”

Elira shivered.

Her protector’s gaze softened the slightest fraction. “What did you see?”

Elira hesitated, then spoke in a cracked whisper. “He was carving something. A pendant. He looked afraid. And then…” She drew a shaky breath. “I saw the person who killed him. Not clearly — but I know it was them.”

Veyrûn’s form flickered, shadows tightening around her like wings folding inward.

“Elira,” she murmured, voice gentle but burdened with something older than grief, “the path you walk now will not grow easier. The truth often cuts deeper than the lie.”

“I don’t care.” Elira’s voice trembled, but her resolve held. “I need answers.”

Veyrûn regarded her quietly. “Then we will face whatever comes. But know this—nightmares born of memory do not lie lightly.” She reached out, a ghostly hand hovering just above Elira’s shoulder before drifting back. “Be certain you wish to follow where they lead.”

Elira let out a slow, steadier breath. “I’m certain.”

Veyrûn nodded once — a solemn acceptance.

“Then morning has work for us.”

Elira gathered what she could. They didn’t have much food, but she stuffed what she could find into her pack along with her father’s book–the one from her dream. Instinct whispered she would need it.

When she finished, she tied on a bedroll and then hefted it onto her back with a quiet grunt. She nodded to Veyrûn before heading out, feeling the ancient being follow behind her.

“We have to find the man from the market,” Elira whispered to Veyrûn as she shut the door softly, reverently, behind her. “He was wearing my father’s pendant. I’m sure of it. Someone else must have finished it.”

Veyrûn materialized just enough for her silhouette to shimmer at Elira’s side, a faint distortion in the morning air. “If he carries your father’s work,” she murmured, “then he carries danger with him as well.”

“I know.” Elira tightened her grip on her cloak, pulling the hood forward. “But he’s the only lead we have. If he bought it… or stole it… or had it commissioned…” She hesitated.

“Those touched by dark magic rarely reveal their intentions freely,” Veyrûn said. “They hide truths beneath coin, power… or blood.”

Elira swallowed, throat tightening. “All the more reason I have to catch him. I have to know why my father—” Her voice wavered. She steadied it. “Why someone wanted him dead.”

Veyrûn inclined her head, ancient eyes softening. “Then I follow where you lead.”

They stepped onto the narrow village road, its stones still damp with morning dew. A faint hush clung to the air—like the world itself listened.

“Where do we start?” Elira murmured as she reached the edge of town, wondering if she should head back to Drelheim.

Veyrûn’s form flickered, glancing toward the crossroads. “He traveled south when he left the market. The path splits there—toward the trade routes or deeper into the cities. No man of his bearing lingers in small villages long.”

Elira nodded, determination threading through her exhaustion. “Then south.”

They walked—one visible, one silent as a shadow. Birds stirred in the high branches. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. Everything looked ordinary… painfully ordinary. But Elira’s pulse thrummed with purpose.

The road unfurled before them in a ribbon of ochre and gold, autumn leaves whispering across the dirt with each sigh of wind. Branches overhead were bare in places, others still clinging to the last bright scraps of summer. The air was crisp enough to nip at Elira’s cheeks, but not yet sharp with winter’s bite.

They walked in companionable silence at first, the only sound the soft thud of Elira’s boots and the gentler whisper of Veyrûn’s presence—felt rather than heard.

At the first fork, Elira paused. One road dipped deeper into the lowlands, where farmlands dotted the horizon. The other veered east toward the distant hills.

She turned to Veyrûn. “Which way?”

The creature’s shape shimmered faintly at the corner of her vision, head tilting in that almost-human way she’d grown accustomed to. “He would avoid open land. Eyes watch too easily there. Take the hills. Those greedy with power, especially that with dark purpose, prefer shadows.”

Elira nodded and started down the eastern path.

At the next divide, she stopped again. A crossroads marker stood askew, the names long weathered away. The wind tugged lightly at her cloak.

Veyrûn drifted ahead, her voice low. “Right, this time. He sought speed, not company.”

Elira followed.

They walked for nearly an hour before another traveler approached—an older man driving a small wagon piled with sacks of grain. He pulled gently on the reins as he neared, slowing the horse to a wary trot. His eyes flicked over Elira’s slight frame, the pack on her shoulder, the dagger at her belt.

“Young lady,” he called across the creaking wheels, “road’s not safe for someone traveling alone.”

Elira forced a polite smile. “I’m careful.”

