The trees didn't whisper this time.
They screamed.
Crows burst from the canopy as the horn echoed again, louder, closer.
The girl grabbed his arm.
"We have to move. Now."
The boy didn't move.
He was staring into the forest.
Red lights were blinking between the trees.
At first, they looked like lanterns.
But then they moved.
Too smooth.
Too fast.
And too many.
"Eyes."
The voice inside him hissed.
"Eyes that judge. Eyes that burn."
"Hide or be hollowed."
The boy blinked. "What does that mean?"
But there was no answer.
Only the sound of metal feet on wet leaves.
They ran.
The forest was alive—roots grabbing at ankles, branches clawing skin, shadows moving where they shouldn't.
But the boy wasn't weak anymore.
He leapt over rocks. Crashed through undergrowth.
The girl followed, panting, clutching the tattered scroll she never let go of.
"They shouldn't have found us," she muttered.
"The tower was buried."
"How did they know?"
Then came the voice.
Not loud.
But not quiet either.
It spoke through the trees. Through their chests. Inside their bones.
"Return the name."
They stopped.
Because someone stood in their path.
A man.
Tall. Thin. Dressed in red robes that rippled like liquid fire.
His face was hidden behind a cracked iron mask with no mouth.
Only eyes.
Carved holes, leaking red smoke.
A sigil burned on his chest—one word in a strange language: Vultux.
"He's an Inquisitor," the girl whispered.
"High Order."
"They don't speak with mouths. They speak with magic."
The boy stepped forward, fists clenched.
"I don't want trouble. Just let us go."
The Inquisitor tilted his head.
"You carry what does not belong to you," the voice said through him.
"You speak a name that should not be remembered."
"You are a walking heresy."
The ground cracked at the Inquisitor's feet.
A ripple of red energy pulsed outward, sending birds crashing to the ground mid-flight.
"You will be unwritten."
The girl grabbed the boy's hand.
"You can't fight him."
"I have to."
"No, you don't. Running isn't weakness. It's smart."
But the boy shook his head.
"He won't let us go. You said it yourself. I have something they want."
He stepped forward.
"You want the name?"
"Then come take it."
The Inquisitor raised his hand.
A dozen chains of light exploded from his robes, whipping through the air like snakes.
They weren't normal chains.
Each one had names carved into every link.
Names of gods. Demons. Sinners.
Each name screamed as it moved.
The boy dodged the first strike. Barely.
One chain grazed his side, and his body screamed—not from pain, but from memory.
"That name…!"
"I know that name!"
He stumbled.
The chain hadn't hit his flesh.
It hit something deeper.
His soul.
The girl screamed.
He turned just in time to see a chain wrap around her throat.
He lunged, grabbing it with both hands, ignoring the searing light.
The name on the chain began to burn his palms.
But he held on.
"Let… her… go!"
Something snapped inside him.
The Name.
Raekhael.
It stirred.
Not as a whisper. Not as a voice.
As a roar.
His skin lit up with glowing symbols. The same red runes from the tower.
His eyes burned gold.
He opened his mouth—
And said nothing.
Not a word.
But the air exploded anyway.
The chain shattered.
The Inquisitor staggered back.
His mask cracked. A sliver of real skin showed underneath.
The girl gasped for air, coughing, staring at the boy.
"You... stopped yourself again."
He didn't answer.
He was barely breathing.
The Inquisitor's hand trembled.
He touched his mask.
Then spoke—this time not with magic.
But his real voice.
"Interesting."
"You are still resisting the name."
"Then perhaps we were wrong about you."
He turned to leave.
The boy blinked. "That's it?"
"You're not ready yet," the Inquisitor said.
"Not strong enough. Not broken enough."
He paused.
"But don't worry."
"We will come back."
"And when we do—"
"You'll beg us to take the name from you."
He vanished.
The forest returned to silence.
The girl dropped to her knees.
The boy stood in the quiet.
Wind blew through the trees.
And for the first time…
He felt afraid of himself.
TO BE CONTINUED…