The forest had woken with morning, but its song brought no comfort. Birds chattered unseen in the high canopy, insects droned in thick clouds, and somewhere far off water rushed over stone. To any other traveler it might have seemed peaceful. To the caravan, it was noise, constant, oppressive noise. A reminder that they did not belong here.
Their path was no road, only deer trails and hunters' tracks that vanished into bramble and marsh. Hooves sank deep into damp earth. Wheels jolted against roots and groaned as axles strained. Men stumbled, caught themselves, pressed forward again. It was as if the forest itself sought to drag them down, to swallow them whole.
Leo trudged behind a cart, boots heavy with mud, the boy's small hand gripping his sleeve with a strength born of fear. The child had not spoken since dawn. His hollow eyes looked straight ahead, as if words might summon the night beasts or call the mob out of the trees.
Leo tried to speak, to comfort, to promise something he wasn't sure he could give. But each time, his throat locked.
The shard in his chest pulsed faintly, its heat almost soothing. Let me carry the weight, it murmured. Let me burn the path clear. One blaze, and all this ends.
Leo shook his head, stumbling. But each time his knees buckled, each time the boy's grip trembled against his sleeve, the whisper grew sweeter.
Ahead, Sofia rode with helm bare, her scar catching what little light filtered through the trees. Her gaze never stopped moving, cutting left, right, back again, searching the forest for threats. Her hand hovered near her sword, fingers flexing against the worn leather of its hilt. The guards trailed around her like ghosts, fewer now, their silence heavier than armor.
In the middle of the column trudged Owen, parchment clutched tight against his chest. It bore a half-finished sketch of forest paths, marked with smudges and ink-blots where his hands had trembled too much to keep lines straight. He muttered measurements under his breath, as if numbers and maps could anchor him when the world threatened to drift into chaos.
At the rear, Evelyn walked with one arm supporting a limping guard. Her healer's satchel hung nearly empty at her side, its leather dark with blood. Her lips moved constantly in prayer, though her words rasped, her throat raw. Sweat beaded her brow, her steps faltering, but she refused to let the man stumble.
No one dared speak above a whisper. To raise a voice felt like dragging the mob closer.
By midday, the sun was little more than a pale ghost pressing through the canopy. Heat pressed down thick and damp, sweat slicking brows, horses foaming as they strained. Every wheel creaked like a scream waiting to break.
When Sofia finally called halt in a shallow glade, the silence was worse than the march. Men collapsed where they stood, gulping air as if it were water. Horses trembled, their ribs heaving. The clearing smelled of sweat and blood and earth churned black by iron hooves.
Sofia paced its edge, restless, while Owen slumped against a tree, his head falling back with a dull thud. Evelyn sank to her knees beside the wounded, hands shaking as she cleaned torn flesh with the last of her herbs.
Leo sat apart, the boy leaning into him, too tired even to tremble. Leo stared down at his own hands, still stiff with dried blood, the cracks black beneath his nails. They didn't feel like his hands anymore.
The shard stirred, slow and insidious. They will falter. They are breaking. But you-
"Shut up," Leo muttered, voice low and sharp.
The boy stirred faintly against him, lifting his head. His voice was soft, rough with sleep. "Who?"
Leo froze. His mouth opened, closed. He had no answer.
Before he could speak, the forest itself answered.
A horn.
Low and mournful, carrying far through the trees. It was answered by another, faint but nearer.
The mob.
Owen's eyes snapped open. Evelyn's hands froze in the middle of bandaging. Sofia stilled, head snapping toward the sound. Her jaw tightened.
"They've found our trail."
The horn blew again, closer this time. The birds fell silent.
Every weary gaze turned to Sofia.
Her blade rasped free of its scabbard. "Move. Now."
There was no hesitation. The survivors stumbled back to their feet, dragging carts, pulling reins. They staggered forward again, not from strength but from fear. The horns grew louder behind them, each call answered by the faint rising murmur of voices, many voices, like a tide building toward the shore.
Leo's chest burned with each step, his legs leaden, his lungs raw. Yet the shard's whisper grew louder still, almost gleeful.
You cannot outrun them. But you can end them. One blaze. One surrender. And you will never flee again.
Leo clenched his jaw, eyes squeezed shut. His teeth ground until he tasted blood. Still the voice coiled tighter, threading itself into his pulse.
The trees thinned, the ground rising beneath their feet. At last, the forest opened onto a ridge.
The caravan staggered to its crest and froze.
Below, the valley churned with fire. The mob spilled from the town like a living flood, torches swaying, horns braying. Their voices rolled together, echoing against the hills. And among them, shadowy forms moved like currents in the tide, the cult, whispering, guiding, fanning the frenzy higher.
The caravan stood small atop the ridge, their path narrowing behind them, their choices fewer than before.
Sofia's voice was grim, a blade drawn thin. "We don't have long. Choose fast. The road bends east into the marshes, or west into the hills. Neither is safe."
The horns blared again, closer, hungrier.
Leo's chest flared with heat, his breath tearing in ragged bursts. His hands shook where they clutched the boy's sleeve.
A choice loomed: his, or the shard's.