His frown deepened. “Careful won’t stop a cutpurse or a wildcreep beast.” He nodded toward the hills behind her. “You’ve got family waiting? Friends?”

Before she could answer, Veyrûn’s shadow pressed close at her back—protective, watchful. Elira almost smiled despite herself.

“I’m not alone,” she said quietly.

The man blinked, looking around. “Beggin’ your pardon, but… I don’t see—”

“I’ll be all right,” she interrupted gently, smiling up at him. “Thank you for the warning.”

He hesitated—caught between concern and minding his own business—then clicked his tongue and urged his horse on. The wagon creaked away down the lane. He looked back one last time before shaking his head and leading his horse on.

Elira let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“You handled that well,” Veyrûn murmured.

Elira glanced sideways. “Should I have told him I’m traveling with a mystical being made of shadows and starlight?”

Veyrûn released a soft sound—one Elira might’ve sworn was laughter.

“As you wish,” Veyrûn replied. “But you’re less alone than you think.”

Elira’s chest warmed, despite the cold.

Before long, they approached another fork in the road—a narrow, winding path branching off toward a darker stretch of woods, and a broader one lined with frost-tipped grass.

Elira waited.

Veyrûn’s form shimmered, her voice drifting like the autumn breeze. “Left. The one you seek passed here not long ago.”

Elira stepped forward, the weight of her father’s journal pressing reassuringly against her pack.

Every fork, every glance at Veyrûn, every step south felt like she was retracing someone else’s footsteps—someone dangerous, someone connected to the truth she needed.

And through it all, Veyrûn walked beside her, closer now than she had ever been.

The road bent gently around a rise, and beyond it, nestled in a shallow valley of copper-colored trees, sat a small village. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the faint sound of voices drifted on the breeze. As Elira and Veyrûn approached, the scent of something warm and savory carried on the air—herbs, boiled potatoes, perhaps a bit of meat.

Elira’s stomach answered with a loud, traitorous growl. She winced. “Apologies.”

“You needn’t apologize for hunger,” Veyrûn murmured, her voice as soft as the approaching dusk. “Mortals must tend their bodies as well as their purpose.”

Elira huffed. “You make it sound like eating is some noble duty.”

“In a way, it is,” Veyrûn replied. “You cannot chase truth on an empty stomach.”

Elira bit back a smile. “I suppose that’s fair.”

They crossed the village perimeter and approached a modest inn. Lanterns glowed warmly in the windows, and through the slightly open door came the unmistakable smell of hearty stew. Elira hesitated. Maybe I should eat what I packed instead.

Veyrûn’s presence edged closer until Elira could feel the faint chill of her in the air. “Save it,” she advised. “There will be miles where no hearth burns for you, and no stew waits. Take warmth while you can.”

Elira nodded and stepped inside.

The inn was simple but welcoming—rough wooden tables, a low fire, and a stout woman ladling stew into bowls. A few patrons sat scattered, eating quietly or chatting in murmurs. Elira found a seat near the wall, keeping her hood low. The innkeeper brought her a bowl without question, and Elira offered a grateful nod. She pulled a coin from the pouch on her belt and handed it to the server. She wouldn’t be working for her meal this time–this time, she came prepared.

The first spoonful was heavenly—warm, hearty, grounding. She hadn’t realized how starved she felt until now. She ate slowly, savoring each bite.

At the next table, two travelers spoke in low voices. Not drunk—just tired. Elira wasn’t listening at first… until one phrase drifted through the hum of conversation:

“…said he passed through before dawn. Fancy cloak, rings on his fingers—looked like trouble.”

Elira froze, spoon halfway to her lips.

The first man chuckled. “Aye. Didn’t stay long, though. Bought a room last night, slept a blink’s worth, then stormed out muttering about something delaying him.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Southward. Toward the river route. He wanted to reach the port before nightfall—something about a shipment he had to intercept.”

“I’ll be steering clear then,” he replied with a chuckle.

Elira’s pulse quickened. That had to be him. She set down her spoon, her appetite forgotten. Veyrûn materialized just enough for Elira to sense her leaning in.

“A shipment,” Veyrûn whispered. “Weapons, perhaps. Or magic. Whatever it is, he values it greatly.”

Elira swallowed, her throat tight. “Then we’re close.”

“Closer than you think.”

Elira turned slightly toward Veyrûn. “You ever track someone this way before?”

