Stone dust still hung thick in the air, glittering faintly in the shafts of moonlight that pierced the collapsed roof. The temple was ruined—pillars split, walls caved in, sacred murals of the old gods crushed to powder beneath shattered stone.
Aden pushed himself upright with a groan, his sword clattering beside him. The ache in his chest was more than bruises—it was the Mark. Even beneath torn fabric, the scar burned faintly, the shape of a four-point star pressed against his flesh. It pulsed once, then quieted, as if mocking his weakness.
"On your feet, boy."
Durik's voice cut through the ringing in his ears. The dwarf heaved himself free from a pile of rubble, dust coating his braided beard, his warhammer-axe dragging sparks as it scraped across the broken floor. His height—towering for one of his kind—cast a long shadow against the flickering firelight.
Aden glanced to the side. Yvaine staggered, almost collapsing, her pale hair matted with soot. Her hands trembled as she clutched her chest, crimson motes sparking in her irises. Wrath was stirring again.
Aden caught her arm before she could fall. "Stay with me."
Her lips parted, but no words came—only a shuddered breath.
The ground trembled. Chains rattled.
Through the jagged hole where the temple gates had once stood, figures approached—six of them, draped in white cloaks embroidered with silver sigils. Their armor gleamed with sanctified light, their weapons humming with divine enchantments. At their head strode a knight with a gleaming greatsword, its edge engraved with verses of judgment. His voice rang like thunder through the ruined hall.
"Deliver her to us, Vessel of Wrath. The Order of Sanctis will grant her release."
Durik spat blood onto the floor. "Release? You mean slaughter."
The knight raised his blade, unbothered. "The girl cannot control what festers inside her. Better her life end now than damn the world with her curse."
Aden's grip on his sword tightened. His pulse quickened, the scar on his chest burning hotter. He wanted to strike, to silence the knight—but Wrath wasn't his yet. He had no right. Not now.
He looked at Durik, then at Yvaine's trembling frame. "We can't fight this. Not like this."
Durik bared his teeth, a snarl rumbling deep in his throat. But even he knew the truth—broken, exhausted, half-buried in rubble, they would not survive against the Sanctis elite.
Aden drew in a sharp breath. "We run."
The dwarf gave a short, grim nod. "About time."
Without waiting for another word, Aden pulled Yvaine with him and broke into a sprint, boots pounding against cracked stone. Durik fell in behind them, his warhammer-axe dragging lines of sparks as he guarded their rear.
The Sanctis gave chase instantly. Chains of silver light whipped forward, latching onto broken stone, dragging the hunters closer with unnatural speed. Their white mantles snapped in the storm winds as they surged through the ruins, relentless.
"Left!" Durik barked.
Aden veered sharply, shoving Yvaine through a gap in the crumbled wall. They burst into the open night, the storm howling around them. Rain sheeted down in torrents, carrying ash and dust into their eyes. The sea roared in the distance, waves crashing against the cliffs below the temple.
"Move, boy! Faster!"
Aden didn't argue. He half-carried Yvaine, her legs barely keeping pace, her breaths ragged. Every few steps, crimson light flickered off her body like sparks off a frayed cord.
Behind them, the Sanctis hunters called out their invocations.
"Chain of Purity!"
"Severance of Flesh!"
Silver arcs tore through the night, crashing into the ground where the fugitives had stood moments before. Stone exploded. Splinters of divine energy seared the air.
Durik swung his warhammer-axe in a wide arc, deflecting a whip of holy chain with brute force. The impact rattled the ground, but he didn't falter. "Keep running!"
The storm worsened. Thunder split the sky. Lightning illuminated the jagged cliffs ahead—too steep to climb, too far to jump. The only path left was the winding trail down into the dark forest below.
Aden cursed under his breath. "We'll never outpace them on open ground."
Durik grunted. "Then we make them choke on shadows."
The dwarf slammed his warhammer-axe against the earth. Cracks spiderwebbed outward, rocks tumbling down the slope. The path shuddered, slick with mud and rain. It wouldn't hold long—but it might slow their pursuers.
"Go!" he roared.
Aden pulled Yvaine down the trail, slipping on the mud but refusing to let go. The forest loomed below—black pines swaying violently, their branches like claws reaching into the storm.
The Sanctis hunters did not relent. They vaulted fallen stone, their chants ringing with holy fervor.
One leapt high, chains spiraling like a serpent toward Aden.
Yvaine's eyes flared crimson. "No!"
A burst of Wrath exploded from her, a wave of scarlet fire that disintegrated the chain mid-air and scorched the hunter's cloak. The ground trembled under the force, sending mud and rock cascading down the cliffside.
But the burst came at a cost—Yvaine collapsed against Aden, her strength nearly gone.
He caught her, heart pounding. "Don't you dare give up on me."
Durik thundered down behind them, his warhammer-axe smashing aside falling debris. "The girl's burning herself out!"
"I know!" Aden snapped, teeth gritted. "Just keep them off us!"
