The basin was no clearing.
It was a bowl of earth and shadow, circled by roots thick as castle walls, their ridges knotted and slick with moss. Above, branches wove together so tightly they formed a living ceiling, sealing in the dim green light like an overturned cauldron.
The moment the group stepped in, the forest closed behind them.
Not metaphorically.
The entrance path sealed—roots twisting, bark groaning, and a tangle of black-green vines knitting across the way they'd come. By the time Gideon swung his axe to cut through—its twin blades catching the dim light in a flash of gold—the vines had already hardened into something closer to stone.
"We're trapped," Caleb said, his voice low.
"No," Ezra murmured under her breath, tilting her head in that way she did when she was listening to the mana in the air. "We're… contained."
Eliakim glanced at the Codex. The map's glowing lines spasmed wildly, then snapped into a single spiral centered exactly where they stood.
That was when the air changed.
The light dimmed further, as if the forest were holding its breath. A sound like slow, deliberate creaking—wood under pressure—echoed all around.
From the shadows at the basin's edge, movement came. Not the flicker of a hit-and-run this time. No retreat.
Four figures emerged—dark elves, but not the ones from before. These were older, their armor woven with living bark and their weapons carved from roots so black they seemed to drink light.
They fanned out slowly, deliberately. Behind them, the basin's walls began to shift—not roots anymore, but shapes. Shapes that watched. Shapes that leaned closer.
The first strike wasn't a blade.
It was a sound.
A low, resonant hum that vibrated in bone and blood, setting teeth on edge. Ezra gasped, stumbling forward as if pulled by an invisible thread.
Caleb caught her arm. "Ezra—"
But the moment he touched her, the hum stopped for her… and slammed into him instead. His pupils dilated, breath catching, as if someone had just whispered his name in the deepest part of his mind.
Malachi's eyes narrowed. "It's them."
"What?" Gideon barked, swinging his axe to rest against his shoulder.
"They're not just attacking us. They're calling to the one they've been hunting." His voice was flat. "And it's working."
The forest groaned again—louder this time—and the roots behind the elves split open, revealing snarls of thorns like teeth.
The fight came fast.
The elves didn't charge; they closed in, their weapons tracing patterns in the air, each movement leaving faint arcs of green-black light.
Eliakim met the first with his worn-out dagger, deflecting a spear thrust and slipping inside the guard for a slash across bark armor. Malachi smashed aside another's root-scythe, sparks of mana bursting from the clash.
Gideon's axe swung in a golden arc, the weight and reach forcing two opponents back at once. He used the haft like a lever, catching one elf's weapon between the twin blades and wrenching it aside before pivoting into a cleaving strike that split the moss at their feet.
Ezra, still steady despite the pull, spun her staff to block a twin-blade strike. Every time her weapon met theirs, the hum deepened—as if the forest were reacting to her more than anyone else.
Then it happened.
One of the elves broke formation—not to attack, but to kneel. Not to all of them.
To Ezra.
The others faltered just a fraction, enough for the group to see it. Enough for suspicion to cut through the fight like a second blade.
"Why her?" Gideon muttered, eyes narrowing even as he swung his axe to knock aside another attacker.
Ezra's breath hitched. "I… I don't—" She cut herself off, staff spinning to block another strike, but her voice trembled in a way it hadn't before.
Above them, the root ceiling shifted, letting through a shaft of light—not sunlight, but a pale, silver-green beam that fell directly on Ezra. The hum rose into something like a chant, the words unintelligible but the focus unmistakable.
The elves pressed harder now—not at random, but herding the group, splitting them, forcing them between the gnarled root-pillars.
It wasn't a battle anymore. It was a ritual.
And they were standing in the middle of it.
Caleb smashed one elf back with a burst from his bow, the magic flaring bright enough to make the basin shadows recoil. "We end this now, or we don't leave at all!"
Eliakim's codex glowed brighter than ever, lines tracing possible escape routes in frantic loops. He saw only one that didn't collapse into red.
Straight through the center.
Where Ezra stood.