“Long ago,” Veyrûn murmured. “Tracking mortals is… simpler than tracking demons or beasts from the deep places.”

Elira paused, feeling small for a moment–as if she was that young version of herself, the one from the dream. “Do you think I can do this?” Elira asked softly. It wasn’t quite fear in her voice—but something near it. Vulnerability, uncertainty–resolve strained by exhaustion.

Veyrûn’s eyes glowed faintly. “You faced a forest that devours the unwary. You faced it with a dagger, trembling, and still lived.” A soft pause. “Courage is not the absence of fear, Elira. It is moving despite it.”

Elira looked down at her hands—still scraped, still rough from travel and grief—and for a moment, she felt something steady itself inside her. A smile spread across her face, and the warm burn of courage and pride blossomed in her chest. “Thanks,” she whispered.

Veyrûn nodded in acknowledgment of the word. “You should get a room and rest for the night. The roads and wilderness don’t take kindly to strangers walking amongst them in the dark of night. Besides, your mortal form requires sleep if it’s going to be strong enough to face this man.”

As much as Elira wanted to continue before the man could get too much further away, she knew Veyrûn was right. The sun was touching the far mountains, and there wouldn’t be enough daylight left to get to the next village.

She let out a long, tired breath and rose from her seat. “All right,” she murmured. “Just one night.”

The inn was too quiet when she woke the next morning. Elira walked warily down the stairs, key in hand. But no one was there to take it from her. No innkeeper, no barkeep, nothing. Wind whistled through the crack in the front door, but otherwise the entire place was still. Strange.

“Dark magic touched this place,” Veyrûn whispered.

Elira could feel her caution give way to fear. “We should leave.”

She set the key on the front desk with a dull clunk before slipping out the door.

The rest of the village was just as silent. No smoke drifted from chimneys. No footsteps scuffed along the streets. No merchants called out. Not even a dog barked.

Elira’s brows drew together as she unsheathed her dagger. Her steps became quiet, deliberate. Her eyes swept the empty lanes, searching for movement, for danger—for anything. But nothing showed itself. No threat. No people.

“This is wrong,” she breathed.

Veyrûn didn’t speak, but Elira felt her tension, her agreement, like a pressure against her back. She sheathed her dagger; if danger came, Veyrûn would sense it first. Elira followed the posted signs toward the river, the path winding between empty homes that seemed to watch her from their dark windows.

The dirt path narrowed as the land sloped gently downward. The further she walked from the abandoned village, the more the world seemed to exhale—birdsong returned in cautious notes, and the breeze rustled through reeds near the water’s edge.

Still, unease clung to her like a second cloak.

The river glimmered ahead, reflecting streaks of morning light. Elira stepped onto the worn footpath that ran alongside it–the same direction the red-cloaked man should have taken. Water lapped quietly at the stones.

They had gone perhaps half a mile when Veyrûn stiffened. Elira felt it—a ripple in the air, a tightening of something unseen.

“What is it?” she whispered.

Veyrûn didn’t answer immediately. Her form flickered, edges sharp with alertness. “Something stirs,” she murmured. “Not near… but not far. Watch the ground.”

Elira slowed, scanning the path. At first, she saw nothing unusual. Pebbles. Fallen leaves. The scuffed marks of wagon wheels long since dried. Then—

Her breath hitched.

A footprint. Large. Too large for a normal man. Pressed deeply into the muddy bank as though something heavy had passed recently. The edges were sharp. Fresh. The stride leading forward bent slightly toward the river, then disappeared into the reeds.

Elira knelt beside it, fingertips hovering above the impression. “The man from the market?” But she knew, as she said it, these prints were not his.

“No.” Veyrûn’s tone dipped lower. “This shape does not belong to him.”

A shiver crawled up Elira’s spine. “Then who—?”

“Not who,” Veyrûn corrected softly. “What.”

Elira straightened quickly, eyes flicking toward the dense reeds and wavering shadows beyond them. “Should we be worried?”

“We should be cautious,” Veyrûn replied. “Something followed the man. Or hunts the man. And it walks the same path we now walk.”

Elira’s fingers brushed her dagger’s hilt—not drawing it, but reminding herself it was there. Her pulse thudded in her throat. “Do you think it’s still nearby?”

Veyrûn drifted closer, her presence cool and steady. “If it were, I would already be shielding you.”

The reassurance did little to steady Elira’s heart. But still, Elira continued on, pushing past her fear.

