Oathbringer - Part 2

Elira woke to the soft pulse of Veyrûn’s ward fading. Shadows thinned like mist, peeling back from the clearing until morning light seeped through the trees. The air smelled of river water, damp earth, and the faint copper tang of fear.

Veyrûn materialized slowly, her form steadier than last night but still dim around the edges.

Tirion sat with his back against a tree, the pendant cupped in both hands as if he feared it might burn him. His eyes flicked up the moment Elira stirred.

“We need to talk,” he said.

Elira pushed herself upright, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her muscles still ached from running, but her mind was sharper now—hungrier for truth.

“All right,” she said. “Who commissioned the pendant?”

Tirion swallowed, thumb brushing the carved symbols almost absently. “A man named Kaelren Voss. A noble—wealthy enough to purchase silence, powerful enough to buy loyalty. I was in his employment for—” He didn’t finish.

Because Veyrûn moved. Not fast. Not violently. But with a cold, terrible precision that made Elira’s breath stutter. She appeared at Tirion’s side in an instant, shadows flaring like dark wings behind her. Her usually soft voice sharpened into a blade.

“Give it to me.”

Tirion jerked back. “What—?”

Veyrûn hissed—not animalistic, but outraged, ancient, betrayed. “This is no trinket. No warding charm. Do you even understand what you carry?”

Elira blinked, stunned. She had never heard Veyrûn angry. Not like this.

Tirion hesitated, but something in Veyrûn’s towering presence broke his resolve. He extended the pendant with shaking hands.

The moment Veyrûn touched it, the clearing dimmed.

Her form solidified—shadows tightening into sharp lines, her eyes flashing an eerie silver-blue.

“These runes,” she growled, “are binding sigils. Impossible ones. Forbidden ones.”

She turned to Elira. “This is a prison key.”

Elira’s stomach dropped. “A… key? For what?”

Veyrûn didn’t answer at first. She stared at the spiraling center symbol—a jagged, inward coil that seemed to shift when Elira wasn’t looking directly at it.

Finally, Veyrûn whispered: “A daemon of the Deep.”

Tirion flinched. “I didn’t know! Voss didn’t tell me what it was—only that he wanted the carving finished. Your father was the one who saw the truth.”

Elira’s breath hitched. “Papa knew? He knew this symbol was evil?”

Veyrûn closed her clawed hand around the pendant, and the shadows around her darkened. “He did more than know. He defied it. He refused to finish what he recognized.” Her voice softened—for the first time, almost mournful. “He protected the world by leaving the work undone.”

Elira’s throat tightened. A fresh ache spread behind her ribs—grief, pride, sorrow, anger all tangled together. Then she turned to Tirion, her foot stepping forward dangerously. “And you… You absolute idiot! You had it finished anyway, despite my father’s warnings!” She gripped her own pendant hanging around her neck in her hand, tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks. “And now he’s dead. Because of you. And you ran, like a coward.”

Tirion’s jaw clenched. “He told me to.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Elira snapped. “He trusted you. And you left him to die.”

Veyrûn suddenly stepped between them. “Enough. The creature follows the pendant’s magic, and the one who hunts you will not stop. We cannot afford violence among ourselves.”

Elira’s hands curled into fists. “How am I supposed to trust him?”

Veyrûn turned her glowing gaze on Tirion.

“You cannot,” she said flatly. “But you will use him. He knows Voss. He knows where to find answers. And he will not survive without you.”

Tirion grimaced, but didn’t disagree.

Elira’s heart hammered painfully. “So what do we do now?”

Veyrûn lowered the pendant into her palm, shadows curling away from it in distaste. “We destroy it—properly. And we find Voss.”

“Voss? But why? Without the pendant, he’s not a threat.”

“He commissioned it once and killed when it wasn’t delivered. He’ll try again.”

The ward finally dissolved, the last of the shadows lifting with a soft sigh.

The hunted trio stood in the pale morning light—tired, uneasy allies, bound by fear, vengeance, and the weight of Sorin’s last act.

And far behind them, somewhere in the forest’s darker reaches, the creature screamed. It had found their trail again.

“Can’t we just burn it?” Elira asked. “It’s made of wood. That’ll destroy it. Right?” But she didn’t sound too sure of herself.

“No,” Veyrûn answered grimly. “Even if the wood could be destroyed, the magic would live on. No, we must find a way to undo the magic before wrecking the pendant.”

Mist still clung between the trees as they prepared to break camp. Veyrûn drifted along the edges of the clearing, her form thinner and more translucent in the early light—recovering, but wary. The distant forest remained silent, too silent.

Tirion stood a little apart from them, fussing with the clasp of his red cloak. He kept glancing at the pendant in Veyrûn’s hand, but did not ask for it back. If anything, he seemed relieved not to be carrying it.

Elira tightened the straps of her pack, watching him from the corner of her eye. Something about the way he held himself—the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes avoided hers—bothered her. Veyrûn noticed.

“Stay close,” the ancient creature murmured, gliding to Elira’s side. Her voice remained soft, but the silver light in her eyes burned cold. “He carries intentions he does not yet speak. They cloud him.”

Elira whispered back, “Is he dangerous?”

Veyrûn tilted her head. “Not in the way that matters. His fear rules him more than ambition.” A pause. “But fear can be sharp.”

That wasn’t comforting, but Elira hadn’t expected comfort.

She stepped toward Tirion. “We should move. If that creature is tracking the pendant, it’s tracking us.”

Tirion looked up sharply. “Then let’s not waste time.” He gestured to the southern road. “Voss has an estate a few days from here—hidden in the wetlands near the Old Marsh. That’s where he’ll be.”

Elira narrowed her eyes. “You worked for him. You’d know.”

His expression tightened. “Not by choice.” Then, softer: “And not for long.”

The forest thinned, giving way to rolling hills coated in autumn gold. Leaves crunched beneath Elira’s boots. The wind carried a sharp edge, hinting at the winter to come. Tirion walked several paces ahead, rubbing absently at his wrist as though something unseen pained him.

Veyrûn whispered, “Watch his hands.”

Elira frowned. “Why?”

“Because he wears old magic on his skin.” 

Elira’s gaze drifted to Tirion’s fingers—and froze. The skin just below his thumb bore a faint mark, half-hidden by dirt and sleeve. A sigil. Jagged. Unfinished. The same shape as the central rune on the pendant.

Her breath hitched. “Did you carve that into yourself?”

Tirion stiffened. His hand dropped to his side. “I didn’t carve anything,” he said tightly. “It… appeared. When I handled the pendant for the first time.”

Veyrûn hissed quietly. “The key marked you.”

Exasperated, Tirion questioned, “Why? Just because I touched it?”

Elira stepped closer. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He hesitated. “Because I didn’t think it mattered.”

Veyrûn’s voice sharpened. “All magic matters. Especially this.”

The wind pressed through the trees, carrying a distant echo—a far-off, unnatural cry. The trio paused. Even Tirion paled.

“It’s still searching,” Elira whispered.

“And it will find us again,” Veyrûn answered. “But for now… we are unseen.”

They continued down the road, tension thick as fog. Elira noticed Tirion rubbing the faint sigil on his hand as they walked, the road stretching out before them in long gray ribbons of dust.

“Why didn’t you tell us the mark appeared?” she asked quietly.

Tirion exhaled through his teeth. “Because it doesn’t mean anything useful. I touched the unfinished pendant once—years ago—and the mark showed up within a day.” His voice dropped. “It stopped growing when your father stopped carving.”

Veyrûn’s head snapped toward him. “It marked you as a potential wielder. The key binds to whoever first awakens its purpose.”

Tirion laughed bitterly. “Then it has terrible taste.” Tirion looked miserable, but continued. “I didn’t awaken anything. I only wanted—” He stopped.

Elira glared. “Wanted what?”

Tirion’s voice was low. “Power. Influence. Enough coin to make something of myself instead of being another starving orphan scraping by in market alleys.”

For the first time, Elira wasn’t sure if she hated him or pitied him.

Veyrûn watched him closely. “And so you went to Voss.”

He didn’t deny it.

Elira crossed her arms. “You really thought he’d just… give you power?”

“I thought he’d pay me handsomely for the pendant,” Tirion corrected. “I didn’t know it was capable of imprisoning a daemon. Had I known, I’d never have gone back.”

Soon, the dirt road stopped, and a long, narrow bridge stood before them.

“This is the only way in,” Tirion announced. “Voss made sure no one could sneak in.”

As they crossed a narrow bridge, Veyrûn stiffened.

Elira paused. “What?”

“We’re being watched.”

“Is it the creature?” Elira asked, hand flying to her dagger.

“No.”

Tirion grimaced. “Voss bought half the marshlands south of here. Anyone entering the area is watched.”

Elira’s stomach tightened. “Watched how? By guards?”

“Yes,” Tirion said quietly. “And worse. Voss employs people who’d slit a throat for the promise of a single gold coin.”

“But why?”

“Power,” Tirion and Veyrûn said together.

“A mortal man’s greed is often the most dangerous magic,” Veyrûn continued.

They were almost across when a shriek filled the air. The trio spun around and saw trees swaying crazily on the other side, where they’d been. The creature had found them.

Elira’s eyes widened, and Tirion blanched. They ran the rest of the way to the land on the other side, watching behind them, waiting for the creature to break the tree line. Elira heard a scraping sound and turned to see what it was. Tirion was trying to saw the cord holding the bridge in place.

“Don’t just stand there. Help me!”

“But this is our only way back!”

