Hale packed up and stepped out of the clearing, ready to head home. As he reached the edge, he noticed footprints.
He stopped.
They weren't from a single person. There were many overlapping prints scattered in different directions. Some were deep and fresh, others faint. A lot of people had been there—and recently.
He looked back at the clearing.
It was quiet and untouched. Nothing seemed out of place.
Still, something felt off.
Hale was a police officer. He'd been in the woods many times before. And right now, his instincts told him something wasn't right.
Hale traced his way back, following the trees he had marked to avoid getting lost. The woods could easily mess with your sense of direction.
After a few hours, he noticed the light fading—it was getting dark. But he still wasn't anywhere near the settlements he'd come from.
The last time, he'd reached the clearing around this hour. Now, despite all the steps he'd taken to stay on track, he felt lost.
Something wasn't adding up.
Just when Hale was about to give up, he caught sight of a large rock in the distance. It stood out in the fading light like a marker, solid and unmoving. He headed toward it, crossing the clearing with weary steps.
Then it happened.
A sharp whistle of wind sliced past the back of his neck—so sudden, so precise—it felt like a blade had grazed his skin. His whole body tensed. The hairs on his arms rose.
He turned sharply, instincts kicking in.
A figure stood behind him.
Hale's pulse quickened. His stance shifted. This wasn't chance—whoever this was had waited, had chosen this moment.
Why now?
Had they been tracking him all along?
One thought pressed hard in his mind—this person didn't come in peace.
As Hale sized up the figure before him, movement flickered in the corners of his eyes. More figures began to emerge from the nearby bushes, stepping silently into view. They positioned themselves along the edge of the rock, surrounding him like wolves closing in on prey.
He was outnumbered.
This wasn't the time to be bold. Not yet. What he needed was a sliver of time—a moment to slip away.
His eyes scanned the silent crowd, searching for weakness, a gap, an opening. Then, as if rehearsed, the group shifted. They parted in the middle, creating a narrow path. A new figure stepped forward, calm and deliberate, clearly the one in charge.
The man studied him for a moment before speaking. "I believe you're Hale," he said, his voice even, almost cordial. "I know you picked up the call. You're not the first—and if you're smart, you won't dig any deeper."
He paused, then gestured lightly. "But you can come out. We'll show you around. Or better yet, come out and we'll talk."
Hale didn't move. Something felt off.
As his gaze shifted again, he noticed something chilling—four graves, each one placed in a specific formation. Perfectly spaced. Intentional.
That was when it hit him.
None of the figures had stepped inside the ring of rocks. Not one.
Why were they beckoning him out?
His instincts screamed that stepping forward meant crossing into something else entirely—something that might not let him return.
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From the mutilated stump where his arm had once been, blood began to drip steadily. But before it could touch the ground, it froze midair—twisting, hardening, reshaping. In moments, a fully formed arm of ice emerged, smooth and jagged all at once, gleaming with menace.
He didn't wait.
In a swift retreat, he created a wide distance between himself and Zeck. The moment the space opened, his fingers moved in sharp, practiced motions, drawing glowing runes into the air. The crowd stirred. They recognized the ritual. This was no ordinary display.
The ground trembled.
Stone and dirt split open as towering golems clawed their way out—massive, silent, and deadly. Like summoned soldiers, they lined up behind him, an army conjured from the very bones of the earth.
The archers, high on alert, wasted no time. A storm of arrows soared through the air. Zeck dodged, weaving through the hail of death, slicing some arrows mid-flight with his blade. He charged—fast, deadly, furious—heading straight for the archers.
But the golems were ready.
Two barreled in from his sides, forcing him to veer off course. And behind them, the shield warriors advanced. One stepped forward, lifting his stone-forged shield high to meet Zeck's descending blade.
The strike landed.
With a thunderous boom, the golem was launched backward like a ragdoll, crashing into the far wall of the arena with bone-rattling force.
Gasps echoed.
Even the most seasoned warriors stood frozen.
Melissa's eyes widened. She couldn't believe what she'd just witnessed. The sword's edge—yes, it was razor-sharp, that much was obvious. But that kind of brute strength? From someone with Zeck's lean frame?
It didn't add up.
Where did that power come from?