They continued, slower now, senses sharpened. Elira found herself glancing back every dozen paces. The river whispered beside them, carrying pale sunlight across its slow-moving surface.

Then something else caught her eye. A scrap of fabric snagged on a thorny bush. She approached cautiously. It was a piece of red cloth—fine weave, thin, unmistakably torn from a cloak.

Her heart lurched. “He passed here,” she breathed, a mix of relief and alertness rushing through her.

Veyrûn hovered over the scrap, shadows curling thoughtfully. “He was moving quickly. Too quickly for someone confident.”

Elira tucked the cloth carefully into her pouch. A clue. Proof she was on the right trail.

But as she stood, Veyrûn’s voice drifted close to her ear: “Do not mistake a trail for a safe passage. If this man flees, he flees something powerful enough to frighten him.”

Elira swallowed hard. “And now we’re following it too.”

Veyrûn didn’t deny it. She only said, “Stay close to the river. And stay near me.”

Elira nodded. But whatever lay ahead, she wasn’t turning back.

The path soon widened as the river curved, revealing a small trading post tucked against the bank—a single wooden hut, a dock, and a tethered ferryboat swaying gently in the current. Smoke drifted lazily from a chimney, and crates were stacked haphazardly near the waterline.

A man stood outside the hut, rolling a barrel toward the dock. He paused when he noticed Elira approaching—alone. His brow furrowed beneath graying hair, and he straightened slowly, wiping his hands on his trousers.

“You there,” he called. “You’re far from the villages this time of day. Travelin’ alone, are you?”

Elira tightened her grip on her cloak. “I—yes. I’m heading south.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “South, eh? Bad time for it.” He looked her over again, and there was something different in his gaze now—a flicker of unease, even pity.

Veyrûn hovered close behind Elira, unseen but present. Elira felt the creature’s soft hum of caution.

“I’m looking for someone,” Elira continued, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. “A man in a red cloak. Passed through early this morning. Perhaps he crossed here?”

The ferryman’s entire posture shifted—tighter, guarded. He glanced over Elira’s shoulder as if expecting someone else to emerge from the trees. When no one did, he let out a long, troubled exhale.

“Aye,” he muttered. “I saw him.”

Elira’s heartbeat quickened. “Which way did he go?”

The man lifted a hand, pointing southward. “Took the river crossing. Paid double to leave before dawn. Wouldn’t tell me why he was in such a hurry.”

Elira leaned forward. “Did he say anything else?”

The ferryman hesitated—then shook his head and stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Listen to me, girl. Turn back.”

Elira stiffened. “What?”

“Turn back,” he repeated, more urgently. “I’ve been workin’ this river twenty years, and I’ve seen all sorts cross this dock. But that one?” He jabbed a finger toward the southward path. “He walked like a man runnin’ from the reaper himself. Eyes hollow. Breath shallow. And his shadow—” He swallowed hard. “It didn’t fall the same as other men’s.”

A cold ripple ran down Elira’s spine.

“Whatever business you think you have with him,” the ferryman said, “leave it. Forget him. You won’t like what you find.”

Elira swallowed, meeting his gaze. “I can’t turn back.”

The man’s jaw tightened in frustration. “You’re too young to throw yourself after a doomed path.” His voice softened, unexpectedly gentle. “What are you chasin’ him for?”

“My father,” she answered quietly. “He—my father made a pendant for that man. Or something he wanted. I need to know why.”

The ferryman’s expression crumpled a little. He glanced at her pack, her worn cloak, the tired resolve in her eyes. He sighed heavily.

“Then at least listen to this,” he murmured. “A man who flees at dawn leaves danger at his back. And anyone who follows him…” His gaze met hers, somber. “Anyone who follows him is bound to meet the same.”

Veyrûn’s voice whispered in Elira’s ear, steady and low. “We will not be the ones to fall.”

Elira drew a breath she didn’t quite feel ready for. “Thank you,” she said, bowing her head. “Truly.”

The ferryman shook his head again, stepping away. “South is death for you, kid.” But he said no more.

Elira walked past the trading post, the river humming beside her. The red scrap of cloak in her pouch felt heavier now—like the promise of something dark waiting downriver.

Still, she kept moving. She had to for her father–for the truth.

It was clear the ferryman wasn’t going to help her, but she had to cross the river somehow if she was going to follow the man in the red cloak. If he wouldn’t take her, she would find her own way. She scanned the river, both upstream and down, looking for a way to cross.