“Yes, but the creature’s only way in.”

Elira pulled her dagger and started working on the other rope just as the creature burst through the trees and opened its maw, shrieking at them.

“We’ll never cut through in time!” Elira exclaimed, looking between the creature and Tirion’s progress.

“Stand back,” Veyrûn advised, stretching out her own arms towards each rope.

Elira cleared back, but Tirion refused to stop trying. A bolt of energy shot from Veyrûn, severing the ropes in one shot, narrowly missing Tirion’s hand. Elira stared at the severed ropes, heart pounding. Veyrûn had never unleashed anything that forceful before.

Tirion pulled back with a shout.

“I did warn you,” was all Veyrûn said.

They watched as the bridge collapsed into the river. It tried its best to pull the bridge downstream, but the cables on the far end held fast. The creature looked at them with narrowed eyes. It sniffed the air and shrieked again.

“Why didn’t you do that to begin with instead of waiting ‘til that thing saw us?” Tirion demanded.

“I did not act earlier because you two were in the way,” Veyrûn said coldly. “And because shadow-wrought power demands precision.” She stopped and looked back at the pacing creature. “Our act will delay it, but be aware, it won’t stop the beast.”

Tirion laughed. “You’re joking, right? This is the only entrance or exit to Voss’s marsh. It’s surrounded by the river on all sides like a moat. How is that thing going to get over here now?”

Veyrûn shook her head. “Mortals are so short-sighted,” she murmured. “A barrier delays a beast of hunger. It does not stop it.”

The sun drifted westward, staining the marshlands in tired gold as the trio moved deeper into Voss’s territory. The bridge lay far behind them now—little more than a distant groan of splintered wood swallowed by the river’s current. Yet Elira couldn’t shake the icy knot of unease in her stomach. Every gust of wind seemed too sharp. Every rustle too deliberate.

Veyrûn floated close, her edges faint and wavering. “The light weakens,” she murmured. “And so do the restraints mortals rely on. Shadows grow bold at dusk.”

Tirion shot her a nervous glance. “You mean that thing can cross the river once it’s dark?”

“It will try. But it may take multiple attempts before it finds a way. It’s stronger in the dark. It may even be able to shadow walk. If it can find a shadow that connects, it will enter.”

Elira tightened her grip on her cloak and stepped carefully around a patch of reeds. The marshland path was narrow, flanked by tall grass and half-sunken stones. Pools of stagnant water reflected the sky in fractured pieces, broken by drifting insects and distant croaks of unseen creatures.

“We should find somewhere to rest before nightfall,” Elira whispered.

“No,” Tirion said quickly, his eyes scanning the horizon. “Not here. Voss’s men… they watch the wetlands. They’ve been known to ambush travelers after dusk. On quiet terrain, with nowhere to run.”

Elira’s heart lurched. “They’d kill strangers for stepping on his land?”

Tirion hesitated. “He pays them well to keep secrets. And dead witnesses don’t talk.”

Veyrûn’s gaze shifted toward the darkening horizon. “They already know we are here.”

Elira froze. “How long?”

“Since the bridge,” Veyrûn answered. “They saw the blast of magic. They know you aren’t alone. They will not face me in daylight.”

A chill seeped through Elira’s bones. “So they’ll come when the sun dips.”

“Yes,” Veyrûn said. “And they will attempt to kill Tirion first.”

Tirion stiffened. “Me? Why me?!”

Elira shot him a sharp look. “Because you ran from them. And you’re the only one who knows Voss’s secrets.”

“And because the mark binds you to the daemon key,” Veyrûn added quietly. “You hold value. Too much value.”

Tirion swore under his breath.

The marshland grew darker, the grasses swaying as though whispering warnings. Somewhere far behind them, a distant rumble sounded—low, dragging, unnatural. The hunter–it was still searching.

Elira stopped at a bend in the path. “We need a plan.”

“No,” Veyrûn corrected, turning her glowing eyes toward the hills. “We need cover.”

As if summoned by her words, a distant flicker of metal caught Elira’s eye—a quick flash, then gone. A blade? A helmet? Or simply a trick of the setting sun?

Tirion saw it too. “Someone’s there.”

Veyrûn drifted forward, her form flattening against the darkening air. “They watch. They wait. They will not attack until the last light dies.”

Elira swallowed hard. The sun hovered just above the horizon—an hour of safety at most.

“We can’t fight soldiers,” she whispered. “Not by ourselves.”

“No,” Veyrûn agreed. “But neither can they fight me at full strength. They will attempt stealth.” She looked down at Elira and Tirion. “They will try to get to you without alerting me.”

Elira felt her pulse quicken. “Then what do we do?”

Veyrûn’s voice softened—almost pitying. “We disappear before they strike.”

“How—?”

Veyrûn lifted a hand, shadow gathering faintly around her fingertips. “I can cloak us in a veil until full dark. It will not hide our scent from the hunter creature, but it will fool mortal eyes.”

Elira exhaled shakily. “Then that buys us time.”

Tirion frowned. “But not a real escape.”

“No,” Veyrûn said. “Only a chance.”

Elira looked up at the reddening sky, then toward the marsh that stretched endlessly ahead. Her stomach tightened. Somewhere beyond the reeds and still water, Voss waited. The truth waited. And death waited too—one way or another.

“Let’s move,” she said. “Before they do.”

Veyrûn closed her eyes. Shadows swirled outward in a soft pulse, weaving through the reeds and pooling at their feet like spilled ink. The world dimmed, sounds muffling. Even their breathing seemed swallowed.

Elira shivered. “Is this safe?”

“For now,” Veyrûn murmured. “But the deeper we go, the more dangerous it becomes. Voss’s men will not hesitate.”

The last thread of sunlight clung to the marshlands, staining the tall reeds with fading gold. The air thickened with damp chill as the shadows stretched thin and long across the water.

“They’re close,” Veyrûn murmured, her eyes glowing faintly. “Three men. No—four. They keep to the higher ground. Still searching.”

Elira scanned the horizon, heart pounding. She saw nothing…but she felt it. A pressure, a watchfulness. The marsh itself seemed to hold its breath.

Tirion’s voice came tight and low: “They wouldn’t attack until the sun fully dips. They think they can overwhelm us. And they’re right—if they catch us out in the open.”

Veyrûn drifted closer. “You underestimate my power.”

Tirion lifted both palms in surrender. “I’m not questioning your strength. But even you can’t fight off trained men and get us through this marsh before the creature catches up.”

Elira flinched at the mention of it. Somewhere far behind, a faint, dragging howl answered the rising moon.

Tirion turned, eyes sharp now with desperation—and calculation. “Can you make illusions?” he asked Veyrûn. “Copies of us? Something they would believe is real?”

Veyrûn blinked, her form stilling. “Elaborate illusions?” she murmured. “Or merely silhouettes?”

“They don’t need to be perfect,” Tirion said quickly. “Just… convincing enough. Men like Voss’s soldiers attack fast and quiet. If they see a group walking or resting, they’ll strike without hesitation.”

Elira’s breath caught. “And while they attack the fakes…”

“We slip out,” Tirion finished, sparing her a grim look. “Unseen.”

Veyrûn turned her head slightly, considering. A moment passed—a long, quiet moment where even the reeds seemed frozen.

“I can conjure shadows shaped like you,” she finally said. “They will move as I direct. But they will not speak. And they cannot fight.”

“Perfect,” Tirion whispered.

Elira felt a jolt of unease. “Won’t it drain you? You’re still recovering from yesterday, and you’ve been shielding us for a couple of hours.”

Veyrûn’s shadows shimmered faintly. “Illusion is lighter than shielding. It will not harm me unless I maintain it for too long.”

The sun slipped lower—half gone now. The marsh dimmed. No more time.

“Now,” Tirion breathed. “We need them to think we’re settling in.”

Elira nodded, though worry tangled beneath her ribs.

Veyrûn sank low, extending both hands outward. The shadows around her pulsed twice—soft, rhythmic, like a heartbeat—and then drifted across the clearing. They thickened, rose, stretched, and slowly shaped themselves into three distinct figures.

Elira gasped. One shadow-Elira sat by a stump, adjusting a cloak. One shadow-Tirion paced restlessly near the reeds. And a third—taller, featureless—moved slowly like Veyrûn.

“Stay within my shield,” Veyrûn warned softly. “Do not disturb the grass. We must move as little as possible until the men reveal themselves.”

She guided them, silent as wind, into a narrow channel flanked by tall marsh plants—barely wide enough for the three of them to slip into single file. The world darkened further as reeds pressed in on both sides.

Elira crouched, muscles trembling, heart thundering. She heard a whisper: “There.” Their fake figures had been spotted.

Then—A faint snap echoed from the hill. Moments later—shadows shifted above. Figures. At least three. Hidden behind rocks and reeds, bows canted downward. Elira held her breath. The archers drew. And then—thwip. An arrow shot into the clearing—directly through the illusion of Tirion, who didn’t react. Another arrow fired straight through Elira’s illusion.

The men hesitated—only for a moment—then burst from their cover with blades drawn, convinced their targets were stunned by the ambush.

“Move,” Veyrûn whispered, barely audible.

Elira, Tirion, and Veyrûn crept backward through the narrow marsh channel, further muffled by shadow.

Behind them, steel clashed against nothing.

“What—?!” a soldier shouted. “I hit him! I swear I hit—”

“Shut up and check the bodies!”

“There are no bodies!”

The shadows began dissolving, illusion cracking like thin ice. One man gasped sharply when his blade passed right through shadow-Elira.

