NOVPUB"Contact—north line!"
Steel rasped from sheaths; helms snapped up. Vaelira's head whipped toward the call, braid rings chiming as her fingers wrapped her sword hilt. Shapes wavered in the murk beyond the last guttering torch—too small for Reaper brutes, too tall for forest wolves. She lifted her free hand, signaling the crescent to hold.
Mist parted, and copper caught the dying firelight. Sylvanna strode into view, boots splashed with muddy crimson, lightning fizzing along the runes that circled her forearm like living bracelets. Behind her padded Raëdrithar, each pawfall silent despite his bulk. Silver sparks leapt between his antlers, popping as they landed on charred leaves.
Relief slid through Vaelira's ribs, heady and painful, like drawing breath after near drowning—yet it curdled at the edges.
"Did you find him?" She hated how sharp her voice sounded, brittle porcelain ready to crack.
Sylvanna slowed, shoulders rigid with unspent current. Stormlight shimmered across her irises, turning worry into something fierce. "Not yet." She tossed a quick glance over the wounded line, taking stock in a heartbeat. "He's deeper. I traced the corruption as far as I dared—roots twist like serpents down there. Raëdrithar thinks something ancient is waking."
The guardian chuffed low, a thunder-drum tremor felt more than heard. His single silver eye swept the clearing, pausing on each pyre and wounded elf. Sparks crawled his muzzle, singeing stray fern fronds.
Vaelira's knuckles whitened on the pommel. "Then why are you back?"
"Because you need to know." Sylvanna's reply struck like flint, bright and immediate. She jerked her chin toward the treeline. "You won't hold this patch of dirt if whatever he's chasing chooses to turn around."
Vaelira tasted smoke on her tongue. "Then why isn't he back?" The words escaped louder than she intended, echoing against bark and bone. "Why does he always—"
"Because he's Draven." Sylvanna's tone hammered the name into the night. "And you know as well as I do—he'd rather bleed out alone in the dark than let you watch him falter."
Silence yawned wide, swallowing torch-crackle, swallowing the wet cough of a wounded scout thirty paces away. Sparks drifted between the two women, suspended in mist like tiny verdicts.
Vaelira broke the stare first. She wiped soot from her cheek, leaving a darker smear. "You're certain he lives?" The question barely whispered, yet carried a weight raw and terrible.
"If he were dead, the forest would feel quieter." Sylvanna's gaze softened, storm clouds thinning just enough to show the grief beneath. "Trust me—I'd know." She lifted her gauntlet; residual lightning crawled her knuckles, then flickered out. "But whatever he's facing is… vast. Bigger than Reapers, maybe older than the grove stones."
Raëdrithar gave a soft growl, pressing his broad head against Sylvanna's hip. The guardian's fur bristled in slow waves, static whispering like distant rain. Sylvanna stroked the creature's cheek, and a faint blue pulse echoed where her palm met fur.
Vaelira's shoulders sagged a fraction. "You tracked him. Could you keep going?"
"I could." A faint challenge sparked in Sylvanna's voice. "But your line is thin, and morale thinner. If fresh things crawl out of that pit while you're blind—" She lifted a hand, miming a closing vise.
Vaelira's fingers drummed against the sword guard—tap, tap, tap—matching the tempo of her pulse. "So you leave him."
Sylvanna's lips tightened. "Temporarily. I set three lightning sigils at intervals. If he crosses any, I'll feel it. He can disappear, but he can't outrun the storm entirely."
A spark of admiration touched Vaelira's fatigue. Quick thinking, elegant fallback. She nodded, but the line of her mouth still trembled. "Get some rest," Sylvanna urged, her tone softening enough to reveal the friend beneath the hunter. "I'll keep watch with Raëdrithar. Your eyes need closing, Vaelira. When he comes back, you must be sharp, else he'll lecture you on tactical lapses—and none of us want that."
Despite herself, a weak laugh escaped Vaelira—half snort, half sob. "If he comes back…"
The night swallowed the words, yet Sylvanna heard. She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "He will. Because something out there needs killing." A faint smile touched her bruised lips. "And killing is the only language he speaks fluently."
Raëdrithar rumbled agreement, sparks climbing his antlers like fireflies on a metal cage. Sylvanna pressed her forehead to the beast's for the briefest heartbeat, then straightened, scanning the perimeter. "Go," she repeated, gentler. "We'll keep the dark company."