“The river narrows about a mile down,” Veyrûn said, startling her from her thoughts. “It should be shallow and slow enough that you can make your way across without much difficulty.”

Elira nodded and plodded down the pathway leading further down the river. It wasn’t ideal, but it would do. Sure enough, after about twenty minutes, the banks drew closer together. She hiked up her leggings as far as they would go and waded in. The water rose to her knees, but soon, it was up to her chest. The current was gentle, and she easily swam the short distance until her feet met the ground again.

On the other side, Elira wrung out her soaked clothes. She sighed, knowing she would have to change. The fall weather would quickly chill her wet garments until it crept into her bones. Glad her father knew a trick to repel water from the bag he’d gotten her, she flung the pack off her shoulders and pulled out dry clothes. 

Elira looked around before undressing. She hung the soaked clothes on a low-hanging branch before shaking herself as dry as possible so she could put her new clothes on.

Halfway through, Veyrûn whispered, “Something watches.”

Elira turned, scanning the reeds along the far bank, but saw nothing—only shivering stalks and twists of mist rising from the water’s surface. She gripped her dagger’s hilt. Whatever it was… it hadn’t revealed itself. Not yet.

Elira kept her gaze locked on the far bank, refusing to turn her back fully even as she pulled her dry clothes on. Fear prickled along her spine, but cold clothing would slow her even more. She had no choice. She finished dressing and hefted her pack once more. She sighed, knowing she’d have to leave the wet clothes behind. They’d only slow her down.

Mud churned beneath her boots—deep, jagged gouges breaking the clean trail. Something heavy had passed through here. Something that stumbled. Fought. Fell. Elira crouched, brushing her fingers along the torn earth.

“Footprints,” she murmured, voice tight. “His… and something else.”

Veyrûn sank low, her form a flicker of dark smoke skimming the ground. “These marks…” She traced a claw along one deep indentation. “Too wide for a man. Too deep. It follows him.”

Elira swallowed hard. “Do you know what it is?”

Veyrûn hesitated—just long enough to chill Elira’s bones.

“No,” she whispered. “But I know it is not of the natural world.”

Elira straightened and scanned the tree line across the water again.

The reeds along the far bank rustled—slowly, deliberately. Like hands dragging through tall grass. She stared, breath held. For a moment, she thought she saw something between the reeds: a long, hunched shape, a glint of pale eyes. And then—Gone. Like it hadn’t even been there.

Veyrûn moved to stand between Elira and the water. “It knows we crossed.”

A prickling sensation crawled up Elira’s arms. “Is it coming for us?”

“It will… eventually.” Veyrûn’s voice was steady. “But it is cautious. It watches. It waits.”

Elira’s fingers trembled before tightening around her dagger. “I wish I knew what it wanted.”

“You do,” Veyrûn said quietly. “It wants the same thing he carries.”

Elira’s heartbeat quickened. Her father’s pendant. The one that the man had paid someone less skilled to finish. Magic someone would kill for.

The trail cut sharply through the brush, following the river southward. Elira moved quickly, Veyrûn silent beside her.

They rounded a bend, and Elira stopped cold. There, far ahead on the slender river trail, a flicker of red cloth vanished behind a boulder. Only a glimpse. A wisp of crimson. But unmistakable.

Elira’s breath caught. “Him.”

Veyrûn leaned close. “He moves quickly. And he fears what hunts him.”

Elira nodded, her pulse thundering. “Then we have to catch him before that thing does.”

Veyrûn’s eyes glimmered like starlight. “Then run, Elira.”

And together, they sped down the river trail— not alone, not safe, but closer to the truth than ever before.

Elira sprinted down the narrow trail, breath sharp in her chest, the trees whipping past in a blur of green and gold. The river glimmered beside her, a constant silver companion. Ahead—just ahead—a flicker of red danced between the boulders.

She could almost see him clearly now, and almost hear the snap of twigs under his boots. Almost reach—

“STOP!” Veyrûn’s voice cracked through the air like splitting stone.

Elira didn’t stop. She didn’t even slow. She was so close. She took one more desperate step—and collided with something solid, cold, and wrong.

Her momentum sent her tumbling backward, her palms skidding through wet leaves. The air burst from her lungs with a startled cry. 

“Elira!” Veyrûn’s tone sharpened into something ancient, commanding.