“Magic—!”

“Find them!” another barked. “Fan out! They’ve got to be close!”

Veyrûn breathed quickly now—using illusion and masking simultaneously strained even her ancient form. “We must go. Now.”

Elira didn’t hesitate. She followed Veyrûn deeper into the reeds as Tirion guided them toward firmer ground.

Behind them, torches flared. Boots splashed into the marsh.

“Track the footprints!”

“They couldn’t have gone far!”

Elira’s pulse hammered.

“Tirion,” she whispered. “Are you sure this leads somewhere safe?”

He didn’t look back. “No. But it leads away. And right now, that’s enough.”

Then—not a moment too soon—the reeds parted, revealing a narrow, hidden stretch of dry land curving away from the soldiers’ search grid. They slipped through.

Behind them, chaos erupted in the marsh as men cursed, scattered, and fired blindly into the shadows.

Veyrûn steadied herself, her glow returning faintly. “They will not find us until morning,” she whispered. “If they do at all.”

Elira exhaled shakily. “We pulled it off.” A small, relief-filled chuckle snuck out of her.

Tirion didn’t smile. “We bought time, nothing more.”

“But time,” Veyrûn murmured solemnly, “is life.”

Ahead, the wetlands darkened into something deeper—a maze of water, shadow, and old magic. And somewhere in that darkness…Kaelren Voss waited.

The next day passed mercifully uneventfully. Compared to the ambush, the frantic illusions, and the desperate escape across the marsh, it almost felt peaceful–almost.

They made good time across the higher ridges, where the marsh thinned, and the ground grew firmer beneath their boots. A pale sun drifted overhead, turning the wetlands into a mosaic of shimmering pools and soft gold grasses. No Voss’s men. No arrows. No looming shadows.

But Veyrûn remained tense—silent, alert, never drifting more than a step from Elira.

By midafternoon, even Tirion exhaled in cautious relief. “Maybe we lost them,” he muttered.

Elira didn’t answer. She knew better now than to trust quiet. And she was right.

As the sun began to slide toward the horizon, painting the marsh amber and blood-red, the stillness shattered.

A distant shout cracked through the air—sharp, panicked. Then another, and several screams. Elira stopped in her tracks, breath catching. The cries were raw, desperate, coming from deeper in the marsh to their right.

Tirion paled. “That’s—those are Voss’s men.”

Veyrûn’s form shivered, shadows rippling across her silhouette. “Listen.”

They did. Beneath the screams came a sound that made Elira’s bones vibrate: a low, guttural growl. Then, the wet crunch of something heavy tearing through reeds and flesh.

Elira’s stomach dropped. “The creature… It’s here.”

“No,” Veyrûn corrected, voice low and grim. “Not here.” She pointed into the haze curling above the marsh. “There.”

“Elira squinted. “That’s far. A few miles, maybe.”

“Closer than it should be,” Veyrûn replied.

Tirion scrubbed a shaking hand through his hair. “How did it cross? There was no bridge—”

Veyrûn turned her head slowly toward the waterlogged lowlands. “Mortals build bridges,” she whispered. “But creatures of the Deep do not need them.”

Another scream ripped through the air—shorter this time, choked off abruptly. Elira’s skin prickled. Whatever the creature was doing, it was not a battle. It was a slaughter.

Tirion backed a step. “We need to move. Now.”

Elira nodded, throat dry. “If it’s coming from behind us, we can’t stop. We have to reach the estate before it catches up.”

“And before Voss’s remaining men notice we’re not among the dead,” Tirion added grimly.

Veyrûn drifted ahead, her form sharpening with purpose. “We travel through the night,” she said. “Stopping now means death.”

Elira’s legs already ached, but she forced herself forward. The marsh darkened quickly, shadows pooling under the reeds, mist rising in slow coils. Behind them, the monstrous growl came again—closer this time, echoing across the water like the warning toll of some ancient bell.

They pushed on—Elira at the center, Tirion watching the rear, Veyrûn gliding ahead like a living lantern of pale, shimmering shadow. The marsh swallowed the last of the light.

Somewhere far—but not far enough—the creature howled, furious and hunting. And Elira knew tomorrow, they would reach Voss’s estate. But tonight? Tonight would be a race to stay alive.

Night settled thick over the wetlands, the last faint ribbons of sunset swallowed by mist. Elira had never known darkness could feel so heavy. Every ripple of water, every whisper of reeds, every distant splash set her nerves on edge.

The marsh seemed to breathe in the dark, expanding and contracting with slow, unsettling rhythm. A frog croaked somewhere far off. Then silence again.

“Stay close,” Veyrûn murmured.

Elira did.

The narrow trail wound forward in snaking curves, sometimes turning to shallow water, sometimes to slick mud. Their steps made soft squelching sounds that disappeared almost instantly into the night.

After nearly an hour, Tirion whispered, “Something’s wrong.”

Elira stiffened. “What?”

“The water…” His voice trembled. “It’s moving the wrong way.”

She paused, listening.

The marsh water around their legs wasn’t flowing with the river’s distant current—it was drifting sideways. Just a slow shift at first, but steady. Purposeful.

Veyrûn stopped abruptly. “Elira.”

“Y-yes?”

“Do not move.”

Elira froze mid-step—boot half-sunk into soft mud. “Why—?”

The ground shifted slightly, a tremor just under her.

Elira gasped. “What is that?!”

Tirion swore softly, backing away. “Bogbody,” he whispered. “Please—tell me that’s not a bogbody.”

Veyrûn didn’t answer. Because the ground answered for her. The mud under Elira’s boot suddenly softened, liquefying like melting wax. Her foot plunged down past her ankle—then her calf.

Elira screamed. “Veyrûn!”

“Hold still!” Veyrûn snapped.

But panic seized Elira as the earth swallowed her up to the knee. She clawed at the ground, mud slicking through her fingers. “It’s pulling me under!”

Tirion lunged forward to grab her arm—but Veyrûn flared between them.

“Don’t touch her!” Veyrûn hissed. “It drags down anything that shares weight or movement.”

Elira’s other foot slipped—caught—and the marsh yanked downward again.

“No no no—!” she gasped, sinking nearly to her thigh.

The mud churned beneath her, shifting like something alive. Like a mouth swallowing, testing, tasting.

Veyrûn dropped to one knee, both hands hovering above the sinking mud. “Hold. Still.”

“I can’t!” Elira sobbed.

“Yes, you can,” Veyrûn growled. “Stillness is survival. Movement is death. Listen to me.” She lifted Elira’s chin until their eyes met. “Be still.”

Tirion watched helplessly, knuckles white as he gripped the hilt of his dagger. “If she sinks past the waist—she won’t come back.”

Elira whimpered, but she stiffened her entire body.

“Good,” Veyrûn breathed, holding her gaze.

Veyrûn pressed her palms toward the mud. Shadows snaked into the wet earth like veins, casting ripples across the surface. The ground trembled—offended, resisting.

“Let her go,” Veyrûn whispered, her voice sinking into something ancient and commanding. “This one is not yours.”

The mud shuddered. It hissed. And finally released.

Elira felt the suction give way abruptly—and she sprawled onto her hands and knees, gasping as the earth spat her out like rotten fruit. Tirion darted forward and helped her scramble onto firmer ground. She clung to him, trembling uncontrollably, and buried her face in his chest.

“What… what was that?” she whispered, tears silently spilling down her cheeks.

“A bogbody,” Tirion replied hoarsely. “Not truly alive, not truly dead. The marsh creates them from the remains of travelers who drowned centuries ago. They wait in the deeper mud. They… pull.”

Veyrûn hovered over her, shadows gentler now. “The marsh itself defends Voss,” she murmured. “He has fed it—lands, corpses, dark intentions. It has grown hungry.”

Elira stared at the mud where she’d nearly vanished. It looked the same as any other patch of marshland. It could happen again. Anywhere.

She swallowed hard. “We have to get out of here.” Her voice was shaky, and she didn’t even know if she could follow her own advice. Fear shook her body like a leaf against Tirion’s grasp. She’d felt terror before, but nothing like this. How could she keep away from an enemy that mimicked the very ground she walked on?

“We will,” Veyrûn said softly. “But we must be quick. And careful. The bogbodies sense movement. They drift with the water at night.”

Far behind them, a low howl echoed across the wetlands, reminding them why they needed to move. The hunter was closer than before.

Tirion looked toward the darkness ahead—toward where he knew Voss’s estate must lie. “If we keep moving, we can reach the outer fences by dawn.”

Veyrûn nodded. “Then move. No more delays.”

Elira cast one last look back at the churning patch of mud. If Veyrûn hadn’t been there…

“Thank you,” she whispered, voice shaking as Tirion helped her to her feet.

Veyrûn didn’t answer. She only extended one claw-like hand, steadying Elira as they resumed their trek.

And as they walked—quiet, cold, exhausted—Elira noticed something new: just past the tall reeds, past a curtain of mist—a faint light glowed.

Elira’s breath caught. “Is that…?”

Tirion nodded. “Voss’s estate.”

The mist thinned as they neared the flickering torchlight of Voss’s estate. Spiked wooden walls rose from the marsh, ringed with watchtowers and iron bracing—less a manor and more a stronghold.

Two guards stood at the gate. Gruff. Hard-eyed. Their grips tightened on their halberds the moment they spotted the trio.

“Halt,” one barked. “State your purpose.”

Tirion stepped forward, weary but steady. “Let us in! Something is hunting us—”

A low growl rippled across the marsh behind them. The guards stiffened, exchanging a quick glance.

