The forest was quiet after the storm. The echoes of snapping bones, the stench of blood, and the eerie presence of the Demon Royal still hung in the air like a choking mist. Kael's hand trembled as he firmed his grip on his sword, his eyes scanning the trees as if the beast would come back at any second.
Elira knelt in the ground, her hands glowing pale. Her Divine Heal had set their shattered bodies—broken bones realigned, ripped flesh mended—but nothing that she could call up could reach the scars etched into their souls. Her gasping was labored, the burden of her Call ed gift weighing upon her like shackles.
"Are you okay?" Kael whispered, sitting beside her.
"I saved you all," she replied, her voice shaking. "But… if that power is what it takes, I don't know if I can handle it."
Rina placed a clawed hand on her shoulder. "You can. We're alive because of you. That's what counts."
They pushed deeper, although each step became more arduous. The forest trails darkened as they went deeper, limbs twisting in ways they shouldn't, darkness extending its shadowy forms. Lyrielle's sharp elven senses picked up on movement frequently, but whenever she spun around, nothing was there.
"There's something here," she breathed. "Something watching us."
Azrak marched at the back, his silent demeanor now agitated. He had battled with rage against the Demon Royal, but Kael had seen the uncertainty in his attacks—the flash in his scarlet eyes when the foe bared his name: Thorne.
Half-brother.
The revelation gnawed at him. He didn't speak of it, but Kael could feel the storm beneath the surface, the way his hand lingered near his weapon, the way he avoided their gazes.
At night, around the campfire, Thargrim broke the silence. "We're bein' herded. Whoever sent that demon, they've no intention of lettin' us rest."
As if to vindicate him, the following day was an ambush—trained killers emerging out of the bushes, knives flashing in the poor light. With them were domesticated creatures, their eyes burning with supernatural domination. The group struggled, metal striking metal, spells burning, claws tearing fur and flesh. They emerged victorious, but just, their energy drained thin by relentless hounding.
And through it all, Azrak's blows sharper, colder. When the last killer was brought down, Kael caught him looking into the trees as if he were responding to a call that no one else could hear.
That evening, Azrak disappeared. No indication of struggle, no trace of fight—only his cloak, left neatly by the smothered fire.
The others hunted frantically, but the forest would not tell them anything. Only whispers.
The enemy had not simply come for their lives. They had come for Azrak.
And somewhere, out of sight in the shadows, strings were being tugged—prodding them all toward the inevitable confrontation.
ARC 1 IS END
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