Elira scrambled upright—and froze. Something towered before her–not a man, not an animal, not anything she had words for.

A hunched shape loomed at the bend in the trail—long limbs ending in pale, root-like talons, its back ridged with dark, mossy plates as though it had grown from the forest floor itself. Its skin was the gray of river stones. Its eyes—two pale, milky spheres—swiveled toward her.

Its mouth cracked open, revealing no teeth, not even a tongue. Only darkness, stretching deeper than any mortal throat should. A low, vibrating growl rolled out, shaking the leaves on the branches.

Elira’s breath caught. Her body locked. Fear swallowed her whole.

The creature lunged. It moved with terrible speed, an impossible jerk of limbs and shadow. Elira flinched, lifting her arms uselessly. Veyrûn slammed into her.

A wall of swirling shadow rose between Elira and the beast, expanding outward like storm clouds unfurling across the sky. Veyrûn’s voice thundered—no longer soft, no longer gentle. It rang like cracking stone: “STAY BACK.”

The creature skidded to a halt, claws scraping deep trenches into the earth. It hissed—a warped, gurgling sound, as though the forest itself choked.

Veyrûn surged forward, form shifting into a tall, dark silhouette—her edges sharp, her presence suffocating. Elira felt pressure against her ears, like the air itself bending under Veyrûn’s power.

The creature recoiled, but it didn’t flee. It stared, studied, and judged.

“Elira,” Veyrûn said, voice low and shaking with restrained fury, “move. Now.”

Elira scrambled to her feet, heart beating in her throat. “What is it?”

“A hunter,” Veyrûn hissed. “But not of mortals. It hunts what your father created. And anyone who carries it.”

Elira’s blood ran cold, and she hesitated. “The man—he’s still ahead—”

“He will not outrun it,” Veyrûn said. “But neither will we if you do not move.”

The creature’s head snapped toward them. Its limbs trembled—coiling to leap.

Veyrûn expanded like a void, swirling shadows forming a barrier that rippled with a deep, starless light. “Run,” she commanded.

With one hand on the hilt of her dagger, Elira turned and fled down the trail. Branches clawed at her cloak. Her lungs burned. Her feet barely felt the ground.

Behind her, the forest erupted with sound—roaring, crashing, screeching.

And Veyrûn’s voice, ancient and furious, reverberating through the trees: “YOU SHALL NOT HAVE HER.”

Elira didn’t look back. She couldn’t. Not until Veyrûn rejoined her, one breath away from collapsing, her shadowy form flickering weakly.

“Elira,” she said—voice hoarse, thin, trembling. “We must not let it reach him first.” Her breathing was ragged, and for the first time, she sounded defeated. “I was able to slow it, but that is all. Eventually, it will catch back up.”

Elira swallowed tightly, glancing ahead down the trail where the man had vanished moments earlier. “Then we keep going,” she whispered. “For my father. For answers. Before that thing catches us all.”

She could feel Veyrûn’s presence fading, and she almost stopped in her tracks. “Where are you going?” Elira asked, almost panicked.

“Do not worry. I won’t be far,” Veyrûn replied breathlessly. “I must rest. But fear not. I will be there if danger arises.”

Elira gulped, but continued on, following the sound of fading footsteps continuing along the river.

Elira rounded the bend, breath ragged, boots slipping in the mud. The river roared at her side. Ahead, she saw him—really saw him this time. The red cloak. The hurried steps. The way he glanced over his shoulder, like death itself nipped at his heels.

“Stop!” she shouted.

He spun, cloak whipping, eyes wide and hollow with fear. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move—not because she frightened him, but because he couldn’t understand what he was seeing.

“A… a girl?” he breathed.

Elira didn’t think. Didn’t plan. Didn’t breathe. She lunged.

Her shoulder slammed into him, knocking him back a step. He stumbled, caught himself, then stared as she raised her dagger—her hands trembling violently.

“You killed my father!” she cried, voice breaking. “Tell me why! Tell me now!”

“Your father?” Confusion deepened on his face, and he paused. “Sorin—?” The man’s face paled further, if that were even possible. “You’re—by the gods, you’re his daughter?”

Elira blinked hard, tears burning. “Tell me what you did to him.” Her voice turned into a growl as anger washed over her when the stranger said his name.

“I didn’t touch him,” he rasped. “I swear on my life. Sorin refused the commission. He—he told me what the symbols meant. Gave me the unfinished pendant and told me to run before—”

A deep, guttural sound rolled through the trees behind Elira. A sound that vibrated the riverbank beneath her feet. The man’s eyes went round with terror.