Elira swallowed hard. “Please. Let us in.” Her voice nearly cracked.

The first guard sneered. “Why should we? Why don’t we just let it have you, then? Less trouble for us.”

Veyrûn stepped forward, shadows curling at her feet. The guards flinched—but before they could respond, she lifted her hand. The pendant gleamed in the torchlight.

Both guards froze. Their eyes widened—not with fear, but with recognition. And worse—want.

“…Is that what I think it is?” the older guard whispered.

The younger guard stepped closer, gaze hungry. “By the gods… Voss has been looking for that thing for days.”

Elira’s pulse spiked. The guard wasn’t afraid. He was calculating. The older guard cleared his throat and straightened, suddenly far more respectful—but no less dangerous.

“All right,” he said carefully. “You three come inside. Slowly. No sudden moves.”

Tirion hesitated. “You’re letting us in?”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” the older guard asked, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t flatter yourselves, though,” the younger guard muttered, never taking his eyes off the pendant. “My lord wants that carving more than he wants the likes of you. Hand it over, and maybe you’ll get to breathe another day.”

Elira instinctively stepped closer to Veyrûn. “No,” she said sharply. “That pendant doesn’t leave her hand.”

Both guards bristled.

The older one sneered. “You think you’re in a position to make demands?”

Veyrûn tilted her head—slow, deliberate, predatory.

“Would you rather she give it to the creature following us instead?”

A distant howl split the air, this time, much closer.

Both guards paled.

The younger one cursed and glanced behind them at the shifting marsh. “Fine! Inside. Now. Before whatever’s out there comes any closer.”

The older guard banged on the gate. “OPEN UP!”

The doors creaked wide, torchlight spilling onto the muddy ground. As the trio stepped inside, the older guard lowered his halberd, the threat clear.

“You’ll hand that over to Lord Voss the moment he summons you,” he growled. “And if you try anything—anything at all—I’ll gut you myself.”

Elira’s jaw tightened. Veyrûn’s shadows coiled around her protectively.

Tirion whispered, “Best not to argue. Not here.”

But as the gate slammed behind them with a thunderous crack, Elira felt the truth settle like a stone in her stomach: they weren’t guests. They were prisoners. And Voss did not want them; he wanted the key. They were unlikely to make it out free, or even alive, once he got his hands on what he sought. But for now, they were safer as prisoners than out there with the beast.

The guards marched them through the courtyard toward the manor—an imposing structure of dark stone and iron latticework, lit by dozens of lanterns that flickered like trapped fireflies.

Tirion walked stiffly. Elira’s heart pounded. And Veyrûn drifted a half step behind her, shadows curling protectively around her feet.

As they neared the massive oaken doors, a guard gestured sharply. “Inside. Lord Voss will want words with you.”

Elira exhaled shakily and stepped forward. Tirion hesitated, then followed. Veyrûn floated after them—and hit something. Hard.

The sound wasn’t a thud, exactly. More like a crackling hum, a ripple through the air, as though invisible frost had splintered across glass.

Veyrûn recoiled, shadows snapping back like wounded serpents.

Elira spun. “Veyrûn!”

The ancient creature steadied herself, but her form flickered, edges fracturing. “A ward,” she whispered, voice low with disbelief and anger. “Woven with old magic. Very old. I cannot cross.”

The nearest guard stepped back, eyes wide. “What in the nine hells was that?”

Another lifted his halberd toward Veyrûn, knuckles white. “You brought a spirit into the marsh? Are you out of your minds?”

Elira moved in front of Veyrûn instinctively. “She’s with me.”

The guard scoffed. “Spirits like that aren’t ‘with’ anyone. They’re bound, cursed… or hunting.”

Veyrûn’s eyes glinted like dying stars. “I am none of those things.” But she didn’t attempt to cross again.

Tirion stared at the warded doorway, realization dawning across his face. “Voss… he planned for this. He warded his estate long before he ever sent for the pendant.”

Elira realized what that meant: Voss knew something this powerful would come looking. A chill slipped down Elira’s spine.

The head guard jabbed a finger toward Elira and Tirion. “Inside. Both of you. The creature stays here.”

Elira’s pulse spiked. “I’m not leaving her—”

“You have no choice,” he snapped. “The master doesn’t wait.”

Veyrûn lifted a hand, stopping Elira before she could step back out. Her voice softened—but carried a deep, vibrating force. “Go, Elira. I will remain close. The ward stops me from entering, not from guarding.”

Elira swallowed. “But—”

A shadowed tendril curled lightly around her wrist—comforting, not restraining. “You must face him. He is the only one who knows why Sorin died.”

Elira’s throat tightened, but she nodded, allowing the tendril to slip off her wrist as she turned away.

One braver (or dumber) than the rest jabbed the butt of his spear toward Veyrûn. “Hand over the pendant,” he demanded. “Lord Voss will want it immediately.”

Elira stepped back, putting herself between them before the halberd tip could inch closer. “No,” she said firmly.

The guard blinked, stunned at her nerve. “Girl, this isn’t—”

“I said,” Elira repeated, “it doesn’t leave her hands.”

Tirion winced, whispering under his breath, “Elira… maybe not the time—”

But Elira didn’t back down. “If Lord Voss wants the pendant,” she said, voice steady despite the pounding of her heart, “then he can say so to my face. And he can negotiate with the one holding it.”

The guard scowled. “The master does not—”

“Then he doesn’t get the pendant,” she shot back.

A tense silence fell. Several guards shifted, uncertain. They knew Voss wanted the pendant. They knew Voss cared about nothing as much as power. And Elira had just positioned herself as the only bridge between Voss and the thing he wanted most.

The head guard ground his teeth, then jerked his chin sharply. “Fine. You two—inside. The… spirit stays. And so does the pendant.”

Elira’s jaw clenched. Veyrûn moved beside her, whisper-light, but she kept her claws wrapped firmly around the pendant.

“She does not release it,” Elira warned.

“She won’t,” Veyrûn assured her, shadows curling protectively over the faint glow of the carved runes.

Elira locked eyes with the guard. “If he wants it, he must let her in—or come out here himself.”

The guard glared, but he also didn’t attempt to take the pendant again. She had won — for now. He shoved the door open and gestured them inside. Elira and Tirion stepped through.

Veyrûn drifted as close as she could to the doorway. The ward crackled again, repelling her, but she remained poised like a sentinel carved from smoke and moonlight.

“I will be here,” she whispered. “My protection extends as far as the threshold allows.”

The heavy doors slammed shut.

And Elira’s heart dropped as the sudden silence swallowed her. Three deep breaths. You’ve faced worse than a man in fine clothes.

They walked down a long hallway lit by sconces shaped like talons. Tirion didn’t speak—didn’t dare. The guards escorted them until they reached a pair of massive double doors carved with twisting branches and stylized eyes. One guard pushed them open.

“Enter. Lord Voss awaits.”

They both stepped inside. The door shut behind them with a heavy finality. And for the first time since she had left her village, Elira was alone.

The room was vast, circular, and cold. Tapestries hung along the stone walls—depicting storms, beasts, and a noble crest that looked more like a warning than a family sigil. A great brazier burned in the center, its flames an unnatural green.

And beside it stood Kaelren Voss. Tall. Crisp robes. Hair touched with silver at the temples. A smile like a blade honed thin.

“Ah,” he said calmly. “My runaway messenger. And…” His dark eyes slid over Elira, assessing her with practiced calculation. “…the carpenter’s daughter.”

Elira’s spine straightened.

“You’ve come far,” Voss continued, taking a measured step closer. “And you have something that belongs to me.”

Elira did not bow. Did not flinch. “It stays outside,” she said evenly, “until we decide otherwise.”

Voss’s smile sharpened. “We…?”

“Tirion, Veyrûn, and me,” she said. “No pendant unless my companion is allowed in.”

The temperature seemed to drop. Voss’s eyes narrowed—not in fear, but annoyance. “Your creature cannot cross my wards. And you will not bargain with me using what is mine.”

“It isn’t yours,” Elira said.

The fire cracked behind him, green sparks leaping like hungry insects.

Voss folded his hands behind his back. “You misunderstand your position.”

“No,” Elira corrected. “You misunderstand yours.”

Tirion made a strangled sound of warning. But Elira kept her gaze locked with Voss’s.

“You can’t get the pendant,” she said, “unless I hand it to you. And I won’t—not without answers.”

Voss finally stopped smiling. He studied her for a long, silent moment… and then inclined his head slightly.

“A negotiation, then,” he murmured. “Very well. Ask your questions.”

Elira’s pulse hammered. She took a step forward. “Why did you kill my father?”

Voss threw back his head and laughed—rich, resonant, utterly amused. “Is that the only reason you’ve dragged yourself across half the realm?” His grin widened, cruel and effortless. “A carpenter’s daughter seeking vengeance. How quaint.”

Elira’s jaw tightened, but she held her ground.

Voss stepped closer, his boots whispering over the marble floor. “My dear girl,” he said softly, almost kindly—until his eyes hardened like obsidian. “I had your father killed because he broke his oath to me. Because he delivered excuses instead of the artifact he promised. Because no one—no one—backs out of a commission with Kaelren Voss.” He lifted one elegant hand, palm up, as if presenting a simple truth rather than confessing to murder. “He thought he could defy me. He learned otherwise.”

Tirion flinched.

Elira’s breath trembled—but her glare didn’t waver.

