The Thornwood lived up to its name. Every tree bore thorns as long as a finger, every bush had spines, and the ground was carpeted with a creeping vine that left welts on exposed skin. Kaelen moved through it like a ghost, his Tier 3 body brushing aside branches that would have flayed a mortal. The Old Pass was a narrow defile between two hills, choked with fallen trees and bones—animal bones, and human bones. A dozen skeletons lay among the rocks, their skulls cracked open, their armor rusted. The air smelled of rot and something sweet, like overripe fruit.
Corrupted essence, the Shard whispered. Something old is here. Feeding.
Kaelen crouched behind a boulder and waited. An hour passed. Two. Then he heard hoofbeats. A patrol of twenty riders emerged from the eastern trail, led by a young man in silver-inlaid armor. Caspian Vane. The duke's heir was handsome in a bland way—brown hair, blue eyes, a jaw that tried to look strong. But Kaelen noticed the slight tremor in his hands. He was afraid. Behind him rode nineteen knights: mostly Tier 1, a few Tier 2. Decent for border patrol. Expendable against what was coming.
The attack came from below.
The ground erupted. Thick, black roots tipped with bone-white thorns burst from the earth like serpents. They wrapped around horses' legs, pierced armor, dragged men screaming into the dirt. Three knights died in the first five seconds, their essence bleeding out in visible streams of silver that flowed into the roots. Kaelen recognized the phenomenon—essence drain. The cult had been feeding something.
Caspian reacted well. He drew his sword—a Tier 2 blade that glowed with blue fire—and cut through two roots. "Form a circle! Protect the rear!"
The remaining knights rallied. But more roots emerged, and with them came figures: men and women in tattered robes, eyes glowing green, mouths stretched into rictus grins. Cultists. At least thirty of them, each radiating corrupted essence at Tier 1 or Tier 2. But their power was wrong—twisted, rotten.
Then the ground shook.
From the center of the pass, where the bones were thickest, something rose. It was a mass of roots and flesh and screaming faces, woven into a humanoid shape fifteen feet tall. Its eyes were hollow pits leaking green light. Its mouth was a split in the root-mass lined with teeth of broken bone. The corrupted essence radiating from it was Tier 3—equal to Kaelen's hidden level.
An avatar of the old god, the Shard said. Weak but hungry.
Caspian Vane froze. The remaining knights froze. The avatar roared, a sound that was half earthquake, half scream. It swung a root-arm the size of a tree trunk. Three knights were crushed instantly. Caspian barely dodged, rolling to the side, his blue blade raised.
Kaelen made his decision. He could not reveal his true power—that would blow his cover. But he could appear as a strong Tier 2, perhaps, just enough to save the heir without raising too many questions. He drew his black blade and stepped out from behind the boulder.
The first cultist saw him and lunged. Kaelen sidestepped, his blade whispering through the air. The black steel bit into the cultist's chest and drank. The cultist shriveled, collapsing into dust. Kaelen felt a pulse of essence flow into his core—a tiny amount, but delicious. He suppressed the hunger and moved forward, cutting down two more cultists with practiced efficiency. His movements were those of a Tier 2—fast, precise, but not superhuman.
"You there!" Caspian shouted. "Who are you?"
"Kaelen Voss, my lord. Knight-in-training. I was tracking the cult on my own." He decapitated a fourth cultist. "Forgive the intrusion."
Caspian's jaw tightened. He did not like being rescued by a commoner. But he was pragmatic. "Fall in. We're pulling back."
The retreat was messy. Two more knights died, pulled under by roots. Kaelen positioned himself near Caspian, cutting down any cultist who came close but always leaving a few for the heir to kill. He was building a debt. A relationship. Leverage.
But the avatar turned toward them. Its hollow eyes fixed on Caspian—the highest concentration of untainted essence in the patrol. It lumbered forward, each step shaking the ground.
Kaelen assessed. The avatar was Tier 3, like him. But it was slow, and its core—the source of its power—was in its chest, behind a tangle of roots and faces. A direct assault would be dangerous for a Tier 2. But Kaelen was not Tier 2. He was Tier 3, on the verge of Tier 4.
He could kill this thing. But if he did, everyone would see. He needed a different approach.
"My lord," he said, "strike its chest when I give the signal. I'll distract it."
Caspian stared. "You'll die."
"Probably. But you won't." Kaelen ran toward the avatar, shouting. The creature swung an arm. He dodged—barely—and drove his black blade into its knee. The avatar howled. Black ichor sprayed. Kaelen twisted the blade, and the avatar's knee buckled. It stumbled, crashing into the cliff wall.
But its other arm swung wildly, catching Kaelen in the ribs. He let himself be thrown, dropping his internal defenses just enough to crack two ribs. Real pain. Convincing pain. He hit the ground, spat blood, and gasped, "Now, my lord!"
Caspian Vane did not hesitate. He leaped onto the avatar's fallen body, drove his blue-bladed sword into its chest, and found the core. The avatar screamed, convulsed, and collapsed. Roots withered. Green light faded. The remaining cultists fled into the woods.
Caspian pulled his sword free, breathing hard. He looked at Kaelen—bleeding, bruised, but alive. The other knights stared.
"You saved my life," Caspian said.
Kaelen coughed, spat blood, and offered a weak smile. "I was just trying not to die, my lord."
Caspian extended his hand. "When we return to Thornwick, you will come to my father's estate. A man who fights like that should not rot in a trainee's bunk."
Kaelen took the hand, feeling the warmth of Caspian's essence. Soon, he thought, you will be mine.
But he smiled his ordinary smile and said, "Thank you, my lord. I am honored."