“Too late,” he whispered.

Elira’s blood turned to ice.

Veyrûn materialized at her shoulder, unsteady but sharp. “Elira. Move.”

The creature howled. It was closer now, hungrier.

The man grabbed Elira’s wrist. “If you want answers,” he choked out, “you’ll have to keep me alive long enough to give them.”

He yanked her forward, and they tore down the river path together, boots pounding the earth in frantic rhythm. Branches whipped past. Leaves exploded beneath their feet. Elira’s lungs burned, her heart hammering in her chest, but adrenaline pushed her onward.

Veyrûn streaked beside them, her form flickering erratically, still weakened from the earlier confrontation.

The creature shrieked—a horrible, twisting sound that made the air vibrate—and the trees behind them erupted as something enormous barreled through the undergrowth.

“It’s gaining!” Elira gasped.

“Don’t look back!” the man barked.

She did anyway.

The creature burst into view, leaping over a fallen log with impossible grace—its long limbs dragging through the dirt, claws carving fresh gouges. Its pale eyes locked onto her, hungry and unblinking.

Elira’s breath hitched. “We need to lose it!”

“You can’t outrun that thing,” the man panted.

“Then what do we do?” she cried, tripping over a root and stumbling back into stride.

He didn’t answer—because he didn’t know.

Veyrûn surged ahead suddenly, voice cutting in tight and commanding: “Left. Now.”

Elira veered sharply off the path, dragging the man with her. They dove into the dense thicket, branches clawing at their clothes and skin. The creature roared again, skidding past the turn—its weight too great to pivot sharply.

Elira and the man pressed deeper, breaths shuddering.

“Stop!” Veyrûn hissed. “Stay absolutely still.”

Elira froze mid-step. The man did the same, chest heaving.

Veyrûn drifted around them, her form spreading outward like inky smoke seeping through moss and bark. Shadows coiled around their feet, crawling up their legs, their torsos, their throats, until the world dimmed—muted, muffled, weighed down by a thick, humming stillness.

Elira swallowed hard. “Veyrûn—what—?”

“Hush,” Veyrûn breathed. Her voice trembled with strain. “I can cloak you—but only for moments. Do not speak. Do not move. And do not breathe loudly.”

Elira bit her lip, fear prickling through her skin.

The man pressed against the tree beside her, muscles taut, his red cloak dimming to a murky brown as Veyrûn’s shadow draped over it.

Then the creature arrived. It lumbered into the clearing, moving with a disturbing blend of grace and violent weight. Its head jerked side to side, nostrils flaring, pale eyes sweeping over the brush. Its claws sank into the earth, probing, testing. It inhaled deeply.

Elira felt her pulse scream inside her chest.

The creature snapped toward their hiding spot.

Her breath stopped.

Its head stretched forward, sniffing the air so close she could see the strange, veined patterns along its throat. Its talons dragged through the leaves just inches from her boot.

The man twitched. Elira grabbed his sleeve, holding him still.

Veyrûn’s voice rippled through their minds, sharp and cold: “Be silent.”

The creature exhaled, a wet, rattling hiss, and turned away. Slowly, it lumbered back toward the riverbank, searching for the scent it had lost.

When its footsteps faded into the distance, Veyrûn released her cloak of shadows. The world brightened. The air rushed back around them. Elira staggered, bracing herself on a tree trunk.

The man bent over, hands on his knees, gasping. “By the gods… what was that thing?”

Elira ignored the question. She looked at Veyrûn—weak, swirling, barely holding together. “Are you all right?”

“I will be,” Veyrûn said faintly. “But it draws closer each time. And it will not lose your trail for long.”

The man straightened, wiping sweat from his brow. “Then we don’t stay here. We move. Fast.”

Elira turned to him. Anger, grief, and fear twisted inside her. “You’re lying,” she breathed, anger trembling beneath her words. Her gaze snapped to the pendant hanging beneath his cloak—fully carved, gleaming with symbols she knew her father never finished. “The pendant you wear is complete. He didn’t finish it. You killed him and paid someone else to complete the symbol.”

A look of regret flashed across his face for a moment, but he banished it as a bush rustled, causing the hair on his neck to stand on end. “Not now,” he urged. “I promise to explain it all later. But if I did kill him, do you think I wouldn’t have taken you out too as soon as I knew who you were?”