Voss’s smile returned, thin, not reaching his eyes. “Now,” he murmured, “shall we discuss the pendant?”

Elira’s vision blurred with hot, stinging fury. For a moment, she couldn’t even speak—her throat locked, her breath shaking. Then the dam broke.

“What kind of man does that?” she spat, taking a step forward before Tirion could stop her. “What kind of man kills someone just because he didn’t get what he wanted?”

Voss blinked, mildly surprised—not by her accusation, but by her audacity.

Elira didn’t care. She kept going. “You’re nothing but a child throwing a tantrum,” she snapped, voice cracking. “Except instead of stamping your feet, you send killers after innocent people. My father was a good man. A kind man. And to you he was just—just—”

Her words trembled with rage.

“A nuisance to remove?” he finished for her.

Her temper flared, and Tirion could almost see the steam curling off her figure. He reached for her arm. “Elira—”

She tore out of his grip, eyes blazing, unwilling to tear her gaze from the terrible man in front of her. “You murdered him because you didn’t get your way. Because he told you no.” Her voice shook with fury and grief interwoven, bright and sharp and unstoppable. “Is that who you are, Voss? A spoiled brat with too much coin and not enough soul?”

Voss’s smile thinned—cracking at the edges. For the first time, amusement slipped into annoyance. He tilted his head, studying her like a curious insect.

“I see Sorin’s temper lives on,” he said calmly, though his voice carried a new, quiet warning. “A shame. It will get you killed just as quickly.”

Elira’s hands curled into fists. “You don’t get to talk about him.”

“Oh?” His brow lifted. “And who will stop me?”

A rush of wind outside trembled through the chamber—Veyrûn reacting to Elira’s distress. Voss’s eyes flicked toward the sound, then back to Elira with thinly veiled irritation.

Elira lifted her chin. Her cheek glowed with fury, her eyes bright with tears she refused to shed. “My father was right to deny you,” she said, voice low and shaking with conviction. “You’ll never get the pendant.”

The words hung in the air—sharp, unforgiving. Voss stilled.

The mask of amusement cracked. His fingers tightened around the arm of his chair, knuckles whitening. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“Never…?” he echoed softly, dangerously.

Elira held his gaze. “Not while I’m breathing.”

Tirion tensed beside her. “Elira—”

Too late. Voss rose from his seat in one smooth, predatory motion. The golden rings on his hand glinted as he stepped down from the dais, each tap of his boots echoing through the marble hall. He stopped inches from her—close enough that Elira could smell the bitter wine on his breath.

“How interesting,” he murmured. “That a little village girl thinks she can deny me twice. First your father…” His lips curled. “And now you.”

Elira didn’t flinch. “Someone had to stand up to you.”

A dangerous, icy silence followed. Then—CRACK.

His hand flashed across her face so fast she barely saw it. Pain exploded along her cheek, bright and hot, sending her stumbling sideways. Tirion lunged forward instinctively, catching her before she fell.

“Elira!” he hissed.

Voss towered over them, fury now unmasked—raw, simmering, ugly.

“You forget your place,” he snarled. “I am owed what was promised. Your father stole from me. Defied me. And now you think you can keep what belongs to me?”

Elira pressed a shaking hand to her cheek but forced herself to meet his gaze again—steady, unbroken. He seized a fistful of her cloak, yanking her upright.

“Where is it?” he hissed. “Where is the pendant? Tell me—now!”

Voss’s fingers twisted cruelly in Elira’s hair, yanking her head back so sharply that stars burst behind her eyes. Her gasp escaped before she could swallow it.

“Answer me!” he snarled, spit flecking her cheek. “Where is the pendant?!”

“Elira—!” Tirion tried to take a step forward, but a guard’s gauntleted hand slammed to his chest.

Voss didn’t even look at him. “Get. Him. Out.”

The guard seized Tirion, dragging him backward. Tirion fought, kicking, wrenching against the grip. “Leave her alone! Voss—you don’t know what you’re dealing with! Don’t touch her!”

Another guard struck him in the ribs. Tirion doubled over with a grunt, still struggling. Elira tried to twist toward him, but Voss jerked her hard, snapping her focus back to him.

“Into the dungeon,” Voss commanded. “If the girl won’t talk, perhaps he will.”

“No!” Elira shouted, reaching forward—until Voss wrenched her back again.

The heavy doors boomed shut behind Tirion, silencing his shouts.

Voss exhaled through a thin smile, releasing Elira just long enough to shove her violently to the floor. Her knees cracked against the stone. Before she could rise, his hand lashed out again—CRACK.

Her cheek whipped sideways. The taste of blood filled her mouth.

“You insolent little rat,” he hissed. “You and your saintly father—you both thought you were better than me.” He crouched down, grabbing her chin between his fingers so hard she winced. “But everyone breaks. Everyone.”

His smile widened. “Let’s see how long you last.”

He snapped his fingers. Two guards stepped forward. One held a thin iron rod—wickedly simple, but unmistakably painful. The other uncoiled a strap of leather.

Elira’s breath stuttered. She tried to scramble backward, but Voss caught her by the cloak and dragged her across the slick marble floor—her nails scraping helplessly against it.

“Hold her,” Voss ordered.

The guards pinned her arms. Voss leaned close, savoring the trembling he felt in her shoulders.

“You’ll give me the pendant,” he whispered. “Sooner or later.”

The iron rod came down across her forearm. A burst of agony, pain tighter than she’d ever felt before. She cried out despite herself.

Voss laughed softly. “There it is. The first crack.”

Another strike. Fire raced up her arm. Tears slid down her cheek—hot, furious, humiliating.

“Tell me where it is,” Voss murmured, “and the pain stops.”

Elira shook her head, choking on a sob. “Never.”

The rod slammed into the same arm—white heat exploded beneath her skin. Elira screamed despite herself, falling sideways as her injured arm curled instinctively against her body.

Voss paced around her like a wolf circling prey. “Tell me where it is.”

Elira spat at the floor. “Never.”

The next strike fell harder. The rod hit with brutal precision, and this time the sound was unmistakable— a sharp, sickening snap that echoed off the chamber walls.

Elira’s vision went black around the edges. A cry tore from her throat, raw and involuntary. Her fingers spasmed; she couldn’t feel them, couldn’t move them. Her whole arm throbbed with a deep, pulsing agony that made her stomach twist.

Voss leaned close, breathing hard. “Pain breaks everyone eventually.”

Elira squeezed her eyes shut, tears streaking down her cheeks. The room swayed. Her heartbeat rang in her ears. She tasted copper.

“I… won’t…” Her voice cracked, barely more than breath.

Voss lifted the rod again.

And then—the ward shattered. Not quietly, not subtly–it detonated. A deafening crack split the air, sending a shockwave rippling through the chamber. The windows exploded inward. The torches guttered violently.

Voss froze mid-swing.

Shadows poured through the broken doorway—thick, alive, spiraling like a storm of black fire. Every torch in the room went out in an instant. And from the swirling darkness, Veyrûn stepped forth fully manifested—taller than any guard, her form stretching like a living eclipse. Her eyes blazed silver-white, bright enough to carve light through the storm.

Her voice shook the room. “Do. Not. Touch. My. Girl.”

Voss stumbled backward, the rod clattering from his grip.

“W–What—? You—You cannot be here! The wards—”

“Your wards,” Veyrûn hissed, shadows whipping violently behind her, “were made by children compared to me.”

Her gaze locked onto Elira—and the fury in her expression sharpened into something primal. Then she turned to Voss. “You hurt her.”

Veyrûn’s hand shot forward. Shadows burst from her palm like a violent wind. Voss was lifted off his feet, then slammed into the wall across the chamber. Veyrûn held him there, pinned by an invisible force that cracked stone under the pressure. He wheezed, legs kicking.

The guards fled. Some screamed. Others dropped their weapons and ran. None made it far—every shadow in the room stretched taller, darker, herding them away like frightened cattle.

Elira whimpered softly, still held by the guards who hadn’t yet realized the fight was over. Veyrûn snapped her claws, and the guards were violently flung back as if ripped loose by a whirlwind.

Elira collapsed to her hands and knees, but pain shot through her arm, and they buckled beneath her weight. Veyrûn was beside her in a heartbeat, catching her before she hit the floor fully. Shadowy arms wrapped around her with surprising gentleness.

“Elira… little one…” Her voice cracked. “He hurt you.”

Elira leaned into her, trembling uncontrollably. “I—I’m okay. I’m okay.”

Veyrûn brushed her hair back, but her focus shifted—darkened—as she saw Elira cradling her mangled arm. Her fury ignited anew. Still holding Elira, Veyrûn snapped her other hand. The tendril pinning Voss whipped him off the wall and slammed him into it again.

His shoulder struck first—another crisp snap. His head hit second, and he slumped, unconscious. The iron rod clattered from his hand.

Veyrûn’s form towered over him. “You. Will. Not. Touch. Her. Again.” She moved to strike him again, but a voice stopped her mere inches from his body.

“Veyrûn, stop!” Elira shouted. “You’ll kill him!” New tears sprang from her eyes.

“He should die!” Veyrûn growled, restraining herself.

“But we are not killers,” Elira said slowly, calmly. “He is, but we are not.”

For a moment, only the sound of Veyrûn’s ragged breathing filled the chamber. A groan scraped from the floor. Voss twitched. His fingers curled weakly. Slowly, painfully, he began to stir. Voss rolled onto his side with a strangled gasp, face twisted in pain, one hand clutching his useless shoulder. His eyes fluttered open—dazed, disbelieving. Then he saw Veyrûn. And fear finally cracked through his arrogance like glass.