The forest swallowed them whole. The path wound like a serpent, slick with roots and rain. Every breath was fire in Aden's lungs, every step agony. Yet he didn't slow—not while the chains of Sanctis hissed behind them, not while Yvaine's life weighed heavy against him.
The hunters' voices echoed through the storm. "Deliver the Vessel!"
"Judgment will find you, heretic!"
Durik whirled mid-run, slamming his warhammer-axe against a tree. The trunk cracked and fell, crashing into the path and buying them precious moments. He snarled and sprinted forward, mud splattering across his scarred face.
Still, the hunters pressed on, their holy chains glowing like serpents in the dark.
Aden's vision narrowed. His mark seared hotter, reacting—not just to the pursuit, but to Yvaine herself. Her crimson sparks bled into his chest, resonating with the scar.
He stumbled, gasping, as the Mark flared violet.
Aden staggered, nearly dropping Yvaine. She stirred weakly, her voice faint against the storm. "Don't… let them take me…"
His grip tightened. He bared his teeth. "I won't."
Lightning split the sky once more, illuminating their path ahead—downward, deeper into the forest, into shadows where neither temple nor sanctified chains could reach.
Durik's voice thundered over the storm. "We make the river by dawn or we're dead men walking!"
Aden adjusted Yvaine in his arms, his body screaming in protest, but his voice came steady, iron-willed. "Then we run until the world breaks."
And so they did. Through storm and ash, through roots and mud, through the very teeth of the Sanctis. The hunt was not over—not by dawn, nor by blood—but for this night, for this breath, Aden refused to fall.
The river carried their ragged reflections downstream—Aden's cloak torn, Durik's braids dripping, Yvaine's crimson hair clinging like silken threads to her cheeks. They had stumbled for miles along the rocky bank, hearts still hammering from the fight they had barely survived. When the forest finally gave way to a scatter of lantern-lights, Aden slowed, hand hovering over the hilt of his blade.
"Village," he muttered, half a warning.
Durik squinted, water still dripping from his beard. "Village means ale. And bread. And meat. By the Stones, I'm starving." His stomach rumbled loud enough to answer for him.
Yvaine, clutching the torn hem of her robe, stepped forward with surprising resolve. "No harm will come to us here. I… I know this place."
Aden glanced at her sharply. "You've been here before?"
Her crimson eyes shimmered in the moonlight. "Yes. Years ago, when famine struck these people. The temple sent me. I blessed their fields, carried bread where none would grow. They will remember."
"Let's hope their memory's kind," Aden murmured, though he followed her lead.
The village of Ravenshollow was small—no more than a dozen homes clustered near the river, roofs patched with straw and timber. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the scent of roasted barley. Lanterns swayed from hooks, casting a golden glow over the muddy paths.
The first villager who saw them—a bent old man carrying a bundle of firewood—nearly dropped his load when his eyes fell on Yvaine.
"Priestess…" His voice cracked like old timber. He stumbled forward, blinking as though unsure she were real. "By the gods, you return to us?"
The words rippled through the quiet street like sparks on dry grass. Doors opened, faces peeked out. Children scampered barefoot, wide-eyed. Soon a small crowd had gathered, murmuring, whispering her name.
"Saint Yvaine…"
"She came back…"
"She saved us once, she'll save us again…"
Yvaine bowed her head, hands pressed over her heart. "I am no longer a priestess," she said softly. "But if you will grant us shelter… we are weary, and pursued by those who would see me destroyed."
The murmurs deepened, but the elder villager straightened his back and gestured to them. "You will have food. Fire. Whatever you need. Ravenshollow repays its debts."
Durik groaned in delight. "Music to my ears."
They were ushered into the largest house near the village square, its hearth blazing with warmth. Coats of wool and fur were draped over their shoulders, heavy and comforting after the river's chill. A table was cleared, bowls and platters set before them—stew thick with potatoes, coarse bread still steaming, and clay mugs of dark ale.
Durik didn't wait for ceremony. He seized a hunk of bread the size of his fist and tore into it, washing it down with half a mug before slamming it onto the table. "By the Stones, I'd fight a hundred mages for another bite of this!"
Aden smirked faintly, though he only picked at his stew. His eyes kept drifting to Yvaine, who sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, a quiet smile softening her pale features as the villagers fussed around her. Children tugged at her sleeves, whispering their thanks.
"You saved them once," Aden said under his breath, leaning close. "Why didn't you stay here?"
Yvaine's smile faded. "Because Wrath never sleeps. Wherever I go, its shadow follows. To remain here would have doomed them." She turned her gaze toward the fire, where the flames painted her features in shades of gold and sorrow. "But even shadows must rest… if only for a night."
Durik belched loudly, shattering the moment. "Rest after seconds, aye. Who's got more ale?"
The villagers laughed, pouring him another. For the first time since the battle, the night felt almost normal.
Almost.
Because when Aden loosened his coat by the fire, the faint burn of the Mark of the Damned on his chest stirred again—like something unseen was watching from beyond the flames.
And the comfort of the village felt all the more fragile.