We moved through the trees like ghosts.
Father didn't speak for the first hour. He didn't need to. The forest spoke for him—every broken twig, every shift in the wind, every silence that lasted a moment too long.
Eventually, the terrain rose into jagged hills and shallow ravines. Old, eroded trails crisscrossed the roots like veins. He stopped then, crouched low, and brushed his fingers across the dirt.
"This trail leads to the Marshgrove crossing. Takes two days."
He pointed to a faint line in the foliage—less a path, more a whisper. "That one's faster. Half a day. No one uses it anymore. Too many disappearances."
"So… we're taking it?"
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Of course."
The shortcut felt like it was actively trying to forget we existed. The underbrush grew thicker the deeper we went. Even the birds were quiet.
Father moved like he belonged here. Silent. Confident. Even graceful.
I did my best to follow his steps exactly, one foot in each print. He didn't say a word about it, but I saw the glance he gave me.
Approval. Quiet, but real.
As the day wore on, he began to speak. Not all at once, just fragments. Echoes from a life I'd only ever guessed at.
"Once outran a cave drake through terrain like this," he muttered, ducking beneath a half-fallen tree. "Wounded and exhausted. Still faster than most men."
"Did you kill it?"
"No. Lured it into a spider warren. The silk tangled it. Did the rest myself after."
He glanced back. "Always use the terrain. Always use the moment."
Later, when we reached a ridge, he pointed toward a stream winding far below.
"Used to camp down there. Bandit-hunters came through this region often. Lot of broken old paths. I scouted them for pay."
"How old were you?"
"Your age. Maybe younger."
He chuckled to himself. "Didn't have a Voidborn son watching my back though."
By the time the sun began to bleed into the trees, we had traveled further than I thought possible in a single day.
We found a sheltered alcove beneath a collapsed stone arch—ancient, moss-covered, and silent.
"Old shrine," Father said, touching the stone. "Long forgotten. Still safe."
He set down his pack and unslung his blade. Then he looked at me.
"Set up the perimeter. Show me what you remember."
I did.
Using a piece of chalk, I traced a half-ring of anti-beast glyphs into the rock, activated them with a pulse of aura, and set up a crude trip-line of Void thread around the outer ring.
He tested them all. Didn't say anything. Just nodded once.
Then came training.
We started with footwork.
Always footwork.
Then strikes. Counters. Redirects. Control, not force.
When I misstepped, he corrected it by moving into the motion himself, letting me feel the shift of weight, the logic behind it.
When I did it right, he let it pass unspoken.
Afterward, we sat by a low-burning smokeless flame. He pulled out two rations and tossed one to me.
"They won't attack tonight," he said. "Too many wards."
"How do you know?"
"I would've waited until morning. Always hit them when they're waking."
I chewed in silence.
"So you think he'll come for us?"
"No. He'll send more Husks first. Try to wear me down. Test you."
He looked into the fire.
"I hope he does."
That night, I lay on a patch of moss beneath the arch and stared into the canopy above.
I could feel the distant echoes of movement beyond the wards—tiny ripples in the Void.
Watching. Waiting.
But they would not cross the line. Not tonight.
Father shifted in his bedroll, already asleep. Even in rest, he looked ready to rise.
I wondered how many nights like this he had endured before I was born.
And how many more were ahead of us.