Still, pride clawed at him. He shoved himself upright with his good arm, shaking violently. When he tried to move the other, a strangled cry tore from his throat. Still—he lifted his chin.

He had to look in control. Men like him don’t survive without power.

“You…” His voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again. “You—monster… get away from me.”

Veyrûn didn’t move. Shadows coiled tighter around her like smoke held by a storm.

Voss’s breath trembled. He tried to gather the scraps of his authority, but fear threaded through every word.

“J–just… take your—your creature and go,” he rasped at Elira, though his eyes never left Veyrûn. “Leave my estate. Immediately.”

Elira stiffened. “We’re not leaving without answers. We still need to know how to destroy it.”

Voss’s expression twisted—anger and terror warring in his eyes. He tried to lift himself higher, but his broken clavicle jolted him back down with a gasp of pain.

“I owe you nothing,” he spat, though it came out thin and breathless. “I owe none of you anything.”

Veyrûn stepped forward, slow and deliberate. The torches fluttered.

“You owe Sorin,” she said quietly, dangerously.

That name struck him harder than the wall had. His breath hitched; his eyes went wide and unfocused for a beat before snapping back to her.

“Keep away from me,” he whispered. “Take the girl—take my second-in-command—just go. I won’t stop you.”

“You cannot stop me,” Veyrûn said, voice a cold, ancient truth. Veyrûn leaned closer, her shadow falling over him like an eclipse. “If you ever reach for Elira again…” Her voice dropped to a whisper that vibrated through his bones. “…I will show you what true fear is.”

Voss’s resolve broke. His eyes filled with naked terror. He pressed his back harder against the wall as if he could sink into it.

“Go,” he rasped, barely audible. “Go, before I change my mind.”

He wasn’t going to change his mind. He was praying they’d leave.

Veyrûn lowered Elira gently to the floor, shadows folding around her like a cloak. “Your arm,” she murmured, voice trembling with rage and grief. “Let me see it.”

Elira obeyed, teeth clenched as she pulled her injured arm forward. Even the slightest movement sent fresh waves of pain lancing through her. Her teeth clenched in hopes of keeping any noises from escaping.

Veyrûn hovered her hands over the break. Silver light gathered in her palms—not bright, but deep, like moonlight reflected in water. “This will not fully mend it,” she warned softly, “but it will spare you agony enough to walk.”

Elira nodded, breath shaking. “Do it.”

Veyrûn pressed her shadow-wrapped fingers lightly around the fracture. Cold—biting cold—swept through Elira’s arm, stealing her breath. The pain shifted, unwound, and melted into a dull throb instead of a piercing fire.

She gasped as the worst of it receded. “I can… move my fingers again.”

“Do not overestimate what I’ve given you,” Veyrûn said gently. “The bone remains broken. I merely soothed the edges of your suffering.”

Elira exhaled shakily. “Thank you.”

Veyrûn turned toward the shattered door. “We must leave now.”

“Wait,” Elira said suddenly.

Veyrûn stopped. “Elira—”

“We can’t just leave Tirion.” She struggled to her feet, leaning heavily on her good arm. “Voss told them to torture him. If we don’t go to him, he’ll suffer for nothing.”

Veyrûn’s expression hardened. “He ran when your father died. He finished the pendant despite knowing the danger.” Her voice softened, but only slightly. “He is not worth your pain.”

“He’s the only one who knows Voss’s dealings,” Elira insisted. “And he tried to protect me today.”

Veyrûn hesitated—tension twisting the shadows around her. She looked away for a moment, jaw tight. “Elira…” she murmured, “your compassion will break you.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Finally, Veyrûn’s form softened in reluctant surrender. “…Very well.”

She helped Elira through the compound towards the dungeon. They met no one on their way down, but the guards at the bottom must not have witnessed the terror above. They stood ready and barred the way.

“Move,” Veyrûn spoke, her silver eyes glowing.

She didn’t have to ask twice. She swept her hand toward the ironbound dungeon door. Shadows surged like black water, melting the lock in an instant. The door burst open with a groan. Tirion was inside—slumped on the floor, wrists bound, blood on his lip. He blinked blearily as Elira knelt beside him.

“You came back…” he whispered in disbelief.

“Of course I did,” Elira said softly. “Come on. Before anyone else does.”

Veyrûn sliced his bindings with one gesture, shadows hissing through rope.

Tirion stumbled upright, wincing. “Voss is going to—”

“He won’t,” Veyrûn interrupted. “Not if he values the scraps of his spine I left intact.”

Elira bit back a humorless laugh. “Let’s move.” She supported Tirion with her good side as best she could. “What do you know of Voss’s second-in-command?”

Tirion’s eyebrow raised. “Why?”

“He’s been…promised to our cause.”

“Promised?” he breathed and shook his head. “Gerald isn’t unlike his boss. He’s not just going to come willingly.”

“But does he know the things that Voss knows? Who to go to that could destroy the pendant?”

Tirion nodded.

“Then he’s coming whether or not he likes it.”

“Let’s go find him then,” Tirion said with a short laugh.

They found Gerald more easily than any of them expected. Or rather, he found them. He stood at the far end of the corridor, half-armored and stiff-backed, clearly torn between fleeing and pretending he hadn’t heard the chaos from the audience chamber. His hand hovered uncertainly near his sword. His eyes narrowed when he saw Tirion, bruised and limping, and Elira—her arm held protectively against her chest.

Then his gaze slid to Veyrûn. His breath hitched. “Saints preserve me,” he whispered. “Voss’s stories were true.”

“Some of them,” Veyrûn said coolly, shadows curling behind her like smoke.

Gerald swallowed hard.

Elira stepped forward. “You know what Voss was doing. You know who he hired. You know where he sent the pendant to be finished.”

Gerald’s jaw tightened. “And why would I help you?”

“Because your master tried to kill us,” Tirion said. “Because he’s lost control of the situation. And because if you don’t help us, the creature hunting us will be inside these walls by morning.”

Gerald’s face went pale. “Creature?”

Veyrûn’s voice lowered into something ancient. “The one drawn by the pendant. The one Voss invited with his greed.”

Elira added, “You know people who can unbind magic like this. Tirion said so. We need them.”

“And if I refuse?” Gerald asked.

Veyrûn stepped forward without a hint of hesitation. Shadows rose behind her like a tidal wave. “You will not refuse.”

Gerald stumbled back, breath shaking. “All right. All right—fine. I’ll take you. Just—keep that thing away from me.”

“No promises,” Veyrûn murmured.

Gerald swallowed and nodded once. They hurried down the corridor toward the outer courtyard—until Veyrûn stopped dead. One clawed hand shot out, barring both Elira and Tirion from passing.

“Wait.”

Elira stiffened. “What is it?”

Veyrûn turned slowly toward the heavy front doors. Her eyes narrowed, glowing faintly. “Do not open that.”

Gerald frowned. “Why? What’s—”

Veyrûn lifted a finger to silence him. A shrieking growl pierced through the air right outside the gates. All three of them blanched. It’s here.

Gerald climbed the steps to the top so he could look over. Elira exchanged a worried glance with Tirion and followed as quickly as she could. Gerald muttered a curse and beckoned them over so they could see for themselves.

At the top, the marsh spread out beneath them, silver with moonlight and fog. Elira felt her stomach drop.

The creature prowled the outer perimeter—massive, hunched, its limbs dragging through reeds that snapped under its weight. It circled the walls like a starving wolf circling a pen of sheep. Pale eyes gleamed with an unholy light, locking on the stones as if it could smell them through the mortar.

A guttural growl vibrated the walls beneath Elira’s feet.

Gerald stumbled backward. “It—It shouldn’t even be able to reach the estate—how—?!”

“It swims,” Veyrûn murmured. “It climbs. It follows. It does not stop.”

Elira’s pulse hammered painfully. “It’s waiting for us.”

“No,” Veyrûn corrected softly. “It is hunting you. The moment we open the gate, it will charge.”

“What’s the difference?” Gerald asked. “Why’s it matter if it’s waiting or hunting? Either way, if we open the gates, we’re dead.”

They all ignored him.

Tirion exhaled shakily. “So how do we get out?”

Veyrûn turned to them, shadows rippling off her like wings. “With caution,” she said. “And with a plan that keeps that thing from tearing you apart the moment your boots touch the marsh.” Her gaze shifted to Gerald. “And fortunately,” she said, “we now have someone who knows a way out Voss never intended to share.”

Gerald blanched, but he didn’t deny it. He swallowed hard under Veyrûn’s gaze. His fingers twitched toward the hilt of his sword, not in threat—more like a man reaching instinctively for something familiar in the presence of nightmares.

“There… is a way out,” he said quietly. “But it’s not meant for servants. Or guards. Or anyone Voss didn’t trust with his life.”

Elira’s brows pulled together. “Then why do you know about it?”

Gerald let out a thin, humorless huff. “Because someone had to map it. And someone had to escort Voss if he wanted to disappear.”

Tirion stiffened. “It’s a killing maze.”

“Not always.” Gerald grimaced. “But yes. Mostly.”

Veyrûn didn’t blink. “Show us.”

Gerald hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Follow me. Quietly.”

He led them down from the battlements and through a narrow series of stone hallways rarely patrolled. Elira kept her broken arm pressed tightly to her chest, each jolt of movement sending tendrils of pain up to her shoulder, but she pushed through it.

