The forest welcomed Kael with silence.
No birdsong.
No rustling prey.
Only the cold mist slithering between gnarled trees, clinging to exposed roots like old scars.
He moved carefully at first, staying low, picking paths where his footprints would fade quickly.
The bottle at his side pulsed in steady rhythm—stronger now.
Not urgent.
Not afraid.
Focused.
But it wasn't enough.
Not here.
Not against them.
Gray Division hunters didn't need noise to find him.
They followed trails of spirit residue—the faint shimmer of presence that living things left behind when they moved too fast, breathed too hard, existed too loudly.
Kael had left a river of it in his escape from the Hollow.
And now the current pulled predators to him.
He caught the first glimpse at the treeline.
A flash of pale gray cloth against the dark bark.
Too disciplined for mistake.
Too deliberate.
They had found him.
Kael didn't run immediately.
He measured the mist.
The slope of the land.
The thickness of the roots.
The way the bottle pulsed once when he considered doubling back—and again, more urgently, when he chose eastward instead.
Fine.
East it was.
He moved fast.
Not reckless.
Not blind.
But fast enough that breath tore ragged from his lungs.
Fast enough that the Hollow's pain stitched through his side.
Branches clawed at his cloak.
Thorns snagged his sleeves.
The ground softened into treacherous mud, sucking at his boots with every desperate step.
Still he ran.
Still he moved.
Until the trap closed.
A hunter dropped from the trees ahead—silent, blade flashing.
Another slid from the mist behind.
Two more emerged from the undergrowth to his left.
Kael skidded to a halt, knife in hand.
Not enough.
Never enough.
One hunter spoke—calm, measured.
"You cannot run forever."
Kael didn't answer.
Didn't look for mercy.
Didn't beg.
He reached inside himself instead.
Not to the fear.
Not to the rage.
To the tether.
To the thing coiled warm and waiting against his ribs.
The bottle.
The breath between thought and act.
It pulsed once.
Twice.
Then—
Broke.
The air snapped.
A sudden pressure wave threw mist outward like a living wall.
The ground under Kael's feet cracked, old roots splitting, soil heaving upward.
The hunters staggered, caught off balance.
A second pulse.
Sharper.
Stronger.
The mist thickened unnaturally, swirling in disorienting patterns.
Shapes formed within it—vague, shifting, menacing.
Not real.
But real enough.
Kael didn't wait.
He moved through the chaos.
Silent.
Certain.
He heard curses behind him.
Heard one hunter cry out as twisted roots grabbed his ankle, yanking him into the mud.
He didn't turn.
Didn't slow.
The mist swallowed him whole.
He ran until the trees blurred.
Until the pain in his side sharpened into something crystalline.
Until the bottle pulsed slower, easing back into silence.
Only then did he collapse behind a fallen cedar, gasping for air that felt too thin.
The hunters' voices faded into distance.
Confused.
Scattered.
Broken.
Kael closed his eyes.
The world spun.
The bottle sat heavy against his chest—warm, alive.
He could feel it now more clearly than ever.
A presence.
A mind.
Not human.
Not fully alien.
Something older.
Bound and boundless all at once.
A whisper threaded through his thoughts.
Not a sound.
Not a word.
A feeling.
Ash.
Blood.
Birth.
Three impressions.
Three promises.
Kael opened his eyes.
The mist hung still.
Waiting.
Like the bottle.
He wasn't free yet.
Not safe.
But he had survived the Hollow's first hand.
Survived the first teeth sent to tear him back.
And next time—
He wouldn't only survive.
He would fight.
He pulled himself upright.
Gritting his teeth against the ache.
Against the exhaustion.
Against the quiet, gnawing certainty that the battles ahead would only grow harder.
He moved east again.
Toward the old ravines.
Toward whatever waited beyond the reach of the Hollow's grasp.
Toward destiny woven in ash and broken stone.