Dune walked no more than a few steps when the forest groaned.
"What is it now?"
His foot pressed into something unnatural. A rope, thin but taut.
Dune spun around just as the air behind him split open. A massive log, cracked and ancient, swung from the trees, blades embedded into it, glinting in a scattered blur of steel.
The trap missed his chest by a breath, slicing through the fog before slamming into the dirt with enough force to bury half its body underground.
He stared at it, unmoving.
Traps? But for who… or for what? he thought, narrowing his eyes as he stepped closer to the weapon-laced wood.
The swords embedded in the log were all old. Different hilts, different styles, none of them matched.
He crouched, brushing his fingers across one blade.
This…
Some swords were barely functional, just broken tools hammered into place. But there were too many of them. Dozens. A trap like this would've taken time, days maybe, to build and reset.
Not something any new trial whispers would do, but even so, it was possible for some other people to stay in trials for longer time. Maybe they were ones who built this trap.
Someone else…whispers who arrived here before us.
A sharp sensation tickled the back of his neck.
His instincts screamed.
Dune dropped low just as a thin whistle cut through the trees, spear buried itself into the bark right where his throat had been. He turned sharply toward the sound, but the mist was thick.
Then came voices. Unfamiliar to him.
Dune didn't wait any longer. His body launched forward, weaving through the forest. Roots, broken logs, thorny branches, none slowed him. His ears strained to make sense of the voices behind him.
I… I don't understand… what are they saying? What is this language?
It was a weird sound, almost sung, like a curse etched into the wind.
Branches clawed at his clothes as he moved. His boots barely touched the ground, he vaulted over fallen trees, ducked beneath sharp limbs, sprang from trunk to stone and back again.
Still, the presence chased him, many of them, fast and soundless. They didn't speak anymore. They didn't need to. He felt them.
They were all around him.
From above, from behind, from the side.
A shadow dropped in front of him. Dune skidded back, fists raised.
The figure was human-shaped but moved like a spirit, draped in pitch-black robes. Their face was hidden beneath a white mask, smooth bone-like plating carved into the shape of a rabbit. The figure held twin scythe-like weapons, curved and sharpened, spinning them slowly as if testing the air.
Dune didn't hesitate.
He shot forward and aimed a strike at the figure's ribs, quick and precise. His fist grazed the fabric, but the figure twisted unnaturally, arching backward.
Then, with a low sweep, the warrior spun their blade above their head and kicked off the ground in a burst, floating briefly mid-air like a wingless insect.
Dune's eyes widened.
What… was that?
But there was no time to think.
The figure landed with inhuman silence, and Dune knew that more were closing in. He turned, vanishing into the trees once more.
Each breath burned in his chest. Each step grew heavier. The forest was becoming a cage. And no matter how far he ran, Dune could feel it. He was being cornered.
Still, he ran as fast as his body allowed, breath cutting through the cold air in sharp bursts. The forest blurred around him in streaks of green and gray. But just as he turned past a narrow tree cluster, the ground vanished.
A canyon, wide, jagged, and yawning like the mouth of the world, opened in front of him.
"…Of course," he muttered, half-sarcastic, half-exhausted. "Why not a canyon?"
He didn't slow. Neba surged through his legs as green light wrapped around his calves like wind-spun threads.
His Neba flared, and with a grunt, he launched himself into the air.
The pit below seemed endless, lined with broken stone and spikes of dead trees, but Dune sailed clean over it, landing hard on the opposite side.
He rolled, shoulder-first, the impact rattling through his body. He hissed in pain, but pushed himself up immediately, eyes snapping toward the canyon edge.
The shadows hadn't stopped.
Figures in black robes appeared across the gap, one after another. They spun their twin scythe-like weapons, wind curling around them unnaturally.
With a leap and a spin, they flew, gliding over the canyon in short bursts of motion, more like drifting predators than humans.
Dune's heart pounded.
How much longer do I have to run?
Who the hell are they?
He darted back into the trees, mind racing. Every turn led deeper into this unknown forest, into a trap that only seemed to keep tightening.
And then, a collision.
He hit someone full-force, and the two of them crashed to the ground with a dull thud.
Dune was up first, fists raised, until his breath caught.
"Syras?"
The other boy blinked in confusion before standing.
"Dune?"
It was him. Syras Vermilion, from Bloodrose Academy. His classmate. Familiar face.
Syras had messy brown hair and thoughtful eyes, still calm even now. His battle uniform was a short-sleeved version of the academy attire, with a black jacket and bandages wrapped around his hands.
Unlike Dune, his gear had no hood, just a collar that fluttered in the wind.
He smiled faintly, nodding once.
"It's nice to see familiar face, but we have to run," Syras said.
Dune nodded back but stepped in front of him suddenly. "No wait. We're surrounded."
Syras paused, eyes scanning the trees. Shouts echoed from every direction. Closer now.
He sighed, flexing his fingers.
"Who are these guys?" he asked.
"No idea," Dune replied, voice low. "But they seem dangerous."
The two Whispers stood back to back as shadows crept closer, silent, masked, and merciless.
The forest had chosen its prey… but not yet its victor.