The smell of smoke still clung to Hollowmere.
Not the warm, pleasant kind from a hearth, but the acrid bite of burned wood and frozen flesh. The village's single main street was littered with the remnants of a night that would not be forgotten—splintered doors, frostbitten bodies, and crimson stains in the snow.
Alaric tightened the straps on the small satchel over his shoulder. It wasn't much—just a waterskin, some bread, the dagger that had killed the Veilborn, and a tattered wool cloak. The cold gnawed at him less than it should, but the hollowness in his stomach was something even fire couldn't banish.
Father Brenn was speaking to the survivors in hushed tones, his breath rising in misty clouds. He gestured toward the chapel, where the bodies had been laid out in neat rows beneath woolen sheets.
Elira approached quietly, her hood shadowing her face. "The road south is open. For now." Her voice wavered slightly, but there was a steel edge beneath. "If we leave by midmorning, we might make it to Greyholt before the next nightfall."
Alaric glanced toward the forest. The pale shapes were gone, but he felt their absence like a shadow stretched thin. The howls from last night still echoed in his mind, stitched between his heartbeat.
"We'll go," he said.
They set out under a sky the color of lead.
The snow crunched underfoot, a sound too loud in the silent morning. No birds sang. Even the wind seemed hesitant to stir. The trees leaned inward over the road, their bare branches clutching at the pale sky like skeletal fingers.
Father Brenn walked at the front, staff in hand, muttering half-heard prayers in Old Tongue. Elira followed behind him, bow slung over her shoulder, eyes scanning the treeline. Alaric brought up the rear, his fingers brushing the dagger's hilt.
Hours passed without speaking. It wasn't fear that kept them quiet—it was the unspoken knowledge that the forest was listening.
By midday, they reached the old stone marker that marked the edge of Hollowmere's territory. The carvings had been worn nearly smooth by centuries of wind and snow, but Alaric could still make out the faded sunburst pattern at its center.
Father Brenn paused, resting a hand on the stone. "This was placed here when Hollowmere was founded," he said softly. "A ward against things that crawl from the Veil. But wards fade, and faith…" His voice trailed off.
Alaric studied the stone more closely. Beneath the frost, faint cracks traced its surface like spiderwebs. His palm itched, an odd warmth radiating there. Without thinking, he touched the stone.
A faint pulse—warm and rhythmic—throbbed beneath his hand.
The frost melted instantly around his fingers.
Elira noticed. "You… did that?"
"I don't know," Alaric replied. And it was true. The warmth had surged on its own, like a living thing responding to something it recognized.
Father Brenn's gaze lingered on him a moment longer than was comfortable. "Keep moving," he said finally. "The road is not safe after dusk."
The shadows began to lengthen.
Snowflakes drifted lazily from the cloud-heavy sky. The road narrowed as the forest thickened around them, and the trees grew older here—gnarled and massive, their trunks split with age. Moss clung stubbornly to the bark despite the winter, dark green against gray.
It was Alaric who heard it first.
A faint crunch. Not theirs.
He slowed his pace, ears straining. The sound came again—closer, matching their steps but just out of sight.
"Elira," he murmured.
She caught the warning in his tone instantly, her hand moving to her bow.
Father Brenn noticed the shift in their pace and stopped. "What is it?"
Before Alaric could answer, the forest itself seemed to inhale. The wind picked up, whipping snow into their eyes. Shadows moved between the trees—too quick to track, too tall to be human.
The first figure stepped onto the road ahead.
It wasn't a Veilborn. Not exactly. Its skin was pale, stretched thin over sharp bones, but its eyes were human—and full of hunger. Its clothing was little more than rags, but the sword it carried gleamed with cruel sharpness.
Bandits.
But something in the way they moved—the jerky hesitation, the twitching heads—spoke of another influence. The Veil had touched them.
Three more emerged from the trees behind, cutting off their retreat.
"Well now," the first one rasped, his voice brittle like dry leaves. "What have we here? Travelers? Or prey?"
Elira raised her bow. "We don't want trouble."
The man grinned, showing teeth too sharp to be natural. "Then you shouldn't be on this road."
The attack was sudden.
Two of them rushed from behind. Alaric turned, dagger already in hand. One swung a rusted axe—Alaric sidestepped, heat surging into his arm as he slammed the dagger's pommel into the man's jaw. The crack of bone was followed by a hiss as steam rose where they touched.
The man screamed, clutching his face as skin blistered—not from frostbite, but from burns.
Elira loosed an arrow into the second attacker's leg. He crumpled, snarling like an animal.
Father Brenn slammed the butt of his staff into the frozen ground, and a ripple of light spread outward, forcing two of the bandits to stagger back. "The Veil's touched their minds," he warned. "They're not wholly human anymore."
The leader lunged at Alaric, sword whistling through the air.
Steel met steel as Alaric parried, the shock of impact jarring up his arm. He shoved forward, heat pouring into the blade until the metal glowed faintly. The leader's sword began to smoke where it touched the dagger, the edge warping.
The man's eyes widened. "What are you?"
Alaric didn't answer. He twisted, disarming him with a sharp strike and sending the sword clattering into the snow.
Steam curled from Alaric's shoulders, his breath coming in heavy bursts. The warmth inside him was stronger now, almost intoxicating. Every blow, every surge of heat made it grow.
When the last bandit fled limping into the forest, the silence returned—but it was heavier now, filled with the awareness that they'd been marked.
Elira lowered her bow, studying Alaric. "That heat… you're not just surviving it. You're feeding on it."
Alaric wiped the blade clean, but his hands trembled—not from fear, but from the aftertaste of that strange, molten power. "I don't know what's happening to me."
Father Brenn's gaze was unreadable. "We'll reach Greyholt soon. Perhaps someone there will."
But in the treeline, far beyond the reach of their vision, a pale figure with antlered horns watched them go.