Vaelira's nod barely displaced the ash in her braid. Inch by inch she turned from the pyres, from Sylvanna's crackling aura, and walked toward a quieter stretch of clearing. Her boots squelched in blackened mud; each step felt heavier than the last.
At the edge, she paused. The forest beyond was a jagged sea of shadowed trunks, branches writhing in a wind she couldn't feel. Mist swirled between them, catching ember-glow and twisting it into ghost-lights. Somewhere distant, an owl hooted—three slow notes, then hush. Beneath it, an almost-silent hum—roots resettling after the quake of battle, or the echo of something far deeper shifting in the soil.
She lifted trembling fingers to the silver leaf at her neck. The metal was icy, as if storing the night's chill. She traced the veins until sensation returned to numb fingertips. Once it had been a beacon—promise that the forest would cradle her. Tonight it felt like a debt note and she, the guarantor.
She breathed in sap-smoke, out fear. Her eyes searched the darkness until shapes lost meaning—twisted boughs became clawed hands, knots morphed into staring eyes. Exhaustion wrapped around her thoughts, tugging them into a slow tumble.
A flicker of movement near the treeline: just Sylvanna settling on a log, Raëdrithar crouched beside her like a silent thundercloud. Vaelira permitted herself one more glance, then angled toward a cluster of tents still standing. A bedroll, even cold, would keep her body upright come dawn. Rest was command's first shield.
Yet as she reached the canvas flap she faltered, turning back to the mist. "Come back, Draven… even if it's just to argue with me again."
_____ n𝚘𝚟𝚙u𝚋.co𝚖
Draven moved like a whisper among shadows, his boots leaving no trace on the moss-strewn ground. Each step was a decision, a quiet slash through undergrowth that never quite dared to rustle. The forest had long ago learned to notice invaders—yet it did not seem to notice him. Perhaps it simply recognized a predator of a different breed.
The air thickened, damp and chill, each breath tinged with the scent of wet leaves, rotting bark, and a faint metallic tang that tasted like a blade kissed by blood then washed in river water. He noted it all without breaking stride. Information, nothing more.
Above him, ancient branches netted the moon, shredding its silver into tattered ribbons. Those fever-pale strips wavered across his shoulders, skimming the rune-stitched cloak before dissolving in mist. He angled his chin once, gauging distance to the nearest bole—an oak elder, trunk pitted with fungal blooms. Their caps glistened, wet and bulbous, and he catalogued the sheen: a thin, oily layer that betrayed a high toxin load. Should a wounded scout collapse here, sap from these growths would seep into broken skin within minutes. Noted.
His gaze slid to the moss underfoot—emerald laced with gray filaments that curled like dying veins. A slow infestation. Any botanist would be alarmed by the rate of spread, but Draven only cared for what the pattern implied: blight had reached the inner water roots. The forest would bleed deeper before dawn. He rolled possibilities through mental abacus beads. The angle of attack must change; go lower, toward the heartline, where ley currents pooled thickest.
Mist drifted in low curls, brushing his knees. It dragged cold fingers across the greaves buckled beneath the cloak, but it never quite kissed bare flesh. He felt it hesitate—some superstitious hush, as though the vapor itself sensed the sharp calculus behind his slow heartbeat. He did not blame it. Even the fog had self-preservation.
Sound bled differently here. Ordinary forests had layers—crickets, sap-pings, bird chuff, wind. This place offered only the hush of swollen air and the soft crackle of fungus digesting sapwood. Somewhere distant, water dripped in a monotonous metronome. He clocked it: seven drops, pause, three drops, pause. A fountain root cracked above a hollow pocket—useful as a landmark once inside.
He slipped between two angled trunks, shoulders turning with a dancer's economy. The curvature forced most men to duck; Draven passed without breaking posture. Twin hilts brushed bark, and he felt the faint tug of runic thread sparking in warning—sap here had grown corrosive. Keep metal clear.
He adjusted grip on the near hilt, thumb grazing the guard. Leather was warm, the oils from earlier sharpening still lingering. Weapon ready. Distance to threat variables recalculated. Acceptable.
A murmur flitted through the tree line—just high enough to trigger caution. He paused, head tilting, eyes narrowing to knife-flats. A sigh, perhaps wind through hollow fungus. Then again, sharper: a half-caught breath. He shifted right, gloved hand folding a branch aside. Nothing. Yet unease lingered, faint as the echo of a forgotten name.
