Elira winced as a sharp pain shot through her ankle with every step. The forest floor was treacherous—roots coiled like serpents beneath the damp earth, slick with dew that clung to her bare ankles. Her thin pajamas, damp and clinging to her skin, were utterly unsuited for the wilderness. Every bramble snagged at the flimsy fabric, every gust of wind cut through her like a knife.
Ahead of her, Lucan moved with ruthless efficiency, his stride long and unyielding. He didn't look back, didn't slow, as though the forest itself bent to his pace.
She stopped, breath hitching, and glared at his back.
The man had no intention of waiting. His pace was that of a soldier marching to war, not of someone guiding an injured girl through the woods.
Around them, the forest was waking. Morning light filtered through the canopy in fractured beams, gilding the mossy trunks and painting the undergrowth in shifting gold and green. Birds called from high branches, their songs sharp and bright, while the air was thick with the scent of damp soil, crushed pine needles, and the faint sweetness of wildflowers hidden in the brush.
It should have been beautiful. A place of peace, of wonder. But to Elira, it was a trial.
Her ankle throbbed with every step, her legs ached from the climb, and her pride burned hotter than both. The pajamas she wore only deepened her humiliation—she felt like a lost child dragged into a nightmare.
Should I argue? Demand he slow down?
She clenched her jaw. No. That would only feed his disdain.
So she forced herself forward, limping but determined, each step a quiet rebellion against the pain and against him.
Lucan didn't look back.
Of course he didn't.
The distance between them stretched, and for a moment she felt the sting of being left behind—discarded, like she was nothing more than baggage. Her chest tightened, but she pushed harder, dragging herself through the roots and shadows.
Her thin clothes caught on branches, tore at the seams, and left faint scratches across her skin. The forest smelled of rain and earth, but to her it was suffocating, pressing in on all sides.
Lucan's figure moved steadily ahead, a dark silhouette framed by shafts of morning light. Tireless. Unyielding.
Elira's lips pressed into a thin line. Fine. Don't look back. Don't care. I'll keep up, even if it kills me.
And so she limped onward, her pain swallowed by pride, her silence a shield against the man who refused to see her struggle.
The forest thickened as they pressed on, the canopy overhead dripping with the last remnants of the storm. Shafts of sunlight pierced the leaves in broken fragments, painting the ground in shifting gold. The air hung heavy with the scent of wet bark, moss, and the faint tang of mushrooms buried beneath the undergrowth.
Lucan moved swiftly, his boots silent on the damp earth, his armor creaking with each stride. He walked as if the forest parted for him, untouched by the roots and brambles that clawed at Elira's thin pajamas.
She stumbled after him, her ankle screaming with every step. The dew-soaked fabric clung to her skin, snagging on branches and tearing at the seams. Her breath came in ragged bursts, her pride the only thing keeping her upright.
Then she noticed it.
The forest was too quiet.
The birdsong that had filled the morning air had vanished, leaving only the sound of her own labored breathing and the steady rhythm of Lucan's stride. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Elira slowed, her eyes flicking to the shadows between the trees. The silence pressed against her ears, thick and unnatural — like the forest itself was waiting.
"Hey…" she whispered, her voice trembling.
He didn't stop, but his hand shifted toward the hilt of his sword. "I know."
Her heart lurched. He knows? He's felt it all along?
They moved deeper, the forest closing in around them. On a tree trunk ahead, Elira caught sight of something that made her blood run cold—deep claw marks gouged into the bark, fresh and glistening with sap.
Lucan paused at last, his eyes narrowing as he studied the marks. His voice was low, almost a growl. "Something's been here."
Elira's stomach twisted. She wanted to ask what kind of creature could leave such scars, but the words stuck in her throat.
Lucan glanced back at her, his expression unreadable. "Stay close. If you fall behind, you die."
And with that, he pressed forward, sword now drawn, the forest's silence closing in like a noose.
Elira's spine shivered. The weight of the silence dragged her back to the whirlpool, to the terror of drowning, to the helplessness she thought she'd escaped. And now it was happening again.
The silence deepened until it pressed against her ears like a weight. She limped after Lucan, her breath ragged, when a sudden rustle split the stillness.
Her head snapped toward the sound. The undergrowth shivered, leaves trembling though no wind stirred.
