The voices grew louder as Saphira moved deeper into the trees, her boots barely making a sound against the forest floor. Sunlight filtered in slivers through the canopy, dancing over patches of moss and roots. Every step forward heightened her senses. Something about this felt... different. As if she were walking into a story someone else had already written.
She crouched behind a thick bush, heart racing.
There were people ahead—five of them.
Men, all gathered around a small clearing. They weren't like the bandits from before—no drunken stumbles or chaotic energy. They stood in eerie silence, some sitting, others standing, their attention fixed toward the center where a pile of firewood remained unlit. They didn't seem like enemies, but they didn't seem entirely safe either.
But what made Saphira freeze wasn't the number.
It was the scar.
All five had it.
That same charred symbol burned across their chests, exposed beneath open tunics and draped cloaks. Just like Killian's. The same cursed-looking scar, jagged and blackened as if branded by fire. Saphira inhaled sharply. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
She stepped out.
Five heads turned in unison.
"Who are you?" one asked. His tone wasn't hostile—just cautious.
"I could ask the same," Saphira replied, her hand drifting toward her dagger's hilt.
The tallest of the group stepped forward, palm raised in peace. He looked to be in his late thirties, with a streak of silver at his temples and a calm but guarded expression. "You're not one of them, are you?"
Saphira squinted. "One of whom?"
"The Keepers," he said. "The ones who made this." He tapped two fingers against his chest. "We came here to find the truth."
"The truth about the mark?" she asked quietly.
He nodded. The others exchanged glances, their eyes shadowed with exhaustion and something deeper—shared pain.
"So you all tried to break the rules too," she asked.
"Yes," said another, a younger man with short hair and a narrow face. His mark was still raw-looking, like it had never fully healed.
"How did you find us?" the teenager asked.
Saphira glanced behind her. "I heard your voices. We were nearby. Killian and I. But he went in another direction. He followed... footprints. Bloody ones."
The tall man snapped to attention. "Footprints?"
She nodded. "Yes. Heading northeast. Someone was limping. We thought it might be you."
All five stared at each other.
"We didn't come from that direction," the youngest man said.
Saphira blinked. "You didn't?"
"No," confirmed the older one. "We came from the western ridge. No blood. No limping."
Silence fell.
Saphira's heart plummeted.
"Then whose..." Her voice trailed off.
The blood-stained footprints. The limp. The trail that led deeper into a forest neither she nor Killian knew well.
If it wasn't these men... then who was it?
A wave of cold dread rushed through her.
Killian was following someone else.
Someone bleeding.
Someone who wanted to be followed.
She turned toward the trees, staring into the dark shadows where he had vanished minutes ago.
"No," she whispered. "Killian."