Verek's voice dropped low, deliberate. The edges of his words no longer smooth, each one dragged out like it scraped bone on the way up. His eyes had gone hollow, pulled inward, the way they always did when something was knocking around in his skull.
He unfolded the letter like it might cut him if he moved too quick. The paper looked like paper, but felt wrong. Soft at the edges, too warm. His fingers didn't shake, but his shoulders had gone locked, like some part of him was bracing.
"Auntie Elma," he read, slow. "We will extend our offer to you, this last time. Either you come to the palace and assist Ms. Ellenoir in the final ceremony for awakening the Old One, as promised; or perish. We've already opened the portal to his slumbering place; we require the souls of the children at once."
The ink didn't sit still. It rippled, almost squirmed, like it hated being looked at. Letters bent in ways that hurt to follow. Words clashed and curled around each other. Verek kept reading, voice barely a whisper now.
"He dreams in salt and shadow. The mouths open wide. We eat… and are eaten… He comes. I am the knife. I am the key. I am the key. I am the—"
He stopped. Froze.
The silence that landed wasn't peaceful. It pressed in. Dry. Heavy. Like old ashes clinging to your teeth.
Verek's swallow was audible. When he finally spoke, his voice had turned gravel-rough. "It's signed. King Torvald."
That name cracked the air.
Caylen blinked like he'd just been slapped. "The King?" His voice sounded too loud in the tight space. "That can't be. That's impossible."
"Or worse," Verek said, voice getting harder, steadier. "If that's his real signature, then either he's part of it, or something's crawling around wearing his shape."
Dax didn't say anything right away. Just moved his hand, slow, to rest near the hilt of his blade. "Ellenoir," he muttered. "Another name on the list."
Verek folded the letter again. Not rushed. Not casual. It felt like sealing a lid on something that didn't want to stay shut. "This changes everything," he said flat.
"She was obsessed. Always was. There were rites she wouldn't speak of when the sun was out. Blood rites. Dreamwalking. Portals..." His voice thinned like it was trying not to remember more than it had to.
"…and waking gods," Ezreal added, dry as ash. The words scraped.
Dax shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The muscle along his jaw twitched like he was holding back a whole storm. "So the King locks the gates, slams the council doors shut, and now he's sipping tea with witches and cult leaders?"
Caylen's voice turned tight, wound around something bitter. "Either he's trapped, or he was never fully himself."
Nobody countered. The air didn't allow it. Not when the pieces laid out like that. Not when a crown was at the center of it.
Verek reached into his satchel, slow and firm. "There's something else. The blank book."
Caylen gave a sideways glance, trying for levity but not quite pulling it off. "I thought that thing was cursed. I made a vow to stop flirting with cursed objects."
"It is cursed," Verek said without blinking. "But it reacts. Not to touch. To thought. To fear."
Dax groaned, rubbing at the back of his neck. "This is going to be one of those journeys, huh."
Verek looked up, eyes gone distant. "It wrote our names. All of them."
No one slept that night.
By dawn, they'd packed. Blades checked. No one really spoke. Just the rhythm of travel and the weight of something waiting. Verek led them off-road. Not toward Kings Port just yet. Instead, they cut through the trees, back toward the old riverbend where the hags used to haunt.
The river caught the light all wrong. Silvered, jittery. The wind here didn't blow. It hovered.
At the bank's edge, Verek crouched, finger tracing a print in the mud. "Someone was here."
Ezreal was already moving, crouching beside him. "Heavy steps. Not a hag."
Caylen crouched on the other side. "Hours ago. Not days."
"Watching us," Ezreal muttered. His hand hovered over the track like it might bite. "Same prints as before. They've circled the lair."
"They know we're close," Caylen said with a crooked smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Charming."
The forest around them felt wrong. Air thick. Trees leaning like they wanted to whisper secrets they didn't understand.
Something ahead shifted.
Tall. Wrong. Not quite shaped like anything natural.
It didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Verek lifted a hand, sketching signs in the air. Thimblewick landed hard on his shoulder, feathers puffed out like needles. The little creature hissed, low and sharp.
"I don't like this," Dax said, flat. He'd already found a tree to press against. "Too quiet. Even the trees feel like they're watching."
A crow called out. Then another. Then one more. Each cry sounded... twisted. Like someone was mimicking a crow through cracked glass.
"That's not wind," Caylen said, voice tight. "Do we engage?"
"No," Ezreal said, already tracking paths with his eyes. "It's not part of the coven."
"But it's not scared of them either," Verek finished.
They stepped back, slow and careful, not turning their backs. The figure didn't follow. Just lingered there. A smudge of wrongness wrapped in bark and shadow.
They didn't stop until the trees thinned and light leaked through. The metallic scent faded. The pressure in the air lessened, just enough to breathe.
Caylen's voice floated out first. "You think Ellenoir meant for us to walk into that?"
"He didn't need to," Verek said. "He just wanted us to see."
"See what?" Dax asked, still watching behind them.
"That we're not alone out here anymore," Verek said. "The witches aren't the only ones in the woods."
He glanced back. Quick. Quiet.
"There's someone else pulling strings."
The road to Kings Port crawled out of the horizon. It didn't look like a road so much as a scar.
They walked in a line, slow. Roots reached up like veins, catching boots and slowing steps. No one complained. The silence hung heavy.
Verek led. Staff tapping. Thimblewick watching.
Ezreal came next, scanning everything twice. Then Caylen, whispering some old prayer like it might hold his ribs together. Dax grumbled behind them, dragging boots and muttering about haunted trails and worse luck.
By midday, the sun looked more like a ghost behind clouds. The cold didn't bite. It weighed.
"This trail isn't marked on anything I've seen," Ezreal said, low.
"It's older than the maps," Verek answered.
"Older than Kings Port?" Caylen asked.
"Older than the kingdom."
Dax gave a short, sour laugh. "Love that. Ancient cursed roads. It's my favorite."
Then they crested the ridge.
Kings Port lay below, slumped in the mist. No banners. No movement.
"There," Verek said, pointing. "South watchtower."
Ezreal squinted. "The broken one?"
"It didn't fall by chance. Someone dug under it, then buried the trail."
"Fantastic," Dax muttered. "Love tunnels. Always end well."
They camped that night in an old shrine swallowed by roots. The altar stood warm, untouched by time or weather. Too warm.
Ezreal didn't light a fire. "Too risky."
Caylen took first watch. Stared through the trees. Something rustled. He turned. Nothing.
Later, Verek sat cross-legged, staff across his lap. The cursed book open.
For hours, nothing.
Then the ink began to move.
First the shapes. Then the names.
Kings Port.
And under it… Caylen.
Verek didn't move. Didn't blink.
The book closed itself.
When morning came, they packed.
"We move in thirty," Verek said.
Dax scrubbed his eyes. "Didn't sleep. Heard… humming. Like something rattling inside glass."
Ezreal's voice came out clipped. "No humming. Just a dream. A door. Shut tight. Something on the other side. Not words. Just hunger."
The silence said they all felt it.
Caylen murmured, "Something's pulling us in."
Verek gave a short nod. "Then let it wait. We go in when we choose."
No one looked back at the shrine.
No one saw the crack down the altar.
Thin. Growing.