The boundary woke him before the storm did.
Erythos's eyes snapped open, silver irises catching the faint glow of the Veilwood canopy above him. The forest was never silent—not truly—but tonight the quiet was wrong. Too sharp. Too expectant. As if the entire realm held its breath.
Then he felt it.
A pull. A tremor. A ripple through the ancient wards woven into his bones.
Someone had touched the boundary.
No— Someone had opened it.
Erythos rose in one fluid motion, every sense sharpening. The air tasted of cold iron and distant lightning. The roots beneath him shifted, restless. The Veilwood's magic pressed against his skin, urgent and insistent.
This wasn't a creature testing the edge. This wasn't a hunter wandering too close. This was something older. Something deeper.
Something impossible.
His mark burned.
Erythos hissed softly, shoving back the sleeve of his tunic. The sigil etched into his forearm—dormant for decades—glowed with a faint, pulsing light. Silver threads of magic wove through the lines, awakening like a heartbeat.
He stared.
"No," he muttered. "That's not—no one should be able to do that."
The mark pulsed again, stronger, and the Veilwood answered with a low, resonant hum that vibrated through the ground.
Not awakening. Not choosing.
Reacting.
To someone.
To something.
Erythos closed his eyes, letting the forest speak.
A flicker of terror. A burst of instinct. A heartbeat racing in the dark. A presence unfamiliar yet threaded with something old.
A human.
A woman.
And the forest had opened for her.
Erythos's jaw tightened. "Show me."
The Veilwood obeyed.
Roots shifted beneath his feet, forming a path. The air thickened, guiding him with subtle currents. Leaves glowed brighter overhead, illuminating the direction he needed to go.
He moved swiftly, each step silent, each breath steady. The forest parted for him—because he was its Warden, its chosen blade, the only one who could open or close the boundary at will.
Or so he had believed.
Until tonight.
The mark on his arm burned hotter, syncing with a pulse that wasn't his. The Binding—long dormant—stirred. He felt the faint echoes of the others across the Veilwood. Six more marks, six more sons of the fallen Knights, all feeling the same pull.
But Erythos didn't know why.
He only knew he was irritated.
And curious.
And uncomfortably aware of the heat crawling beneath his skin.
He reached the edge of a clearing and stopped, letting the shadows cloak him. His silver eyes adjusted instantly, catching the faint glow of the leaves.
And there she was.
A woman—young, trembling, breathless—pressed against a tree like she expected it to swallow her whole. Her clothes were torn from running, her hair tangled, her eyes wide with fear.
Human. Soft. Breakable.
And glowing.
Erythos inhaled sharply.
A soft pulse of light shimmered beneath her shirt, right over her ribs. Not bright. Not controlled. Just… leaking. Like magic that didn't know it was magic.
His mark flared in answer, heat racing up his arm.
She flinched at the movement, scrambling backward on the moss.
"Stay back," she whispered, voice trembling.
Erythos stopped.
Not because she commanded it.
Because the forest pressed against him like a hand to the chest, whispering: Careful.
He ignored it.
He stepped forward slowly, letting her see him clearly.
Tall. Dark‑cloaked. Silver‑eyed. Marked by the forest itself.
Her breath hitched.
The glow beneath her skin pulsed again.
Erythos felt the pull in his chest tighten, the bond humming between them like a drawn bowstring.
He didn't know what she was.
But he wanted to.
"Who are you?" he demanded, voice low.
She swallowed hard. "Sorrel."
He rolled the name on his tongue. "Sorrel."
She flinched like he'd touched her.
Good.
He stepped closer, ignoring the forest's warning hum. "You crossed my boundary."
"I didn't mean to," she whispered. "I was just trying to get away."
Her voice cracked.
Erythos's jaw clenched. Rage flickered through him—not at her, but at whoever had driven her into his forest.
"From what?" he asked.
She shook her head. "It doesn't matter."
"It does," he said, stepping closer. "Because whatever chased you is not allowed here."
She pressed back against the tree. "Are you going to hurt me?"
Erythos blinked.
Then he laughed—low, dark, amused.
"If I wanted to hurt you," he said, "you wouldn't be asking."
Her cheeks flushed.
Good.
He closed the distance between them in two slow steps. She stiffened, but didn't run. Brave little thing.
He lifted a hand—not touching her, but close enough that she could feel the heat of his palm.
"Something is glowing under your skin," he murmured. "Show me."
She shook her head. "No."
He arched a brow. "No?"
"No," she repeated, voice shaking but firm.
Erythos's lips curved.
He liked her.
"Then I'll find it myself."
Before she could react, he caught her wrist—not hard, but firm enough to make her gasp—and pushed her sleeve up with his thumb.
Nothing.
He frowned.
"Hold still."
"I am holding still," she snapped.
He smirked. "Barely."
His hand slid—slow, deliberate—up her arm, over her shoulder, to the collar of her shirt.
She slapped his hand away. "Hey!"
Erythos blinked, surprised.
Most people didn't touch him. Most people didn't dare.
He liked her even more.
"Your chest is glowing," he said bluntly. "Lift your shirt."
Her face went crimson. "Absolutely not!"
He sighed, dramatic and annoyed. "Fine. Then I'll do it."
He reached again.
She slapped his hand again.
He grinned.
"Fiery," he murmured. "Good."
He leaned in, his breath brushing her ear. "Let me see the mark, Sorrel."
She trembled.
Not with fear.
With something else.
Slowly—very slowly—she lifted the hem of her shirt just enough to show her sternum.
Nothing.
Erythos's eyes narrowed. "It's not here."
"No kidding," she muttered.
He grabbed the hem of her shirt again—gently, but with zero hesitation—and tugged it sideways, then lower, then higher, searching.
Still nothing.
He growled under his breath. "Where is it?"
"I'm not a puzzle box," she snapped.
"You're glowing," he countered. "I'll look wherever I damn well need to."
She shoved his hand away, flustered. "It's not— It's lower, okay?"
Erythos stilled.
"Lower," he repeated, voice dropping.
She swallowed. "My ribs."
His gaze slid down her torso, slow and deliberate.
"Show me," he said.
Her breath hitched. "Turn around."
"No."
"Erythos—"
"I said no."
He stepped closer, one hand braced beside her head on the tree, the other hovering near her waist.
"Show me," he repeated, softer this time. "Or I'll find it myself."
Her cheeks burned. But she lifted her shirt—just enough to expose the curve of her ribs.
The vine‑shaped rune glowed softly beneath her skin, curling like living ink.
Erythos went still.
Completely still.
The forest held its breath.
His mark burned like fire.
"What," he whispered, "are you?"
Sorrel swallowed. "I don't know."
Erythos reached out—slow, reverent despite himself—and traced the air above the rune, not touching her skin, but close enough to feel the heat of it.
The rune pulsed.
His mark pulsed in answer.
Erythos's breath caught.
He didn't know who she was. He didn't know what she was. He didn't know why the forest had opened for her.
But he knew one thing with absolute certainty:
She was not supposed to exist.
And he was not supposed to want her.