When they reached what appeared to be a dead-end corridor, Gerald knelt beside an unremarkable stretch of wall. He brushed away a thin layer of dust, revealing a pattern of tiny indentations. With practiced movements, he pressed three in a specific order.

A soft grinding noise rumbled deep within the stone. The entire wall shifted backward, then slid aside with a slow, groaning scrape. Cold air rushed out, smelling of earth and old secrets.

Elira shivered. “How far does it go?”

Gerald lifted a lantern from a nearby hook, its flame flickering weakly. “Miles. Beneath the marsh. Voss built these tunnels so that if anyone ever overpowered the estate, he’d have a dozen ways out—and his enemies would have no way in.”

Tirion leaned forward, jaw tight. “And the tunnels are all different?”

Gerald nodded. “Twisting. Layered. Intersecting. Easy to enter, impossible to navigate unless you know how. I once followed the wrong turn and ended up in a pit of reeds so deep I nearly suffocated.”

Elira’s breath caught. “So if we get lost…”

“We die,” Gerald said. Matter-of-fact. “Slowly.”

Veyrûn hovered at the tunnel’s entrance, shadows trailing along the floor. “The creature will not follow underground,” she murmured. “It prefers open air. Water. Sky.”

Elira frowned. “Are you sure?”

“No,” Veyrûn said simply. “But it will struggle in close spaces. That buys us time.”

A distant roar rolled across the marsh, vibrating the stones beneath their feet.

Gerald stepped into the tunnel first, lantern raised. The dim light stretched long shadows across the uneven walls. Veyrûn entered next, her form dimming to a thin veil of shadow so she could fit without brushing the low ceiling. Elira followed, her boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. Tirion came last, closing the stone wall behind them.

Darkness swallowed them. Only Gerald’s lantern kept the void at bay.

“Elira,” Veyrûn murmured, drifting beside her, “stay close. These walls remember those who walk them. And they do not always give them back.”

Elira tightened her grip on Tirion’s cloak with her good hand. Ahead, the tunnels stretched forward in twisting patterns—narrow passages, sharp corners, sudden splits. Each felt colder than the last.

Gerald’s voice echoed softly in the cramped space. “Step where I step. No matter what you hear.”

“What we hear?” Tirion asked, uneasy.

Gerald’s lantern flickered. “People have… claimed to hear things in here. Voices. Cries. Some swear the tunnels whisper.”

Elira swallowed. “Are they haunted?”

Gerald didn’t look back. “No. Just clever.”

He paused at the first fork—three tunnels diverging deeper into darkness.

“Clever enough,” he added quietly, “that most intruders walk themselves into their own graves.”

Veyrûn’s eyes glowed faintly in the dark. “Then choose wisely, Gerald of Voss.”

He nodded once and stepped into the leftmost passage. Behind them, far above, the creature screamed. A scream that shook dirt from the ceiling.

They hurried deeper into the tunnels, trusting the lantern’s glow, the map in Gerald’s memory—and hoping the walls wouldn’t shift on them the way they sometimes did for strangers.

Surprisingly, they made it through the maze without a hitch. Gerald’s memory was as strong as his sword. Every twist, every narrow turn, every sudden fork, he navigated without hesitation—calling out warnings about low ceilings or uneven stones long before Elira or Tirion could stumble into them. Even Veyrûn, who drifted like shadow along the tunnel’s spine, seemed impressed by his certainty.

After what felt like hours of lantern-lit earth and silence, the tunnel sloped upward. Fresh, cool air brushed Elira’s face. They emerged into a stretch of marshland far from the estate—a pale, mist-laced clearing where reeds swayed softly beneath the dying light. The sudden openness made Elira exhale shakily, as though she hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath the entire journey.

Gerald stepped aside, letting the others come through. “We’re beyond Voss’s patrol radius,” he said, brushing mud from his boots. “No one uses this exit anymore.”

Tirion stretched his cramped shoulders and gave a wry grunt. “Good. Because I think I walked half that tunnel sideways.”

Elira managed a small smile—brief, but real. Even her broken arm, though throbbing dully beneath Veyrûn’s temporary healing, felt bearable in the open air.

Veyrûn emerged last, her form unfolding upward toward its natural height. Her shadows softened, relaxing for the first time in hours. “The air is clean here,” she murmured, eyes scanning the horizon. “And the creature has not reached this ground yet.”

Elira sagged with relief, leaning slightly against a mossed stone. The sky above them was a deepening gold, transitioning toward blue-gray twilight. A few birds wheeled overhead, their calls sharp but peaceful.

For the first time since dawn, there were no screams, no shaking earth, no pounding footsteps behind them. Just wind and marsh reeds. A moment of peace—however fragile.

Gerald glanced at Elira’s arm, his brows knitting. “We should rest a moment before moving on. You’re pale.”

“I’m fine,” Elira lied automatically.

“You’re not,” Tirion said, a rare softness in his tone.

Veyrûn rested a gentle claw on Elira’s back. “She will be,” she said. “But not if she refuses to stop.”

Elira sighed, relenting. “Just for a little while.”

They settled near a patch of dry ground beneath a leaning willow. Gerald kept watch with one hand on his sword. Tirion sat cross-legged, rubbing at the faint sigil on his skin. Veyrûn stood beside Elira like a silent guardian, her glow dim but steady.

For the first time since her father’s death, Elira felt a tiny sliver of calm wedge itself into her chest. She let out a long, trembling breath.

They rested beneath the leaning willow, the marsh settling into a soft chorus of crickets and rustling reeds. Elira breathed slowly, willing the throbbing in her arm to quiet. Veyrûn remained beside her, a steady shadow-warm presence, while Tirion picked at a bit of mud under his nails—clearly avoiding her gaze.

Gerald eventually eased down near them, sword across his lap, his expression softer than before. “You did well,” he murmured toward Elira, surprising her. “Most folk scream, bargain, or faint when Voss raises a hand. You didn’t give him a thing.”

Elira let out a shaky breath. “My father wouldn’t have either.”

Gerald nodded in a respectful sort of silence.

Tirion spoke next, voice unusually gentle. “I can make a sling for your arm, if you’ll let me.”

Elira hesitated—but she didn’t have the strength to argue. “All right.”

Tirion tore strips from the hem of his damaged cloak, weaving them into a crude but secure sling. He worked with surprising care, adjusting knots so they wouldn’t rub against her clavicle.

“You’ve done this before?” she asked quietly.

Tirion shrugged. “You pick up odd skills when you grow up on the streets. People break things a lot.”

Despite everything, Elira smiled faintly.

Veyrûn watched him closely, reading truth or deception in the small motions of his hands. After a moment, she murmured, “He means well. For now.”

Tirion huffed. “For what it’s worth, I don’t plan on betraying anyone today.”

Gerald snorted. “Better not. We’re too far into the swamp for anyone to hear you scream.”

Elira blinked, unsure if he was joking.

He finally stood, brushing soil from his palms. “We should talk about where we’re headed next.”

Tirion frowned. “You know where to destroy the pendant?”

“No,” Gerald corrected, “but I know who does.”

He pointed toward the southeast—toward a stretch of marsh that faded into mist.

“A hermit lives near the shifting springs,” Gerald explained. “Old man, older magic. Keeps outside the grasp of nobles, kings, and priests. Voss sent men once to try to recruit him.” Gerald grimaced. “None came back.”

Elira’s breath tightened. “So he’s dangerous?”

“He’s powerful,” Gerald said. “Not cruel. But he knows what sleeps under this land. If anyone can cleanse that key… It’s him.”

Tirion swallowed. “Perfect. A hermit who despises nobles, mages, and anyone foolish enough to disturb old magic. We’re sure to be welcomed.”

Gerald smirked. “He’ll sense the pendant. He’ll know why we’ve come.”

Elira nodded, resolve firm despite the pain in her chest and shoulder. “Then we go now. Before the creature catches our trail again.”

Gerald nodded. “The hermit’s clearing is half a day’s journey. We might reach it by morning.”

Tirion swallowed, glancing at the fading horizon. “And if we don’t?”

As if in answer, a deep, bone-shaking howl rolled across the marshlands—distant, but growing. Elira felt the sound in her ribs.

Veyrûn gently steadied her. “We will reach him.”

“I’m assuming you know the way?” Tirion asked Gerald.

He nodded. “It’s not easy, but still doable.”

“Great. Let’s get going.”

Gerald led them through the swamp with great precision, keeping them away from the most dangerous parts and cautioning them at key points.

Gerald moved with a confidence that none of them shared—each step measured, angled, deliberate. What looked to Elira like uneven mud and tall brown sedge was, to him, as legible as a map.

“Watch your footing here,” he murmured, lifting a hand. “This section’s a bog. Doesn’t look any different, but it can swallow a man in minutes.”

Tirion paled. “Comforting.”

Gerald crouched and pressed the butt of his sword into the earth ahead. The ground seemed solid for a moment—then bubbled, sucking greedily around the metal.

“See?” Gerald said. “Looks safe. Isn’t.” He angled his sword toward a faint cluster of cattails. “We skirt along there. Step only where I step.”

Veyrûn’s eyes glimmered. “The land remembers those who trespass unwisely.”

“Well,” Tirion muttered, “I’d rather it remembered someone else.”

Elira followed carefully. Even with her arm pressed to her chest and pain stabbing with each motion, she mimicked Gerald’s precise foot placements. The soil squelched under her boots, but didn’t give way.

Once, she stepped slightly off-path, and the mud below let out a low, hungry gulp.