Lucan halted. His sword was already in his hand, the steel whispering as it left the scabbard. He didn't look back at her. "Stay behind me."
Elira's pulse thundered. She clutched at the nearest tree, her ankle screaming in protest.
From the shadows ahead, something emerged.
At first, she thought it was a wolf — but it was too large, its shoulders rising nearly to Lucan's chest. Its fur was matted and black, its eyes glowing faintly with a sickly green light. When it opened its jaws, the stench of rot rolled out, and she saw teeth far too long, far too sharp.
The beast growled, a low, guttural sound that made the ground seem to vibrate.
Elira's breath caught. This isn't natural. This is something twisted.
Lucan shifted his stance, calm, unflinching. "A carrion hound," he muttered, almost to himself. "A leftover of the curse."
The creature lunged.
Steel flashed. Lucan met it head‑on, his blade carving a clean arc that split the air with a hiss. The beast slammed into him, claws raking, but he twisted with brutal precision, driving his sword deep into its side.
Elira stumbled back, nearly falling as the fight erupted before her. The forest, so silent moments ago, now rang with snarls, the clash of steel, and the wet sound of tearing flesh.
Lucan fought like a man possessed — efficient, merciless, every strike aimed to kill. But the beast was relentless, its body refusing to fall even as blood poured from its wounds.
Elira's hands shook. She wanted to scream, to run, but her ankle betrayed her. All she could do was press herself against the tree, heart hammering, as the battle raged.
Then the hound's glowing eyes snapped toward her.
It broke from Lucan's blade with a sudden twist, lunging straight for her.
Elira froze.
"Move!" Lucan's voice cut through the chaos like a whip.
---------------------
The mist clung to the trees as they left the lake behind, curling low across the ground like smoke that refused to disperse. Rensic strode at the front, his cloak snapping with each step, his jaw set in grim determination. Alden followed close, his hand never straying far from his sword hilt, eyes darting to every shadow.
The mage's words still echoed in his mind. Every step you take, you walk deeper into a story that was never yours to write.
And yet the trail was there—visible not to the common eye, but to those who had seen battlefields tainted by sorcery. The air itself seemed bruised, faint streaks of pale light twisting through the mist like veins of fire beneath the earth. Where Serathis had stood, the ground was blackened, the grass brittle and dead. From that scar, a path stretched forward, winding into the forest.
"Do you see it?" Rensic asked, his voice low but steady.
Alden nodded reluctantly. "Aye. The mage left his mark. It's like a wound in the world."
"Then we follow."
The retinue hesitated at the treeline, their torches guttering as if the forest itself resisted their light. The men exchanged uneasy glances, but Rensic did not slow. He pressed into the trees, boots sinking into damp earth, eyes fixed on the faint shimmer that guided them.
The deeper they went, the stronger the trail became. The mist thickened, curling in unnatural patterns, and the air grew heavy with the scent of iron and ash. Alden's skin prickled, his instincts screaming that they were trespassing in a place that did not want them.
At last, he spoke. "Your Grace… this is no ordinary tracking. The mage wants us to follow. He left this path on purpose."
Rensic did not turn. "Good. Then he underestimates me. If Lucan lives, I will find him. And if the Saintess is with him, she will be mine to claim."
Alden's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He could feel the weight of the forest pressing in, the silence broken only by the crunch of boots and the hiss of mist curling around their legs.
Then, ahead, the trail flared—bright enough that even the soldiers gasped. The shimmer twisted upward, forming the faint outline of a doorway between the trees, its edges rippling like water. Beyond it, only darkness waited.
The men faltered, torches raised uncertainly.
Rensic stepped forward without hesitation. "Lucan thinks he can hide from me. He forgets who I am." His voice was iron, his eyes fixed on the shifting veil. "We go through."
Alden's hand tightened on his sword. He glanced once at the men, then at the unnatural doorway yawning before them. His gut told him this was no simple pursuit—it was a snare, a test, perhaps even a warning.
But the Duke had already crossed the threshold, his figure swallowed by the dark.
Alden drew a sharp breath, muttered a prayer under his breath, and followed.
The soldiers, though pale and trembling, had no choice but to march after their lord.
The forest closed behind them, and the shimmer of the mage's trail vanished, leaving the Silver Lake far behind.