The horns had not stopped.
From the moment the party left the stone dais behind, their echoes had stalked the ridgelines—sometimes distant, sometimes painfully near. Each call was drawn out, a single mournful note that rose like smoke over the valley, heavy with intent and resonance. They weren't signals of war. Not yet. But they were declarations. Whoever had sounded them knew someone had trespassed. And they were coming to find them.
The path Wren led them along narrowed as it curved through an overgrown ravine, flanked on both sides by old sycamores. The air had grown damper with each step, and a sluggish mist curled around their ankles. Insects clicked from within the brush, but none dared venture into the open. Even the birds had grown silent.
Kael walked with Liora close beside him, his hand never far from his blade. Though her expression remained composed, there was a fragile quiet to her steps—a residual weight from whatever had stirred in the underground sanctum. Her eyes no longer glowed, but he could feel a difference in the way her presence pressed into the world around her. It was as though something in her had deepened, like the silence before a storm's first breath.
"How far to shelter?" he asked Wren, careful not to raise his voice.
"There's a hollow ahead," she replied, glancing up the slope to their right. "Used to be an outpost for the Ember Guard. Ruins now, but the wards around it might still hold."
Kael nodded. He didn't need perfect defenses. Just time. Time to rest. Time to understand what had changed within Liora—and perhaps within all of them.
They reached the ruins by twilight.
Half-buried in ivy and crumbling beneath the weight of years, the old outpost stood like a sentinel caught mid-breath. Moss-covered stones leaned where walls had once stood proud, and broken pillars littered the clearing like fallen soldiers. But the faint shimmer of old ward-magic still danced faintly along the arch of the entry, a sign that some of the protective runes woven into the stone remained active.
Seran knelt and placed a hand against the mossy threshold. He closed his eyes, whispering beneath his breath until a dull light flickered around his palm. "It's thin," he said after a moment. "Like cloth left too long in rain. But it'll hold for a night."
That was all they needed.
They set up camp beneath what remained of the outpost's inner courtyard. Kael laid his cloak over a dry patch of stone, letting Liora sit and lean against him while Seran rekindled a small flame inside the protective wards. Wren stood at the edge of the clearing, her back to the group, watching the trees in silence. Her hand never left the hilt of her twin daggers.
Kael ran his fingers through Liora's hair gently. "How do you feel?" he asked.
She was quiet for a long time, staring into the fire before answering. "Like I was made from someone else's dream," she said. "But it wasn't a bad dream. Just… old."
He didn't press. He wanted to understand it—wanted to ask what had happened in that moment her fingers touched the orb—but something about the way she spoke made him hold back. She was still herself, but there were deeper waters now, and he wasn't sure what stirred beneath.
Instead, he said, "We'll figure it out. Together."
She looked up at him then, her expression unreadable. But when she leaned her head against his shoulder, he felt her heartbeat—steady, warm. Still human.
Their brief peace was broken just after dusk when the wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of smoke and iron. Wren turned instantly, stepping away from the treeline.
"They're close," she said. "Too close for a scouting party. This is a full vanguard."
Kael rose, the tiredness in his limbs forgotten. "You said the wards would hold."
"They'll hold," Seran said, rising too. "But they're not invisible. If someone knows what they're looking for, they'll find us."
Kael moved to the edge of the camp and peered through the darkened woods. It didn't take long.
Figures emerged through the mist—not marching, but drifting, cloaked in ash-grey armor that clinked without rhythm. The first figure raised a lantern that pulsed not with fire, but with pale blue light. The way it flickered reminded Kael of the orb below the soul-forge. Faint. A whisper of recognition.
"Spellseekers," Seran muttered behind him. "Void cultists."
Kael turned. "You know them?"
"They search for fractured soul-pieces," Seran said grimly. "Collect them. Reforge them. Sometimes… reanimate them."
Kael's grip on his sword tightened.
The Spellseeker at the head of the vanguard stepped forward, lifting the lantern high. Its light brushed against the outer ring of the outpost's wards and hissed like water on coals.
From beneath the helm came a voice. Neither male nor female—only cold and precise. "One among you bears the mark. Release her, and you will not be pursued."
Kael didn't answer. He looked to Liora, who had risen to her feet behind him. Her eyes were wide but calm. She stepped to his side and whispered, "I think… they hear her too. The girl inside the forge."
Wren drew her blades. "They won't leave, Kael. Even if we hand her over."
Kael knew it already. He had seen the hunger in their stillness. These weren't hunters. They were collectors. And the thing they sought wasn't something they would bargain for.
Seran stepped forward. "Let me speak," he said. Kael gave him a nod.
The half-elf approached the ward's edge, his arms wide, palms empty. "You trespass on a sealed site," he called. "This land is still protected by the echoes of the Ember Guard. Declare your purpose and your name."
The Spellseeker raised the lantern again, and for a heartbeat, its light fell across Seran's face. Something flickered in that pale glow—a recognition, perhaps, or memory. But the voice that answered was devoid of emotion.
"Purpose: reclamation. Name: burned. Let us pass, or be stripped."
Seran stepped back without further words.
"They're not negotiating," he said softly. "They're bound to some script. A will older than them all."
Kael turned back toward the camp. "Then we make our stand here. Together."
He wasn't a general. He wasn't even a soldier, not in this world. But he had fought before. He knew how to protect what mattered.
Liora stood behind him, her hands trembling slightly. But when she met his gaze, there was fire behind the fear.
"I'm not giving in," she said. "Not to them. Not to her. I'll stay me."
He placed his hand on her shoulder. "Then we fight. We buy time. We hold until morning."
The Spellseekers stepped forward.
And the ward began to crackle.