Aaron gasped.
The void, the figure, the alien expanse of stars — all of it was gone in an instant, replaced by the cold night air and the damp scent of earth. His knees buckled, and he barely caught himself from collapsing onto the moss-covered ground.
The clearing looked the same as before — the ancient stone, the tall grass swaying lightly under an unfelt breeze — but the glow was gone. The symbols on the stone lay inert, their twisting patterns now nothing more than weathered grooves.
Lyra was on him in an instant, her dagger still in hand. "Aaron!" she hissed, grabbing his shoulders and forcing him to meet her eyes. "What happened? You were just… gone. Your eyes—" She cut herself off, glancing over her shoulder as though the forest might be listening. "They turned white. Completely white. You didn't move. You didn't breathe."
Aaron's throat felt raw. "I… I saw something."
Lyra's gaze sharpened. "Something? Or someone?"
He hesitated, the warning still echoing in his skull: Trust no one… not even those you think you know.
Lyra's face was drawn tight with concern, but the words twisted inside him, making him question the earnestness in her eyes.
"Someone," he said finally, keeping his voice even. "Or… something. It spoke to me."
Lyra didn't let go of him. "What did it say?"
Aaron looked down at the grass between them. "That… a trial is coming. And…" He hesitated. "That I shouldn't trust anyone."
The last part hung heavy in the air. Lyra's brows knit together, but she said nothing, her eyes searching his face as if weighing whether to press further.
Finally, she stepped back, sheathing her dagger. "Whatever this was, it's not safe here anymore. We need to leave."
Aaron glanced at the stone again. Its presence still felt wrong — not dangerous exactly, but watchful, as if some remnant of the encounter still lingered in the cracks of its surface.
They retraced their steps toward the path they had come from, the forest slowly regaining its normal sounds. Crickets resumed their chirping, and somewhere far off, an owl called into the night.
But Aaron's mind wasn't on the forest.
The images the figure had shown him clung to his thoughts — worlds burning under alien skies, titans waging war in silence, rivers of light stretching endlessly through the dark. The scale of it was overwhelming, like trying to comprehend the depth of the ocean after only ever seeing a pond.
And beneath it all, the same unshakable pull he'd felt when the voice first called him.
He glanced at Lyra, walking a step ahead. Her movements were precise, measured. She wasn't just leading the way — she was watching, listening, scanning every shadow. She'd saved him before, twice now. And yet…
Trust no one.
They reached the edge of the clearing and started down a narrow path flanked by thick undergrowth. The moonlight barely filtered through the canopy here, and each step forward swallowed them deeper into darkness.
Aaron's hand drifted toward the small knife tucked into his belt — not to draw it, but to reassure himself it was still there. He hated the thought, but if the figure's warning was real, then hesitation could mean death.
After several minutes, Lyra broke the silence. "Back there… when you touched the stone… it looked like something was pulling you. Not physically, but—" She shook her head. "It was like you weren't here anymore."
"I wasn't," Aaron admitted quietly.
She slowed her pace just enough to glance back at him. "And you're sure you're okay now?"
Aaron almost laughed at the absurdity of the question. "Define 'okay.'"
The corner of her mouth twitched in something like a smile, but it was fleeting. "We'll talk more once we're somewhere safe."
The forest seemed endless, the trees crowding closer together the farther they went. Aaron's legs ached, but the silence between them was heavier than his fatigue. He kept replaying the encounter in his head, trying to remember every detail, every word, as though decoding them might give him an advantage in whatever was coming.
The figure's voice hadn't been hostile, but it hadn't been comforting either. It was like speaking to a storm — vast, impersonal, and entirely capable of destroying him if it chose.
When they finally emerged into a small break in the trees, Lyra signaled for them to stop. The faint glow of a lantern flickered through the foliage ahead, casting shadows that danced across the ground.
She crouched low. "That's not from the village. The light's too far east."
Aaron crouched beside her, squinting. "Who else would be out here this late?"
"Exactly the question I don't like the answer to," she murmured. "Stay behind me."
They moved quietly, each step careful not to disturb the underbrush. As they drew closer, the shapes around the lantern began to take form — two figures, both cloaked, standing near a wooden crate. One of them was holding something small that glinted in the firelight.
Aaron strained to hear their voices, but their words were too low to make out.
Lyra motioned for him to stay put and inched forward, keeping to the shadows. Aaron waited, his pulse quickening.
Then, one of the cloaked figures abruptly turned toward where he was hiding. Aaron's breath caught. The hood shifted just enough for the lantern light to reveal part of a face — pale skin, a jagged scar running from the corner of the mouth to the jaw.
Aaron didn't know why, but the sight made his stomach twist.
The figure said something to their companion, who nodded and began scanning the treeline.
Lyra was still crouched near the edge of the clearing. She glanced back at Aaron and gestured sharply: Go.
Aaron didn't move. Something about the crate had caught his eye — carved into its side was a symbol he recognized instantly.
The same symbol that had shifted across the stone in the clearing.
His mouth went dry.
Before he could decide whether to run or step forward, the cloaked figure with the scar barked an order, and the lantern light swung toward the trees — toward him.
Aaron ducked low, heart hammering.
Lyra was already moving, melting into the shadows with the ease of someone who'd done this a hundred times before. She grabbed his arm as she passed, pulling him away from the clearing and deeper into the forest.
They didn't stop until the lantern light was a distant flicker between the trees. Both of them were breathing hard, though neither spoke immediately.
Finally, Lyra broke the silence. "You saw it, didn't you? On the crate."
Aaron nodded. "Same as the stone."
Her jaw tightened. "Then it's worse than I thought."
Aaron stared at her. "You know what it means?"
She hesitated — just a heartbeat too long. "I've seen it before."
The figure's warning roared back in his mind: Trust no one…
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