She stopped, and the anger fizzled slightly. He was right. For now, she needed him alive. She sheathed her dagger. “For answers,” she said.

He met her gaze, something like guilt flickering behind his. “For survival,” he corrected softly.

But Elira wasn’t fooled. Both were true.

They didn’t stop running until the river bent sharply east and the forest thickened enough to muffle the creature’s distant shrieks. The man slowed first, gripping a tree trunk as he struggled for breath. Elira braced her hands on her knees, sweat and river water dripping from her chin.

Veyrûn drifted up behind them, flickering weakly, the shadows of her form barely holding shape. “We can stop here,” she murmured, voice strained but steady. “It will follow the main trail for now. We have a moment. Only a moment.”

Elira forced herself upright, chest still burning. “We need to rest.”

The man snorted—half a laugh, half disbelief. “Rest? That thing isn’t going to just curl up and sleep.”

“No,” Veyrûn agreed. “But I can keep it from finding us.”

She lifted a claw-like hand. The shadows around her stirred—slowly at first, then with gathering purpose. They curled outward across the grass, weaving together like strands of dark silk. The air hummed, soft but resonant, vibrating gently in Elira’s ribs.

“What are you doing?” the man whispered, eyes widening.

“Cloaking us,” Veyrûn said. “This is no attack. A warding of presence only. It hides scent, sound, breath… and hope, if needed.” Her voice softened into something ancient and weary. “And it does not drain me.”

The shadows rose, swirling in a slow circle around their small clearing. They took shape not as darkness, but as a faint shimmering veil—like heat haze, or moonlight bent through water. When it settled, the world felt muffled. Distant. Safe, in a fragile, temporary way.

Elira exhaled and collapsed onto a patch of moss, letting her pack slide off her shoulders. The man hesitated, then sat opposite her, leaving a respectful distance.

For a long moment, the only sound was their uneven breathing. Then Elira looked up, fire returning to her eyes. “You owe me answers,” she said.

The man rubbed the back of his neck, still catching his breath. “I said I’d explain. And I will.”

“Start with your name.”

He hesitated, then sighed. “Tirion. Tirion Vale.”

Elira committed it to memory. “And the pendant. Why did you want my father to make it? What does it do?”

Tirion’s expression tightened—guilt, fear, something deeper flickering under the surface. “It was never supposed to be a weapon,” he said quietly. “Not… not at first. I commissioned it for someone I worked for. Someone powerful. Someone who shouldn’t have had access to the symbol carved into it.”

“What symbol?” Elira pressed.

Tirion reached into his cloak, pulling out the pendant. Even in the dim cloaked ward, its carvings seemed to gleam faintly—twisted runes, spiraling inward. Some Elira recognized from her father’s journal. Others were foreign–wrong.

“Sorin refused to finish it,” Tirion whispered. “He told me the request was dangerous. That the rune was meant to imprison something.”

Elira’s breath stilled. “Imprison what?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. But the man who wanted the pendant—he wasn’t happy when Sorin backed out. I begged your father to run with me. He told me to go alone.”

Elira’s eyes stung. She tightened her jaw. “And then he died.”

Tirion’s throat bobbed. “I swear I wasn’t there. I swear to every god listening, I didn’t touch him.”

Elira searched his face for deceit. She found fear. Regret. Exhaustion. But not malice.

“Then who did?” Her voice cracked.

Tirion swallowed. “Someone who wanted the pendant completed at any cost.”

A quiet hum filled the warded air. Veyrûn lowered herself onto the moss beside Elira, her form faint but steady.

“That creature,” she murmured, “is drawn to the pendant’s magic.”

Elira stared at the pendant, her father’s unfinished work now twisted and complete in another’s hand.

Tirion looked away. “I didn’t kill him, Elira. But I brought the trouble that did. If that’s guilt, so be it. But murder? No.”

She let her breath out slowly, trembling. “I want the truth. All of it.”

“You’ll have it,” Tirion whispered. “But not tonight. If we survive until morning… I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Elira nodded reluctantly.

Veyrûn leaned back against a tree, her body dimming further. “Rest. The ward won’t hold forever—but it will shield us while we recover.”

Tirion settled on the ground, weary. Elira lay back, staring up through the faint veil of shadow at stars she could barely see, the pendant’s mysteries and her father’s last moments circling her thoughts like restless spirits.