The Duskbornes took Angelo's limp body through the twisted forest, the shadows clinging to their forms like living smoke. When they reached the clearing, the rest of the creatures—those that had been following him from the veil—turned toward them in silent expectation.
The Bound Choirmaster stood at the front, its stitched mouth twitching. "You were ordered to observe," it rasped. "Where is the fifth?"
One of the Duskbornes answered flatly, "It was seen by a human. Took a reckless action and was killed."
The Choirmaster clicked its teeth. "Unacceptable."
A Cradle-Eater slithered closer, its pale, skeletal fingers twitching as its gaze locked onto Angelo's bloodied torso. The gaping hole in his stomach still leaked warmth.
"Is he even alive?" the creature hissed.
Another Duskborne replied, "Somehow. That wound should've killed him. But look… he's still breathing."
"Fascinating…" The Cradle-Eater crouched low. "I want to taste his soul."
It lunged forward, but the Bound Choirmaster extended an arm of stitched limbs, blocking its path.
"You know the orders," it said coldly. "He's to be delivered to the general."
The Cradle-Eater recoiled with a sneer. "Fine. I've no desire to be turned into… whatever you are."
The Choirmaster's eye twitched. "Watch your tongue."
It turned to the rest, its voice like wind through broken bells. "Prepare yourselves. We return to the general."
As the Duskbornes melted into the twisted horizon with Angelo, the other creatures followed suit, a legion of shadows retreating toward their general's domain.
Far above, hidden in the folds of the sky, the Hollowed Saints moved in silence. Unseen by any eye, invisible to radar, they drifted like ancient phantoms. Watchful. Waiting.
Two peeled away to track Colonel Pierce and his elite squad, soaring over the narrow mountain roads they took toward the heart of danger. Another shadowed a separate search party—one sent to recover the bodies of Hale and Ryan. The remaining four remained above the sprawling convoy that carried Angelo's family.
Within one of the armored trucks, silence hung thick like fog.
James Walker sat stiffly beside Olivia, his hands restless. His knuckles tapped against his knee in an uneven rhythm—four beats, then pause, then again. Olivia held Emma close, the little girl curled against her side, unaware of the heavy air around them. Her breath was slow, soft. A child's peace in a world unraveling.
James leaned forward, his voice barely louder than the hum of the engine.
"Can't keep sitting here not knowing."
He tapped on the wall separating them from the soldiers up front. A moment passed before one of the four guards turned around. He was older, face lined with weariness and resolve.
"Yes, sir?"
"We've been heading southeast for three days," James said, careful, calm. "Can you tell me where we're going? And… anything about my son?"
The soldier held his gaze for a second before answering. "We're relocating to a fortified base in the Ravenrock Mountains. Deep underground. High security. We'll be there in two days."
James nodded once, slowly.
The guard hesitated before adding, "As for your son… we've only received fragmented reports. All we know is… he's alive. Taken."
The words hung there, sharp and dry. Taken. Like a possession. A trophy.
Another guard turned—young, not more than twenty. Hope still clung to his eyes like frost that hadn't melted.
"Sir… Colonel Pierce took the best we had. Not just fighters—people who care. They'll bring him back."
James met the young man's gaze and offered a faint smile. It didn't reach his eyes.
"I want to believe that," he said softly. "But ever since that night, it's like something cracked beneath my feet. Like the world shifted… and I've been walking off-balance ever since."
The truck hit a bump. Emma stirred, her head pressing tighter into Olivia's shoulder. Her mother gently brushed a hand through her hair, though her own eyes remained fixed on the metal wall ahead—unblinking. Unmoving.
Outside, the convoy pressed forward across winding mountain roads, engines rumbling in sync like the pulse of something alive.
And above it all, cloaked in shadow and cloud, the Hollowed Saints drifted—watching. Waiting.