“Nope,” Gerald snapped, grabbing her cloak and yanking her back. “Right behind me. No improvising.”

“Right,” she breathed, trying not to imagine the bog pulling her down into black water.

They moved slowly, methodically, across the treacherous ground. In some places, Gerald pointed out patches of moss that appeared lush but floated over deep pockets—deceitful islands waiting to collapse.

“Plants lie,” Gerald grumbled. “Land lies. Marsh especially lies. Just assume everything can kill you.”

“That is surprisingly accurate,” Veyrûn commented quietly.

Tirion shot her a look. “Not helping.”

But they made it across. Not quickly—but alive.

Gerald straightened once they reached firmer ground, wiping swamp muck from his boots. “Last stretch ahead.”

Elira followed his gaze. A narrow corridor of twisted trees and thick reeds formed a natural tunnel. A windless hush hung in the air—unnatural, expectant.

“We’re close,” Gerald whispered. “The hermit’s clearing is just beyond that rise.”

Tirion exhaled shakily. “Finally.”

“Don’t be relieved just yet,” Gerald said. “The tunnel might look harmless, but it’s anything but.”

Tirion groaned. “Whyyyy?”

A shrieking howl echoed close behind them. They all whipped around trying to spot the creature hunting them.

“Let’s get through there before the beast catches up,” Gerald said, starting into the nature tunnel with Elira close behind.

She looked up at the twisting branches, wondering how it could be that dangerous. They didn’t look that malicious. But Gerald hadn’t steered her wrong yet, so she kept a vigilant eye.

Elira looked up at the twisting branches, wondering how it could be that dangerous. They didn’t look that malicious. But Gerald hadn’t steered her wrong yet, so she kept a vigilant eye.

“Follow right behind me,” Gerald warned, lowering his voice as if the trees themselves might hear. “This tunnel… it confuses the senses. Makes the safe ground look wrong, and the dangerous ground look harmless.”

Tirion muttered, “Of course it does.”

Gerald flashed him a grim smile. “The hermit built this path to keep uninvited guests from finding him. And the marsh helped. It’s half man-made, half… whatever the marsh wanted to become.”

Elira glanced around again, seeing what he meant now. The “tunnel” wasn’t an actual structure—it was a passage carved between reeds, half-rotten logs, and branches that arched together overhead like rib bones. Some were as thin as whips; others thick as tree trunks. Moss dripped in long strands like hair.

“How does a marsh ‘help’ build something?” Tirion whispered.

“It lies,” Veyrûn answered softly. “It shifts. It shapes illusions. The land remembers old magic even when mortals forget it. It makes sense why this hermit with old magic would hole up here.”

A chill crawled down Elira’s spine.

They moved deeper. The shadows thickened with each step. The air grew heavy, thick with the smell of stagnant water and rotting plants. Somewhere far off, something splashed. Another direction—a hollow thunk, like wood knocking wood.

They followed carefully. Now Elira felt it—the subtle difference under her boots. The safe ground was springy, but not wet. The false ground squirmed if you stared too long, as if it hid something beneath. Elira swallowed hard and stepped only where Gerald did.

A branch overhead creaked. She stiffened. The whole tunnel seemed to breathe around them.

“How long does this go on?” Tirion whispered.

Gerald opened his mouth—but froze.

The tunnel ahead shimmered. A heat haze? No. An illusion.

Veyrûn stepped forward, her form bristling. “The marsh is trying to mislead us.”

At that same moment, the shriek tore through the air again—farther off this time, but unmistakable. The beast had passed the bog and had found the tunnel’s entrance. The ground trembled faintly beneath their feet.

Tirion sucked in a breath. “It’s close.”

“Not just close. It has found the path we left behind,” Veyrûn replied. “It may prefer open air, but knowing it’s this close, it will enter the tunnel soon enough.”

“Which means we need to hurry,” Gerald said sharply. “Stay tight.”

They continued in tense silence. Twice, Gerald stopped them at the last second—once when a nest of thin roots disguised a sinking pit, and once when a hollow log hid a pool of water deep enough to drown in.

The tunnel finally began to lighten. Elira let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“We’re almost through,” Gerald said. “Another minute or two.”

That’s when they heard crackling. Like a thousand branches snapping. The ground rumbled beneath them as the creature growled and snapped more branches, entering and obliterating the tunnel at the same time.

“RUN!” Gerald roared.

They stopped caring where they placed their feet and barreled through the rest of the tunnel into the clearing. An enormous boulder stood at the far end, and the trees surrounding the area blocked them in like a fence. There was nowhere to go.

Gerald looked around for any type of opening, but could see none. He sprinted toward the boulder in hopes they would be able to climb it. But as they got there, the rock’s face was as smooth as velvet.

The creature burst through. Elira barely had time to gasp before its long, root-like talons slammed into the ground, sending mud flying. Pale eyes locked onto them, milky and furious. Its mouth split open in a silent scream before the sound tore free—a shriek that rattled the marrow of Elira’s bones.

Veyrûn leapt in front of Elira, shadows flaring. But she was still weakened from the earlier battles—the creature sensed it and pressed forward with a guttural snarl.

The creature crouched to spring, but then a voice, old and resonant as shifting stone, cut across the marsh: “Enough.”

The creature froze mid-lunge and turned toward the voice. A man stepped into the clearing ahead—white-haired, robed in frayed moss-green, a staff of twisted swampwood in his hand. His eyes glowed faintly amber, like lamps through fog. The hermit.

He turned to Veyrûn next. The shift in him was immediate—respect, recognition, weight. “Shadow-born,” he greeted, inclining his head. “It has been long since your kind walked these marshes.”

Veyrûn bowed deeply, shadows dimming in reverence. “And longer still since any mortal wardens remained who could face a daemon’s key.”

The hermit flicked his gaze to the pendant clutched in Veyrûn’s hand. His face tightened. “Give it to me,” he said—not demanding, but solemn. “The prison must be sealed before the beast breaks its tether entirely.”

Veyrûn was hesitant to leave Elira’s side, but the creature remained frozen. She stepped forward and placed the pendant into his palm. Unlike Tirion—unlike Voss—the hermit did not flinch at the sigils pulsing faintly along the grain.

The creature roared, sensing the ritual beginning. It fought with all its might to regain control of its limbs. With a sudden shake, as if it were a dog shedding water, it was freed from the hermit’s spell. It moved to spring forward, claws raking the ground.

“Be still,” the hermit commanded.

The force of his voice slammed the beast flat. Mud rippled outward from the impact.

He lifted the pendant high. The runes ignited with deep blue light. The marsh wind surged, spiraling around him. Water pulled back toward the riverbanks. The air thickened, vibrating with old power—ancient, rightful power.

Elira’s heart hammered as she watched.

Tirion whispered, “He’s binding it…”

Veyrûn nodded. “And when he finishes… the daemon will sleep forever.”

Suddenly, the beast shrieked—no longer hunting, but pleading. Its body twisted, pulled toward the glowing pendant as though gravity reversed. Elira felt the pressure in her chest, nearly knocking her to her knees. Then, light burst outward in a ring. The creature was pulled into the pendant—its limbs dissolving into smoky fragments, its howl fading into a distant rumble.

When the last echo vanished, the hermit closed his hand over the pendant. Silence. The marsh breathed again.

Slowly, the old man turned back to them. His face was lined with exhaustion, but his eyes were calm. “It is done.”

Elira exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours. “Is it… dead?” she whispered.

The hermit shook his head. “No, child. Just imprisoned.”

“Can you destroy it?” Gerald asked.

The hermit turned to him, his eyes narrowing. He stared at Gerald for a few moments before relaxing. “I remember you,” he said, his voice showing no malice nor joy. “You visited me quite a while ago.”

Gerald cleared his throat and looked slightly embarrassed. “Yes. My master had wished for your allegiance.”

The hermit chuckled. “And what did he do when you came back empty-handed?”

Gerald grimaced. “It wasn’t pretty.”

“No, I’m sure it wasn’t.” He paused and raised a curious eyebrow. “You’re not back for further recruitment, are you?”

Gerald’s eyes widened. “No, sir. Most definitely not.”

The hermit smiled. “I know.”

Elira stifled a laugh. The old hermit was pulling his leg.

“You are here for this,” he continued, holding up the pendant. “Dangerous things.”

“Which is why we want to destroy it,” Elira piped in. “You do know how to, don’t you?”

“Yes, child. I do, and I will now that the beast has been bound within. It will never be able to escape again.” He turned to Elira. “May I have your dagger?” He held out his hand.

Elira nodded and unsheathed her dagger, handing it to him handle-first.

“What are you going to do with it?”

“The best way to destroy a prison is to make sure it’s no longer a prison,” he answered, grabbing the weapon. He muttered words as he carved. Within seconds, he had transformed the symbol into something entirely different. “And now, we can burn it to ashes without releasing the creature it trapped.”

“Just like that?” Tirion gasped. “You mean, we could have done that all along?”

“No. It takes both symbols and magic to transform a pendant like this. You were right to bring it to me.” The hermit turned it over in his hand. “Come, I will make you a meal over the fire as the wood burns.”

Gerald sank to his knees in relief. Tirion slumped beside him.

Elira stepped forward, her arm throbbing, her breath trembling. “Thank you,” she said.

The hermit regarded her for a long moment. Then his gaze softened. “You showed courage few your age possess. And you carry your father’s will with you still.”

Elira swallowed hard.

He lifted his staff and pointed toward a narrow rise leading into safer woodland. “You can rest here tonight. Your journey home will begin at dawn.”