The southwest woods had ceased to be a part of nature. Under the influence of Martin's lingering malice and the grizzly's raw power, the forest had become a hall of mirrors made of sound and shadow.
The rain had tapered off into a thick, suffocating fog that clung to the trees like a damp shroud. Inside this mist, Norman Babcock was dying a slow, spiritual death.
"Make it stop..." Norman whispered, his hands clamped over his ears.
His eyes were wide, but he wasn't looking at the trees. He was looking at the vibrations. To Norman's heightened senses, the world was screaming. Martin was dragging logs in the distance, snapping branches in rhythmic intervals, and pacing in circles that created a "spiritual feedback loop." To anyone else, it was just forest noise. To Norman, it was a cacophony of heavy, phantom weights crashing into his mind from every direction.
"Norman, look at me!" Ken grabbed the boy's shoulders, but Norman's head just lolled back and forth.
"He's everywhere, Ken... The weight... it's a thousand tons, and it's right on top of us... no, it's behind us... it's under the ground!" Norman collapsed to his knees, blood beginning to trickle from his ears.
Ken looked at Courtney, desperation in his eyes. "He's overloading him. Martin knows Norman is the only one who can track him. He's trying to blind us!"
Courtney didn't panick. She stood with her back to them, her eyes scanning the fog, her fingers resting lightly on the trigger of her rifle. Her face was a mask of cold, calculated fury.
"He's not blinding us," Courtney said, her voice dropping an octave. "He's just distracting the wrong person. Ken, ground him. Now. Use the book. I'll handle the architect."
Ken sat on the wet moss, pulling Norman's head into his lap. He opened the Nyota ya Uhai. The pages glowed with a soft, amber light—the "Star of Life" responding to the chaos.
"Nyota ya Uhai... Tulia..." Ken chanted, his voice a steady hum against the erratic vibrations of the woods.
He placed his palms over Norman's temples. He didn't try to fight Martin's noise; instead, he tried to act as a lightning rod. He channeled the overwhelming "weight" through his own body, using the healing magic to neutralize the psychic pressure before it could shatter Norman's mind.
Ken gasped, his muscles seizing as Martin's malice flowed through him. It felt like being stepped on by the grizzly, over and over. But he didn't let go. He was the anchor. As long as he held on, Norman was safe in the eye of the storm.
While Ken and Norman were locked in their spiritual struggle, Courtney moved.
She knew Martin was watching. She could feel those cold, grizzly eyes tracking her every move. Martin expected her to stay by Ken's side, a frightened girl guarding her wounded friends.
Instead, Courtney stepped into the dark.
She reached the first of Martin's traps—the bent-sapling deadfall. She looked at the vine tethering the sharpened stakes. To a normal person, it was a death sentence. To Courtney, it was raw material.
With the precision of a surgeon, she didn't trigger the trap. She modified it. She took a small, high-explosive charge from her belt—part of the "Combat Strategy" tools she'd been perfecting—and rigged it to the vine. Then, she redirected the tension of the sapling so that when it released, it wouldn't swing toward the path, but toward the thicket where she'd heard the heaviest breathing.
"Your move, Martin," she whispered.
She moved to the "False Sanctuary" pit. She didn't avoid it. She reinforced the mossy covering with a few hidden wires and a canister of pressurized "Red Ice" catalyst she'd borrowed from Norman's supplies. She wasn't just hiding a hole; she was preparing a cryogenic landmine.
For the next hour, Courtney played a game of lethal origami.
She rewrote Martin's "Masterpiece." She turned his catapults into claymores and his pits into freezing chambers. She was no longer the prey; she was the editor of Martin's final draft.
High on the rocky outcrop, the grizzly stood still.
Martin's mind was focused on the rhythmic crushing of Norman's senses. He could feel the boy's resistance crumbling. He could feel Ken's life force draining as he tried to protect his friend. It was perfect. It was poetic.
Wait.
Martin's ears twitched. A sound was missing.
The girl. Courtney.
He looked down toward the path. He saw Ken and Norman huddled together in the amber glow of the book. But Courtney was gone.
She's hiding in the fog, Martin thought, a growl of amusement vibrating in his chest. Trying to be a hero.
Let's see how she likes the stakes.
Martin leaped from the rock, his massive form disappearing into the undergrowth. He moved toward the sapling trap he'd set earlier. He knew exactly where the tripwire was. He would circle around it and take her from behind.
He stepped over the hidden vine with the grace of a ghost.
CLICK.
Martin froze. The sound didn't come from the vine. It came from the tree beside him.
The sapling he had bent suddenly snapped forward—but not in the direction he'd designed. It swung in a violent, horizontal arc, carrying Courtney's explosive charge.
BOOM.
The explosion caught the grizzly in the flank. It wasn't enough to kill him, but the force sent the twelve-hundred-pound beast tumbling sideways—straight into the "False Sanctuary" pit.
Martin roared in fury, but as he hit the bottom, his weight triggered the "Red Ice" canister.
CRACK.
Intense, supernatural cold erupted. The jagged rocks at the bottom of the pit didn't just cut him; they became pillars of crimson ice, lashing his fur and freezing his limbs to the stone.
Courtney walked to the edge of the pit, looking down at the trapped, freezing grizzly. She didn't look scared. She looked bored.
"Hey, Martin," she said, her voice echoing in the hole. "I noticed you were having some trouble with the pacing of your 'Masterpiece.' So I took the liberty of doing some edits."
She pulled a flare from her vest, but she didn't light it. She just tossed the unlit stick onto his head.
"You underestimated the 'sarcastic girl,' didn't you? You thought I was just the support act."
In the pit, the bear's eyes widened. For the first time since he'd died, Martin Hale felt something he hadn't planned for.
He felt humiliated.
He had been out-maneuvered by a mortal using his own traps. The "Invisible Masterpiece" had been vandalized.
Back on the path, the "spiritual noise" stopped instantly. Martin was too focused on his own pain and rage to maintain the rhythm. Norman gasped, his eyes clearing as Ken slumped over, exhausted but successful.
"He's trapped," Norman whispered, sensing the sudden, stationary weight in the pit.
Courtney looked back at her friends, then down at the bear.
"He's not just trapped, Norman," Courtney called out, a dark, sharp smile on her face. "He's an amateur. And the show is cancelled."
Martin let out a howl of such pure, undiluted hatred that the very fog seemed to shiver. The game was no longer about art. It was no longer about performance.
It was a war.