By the third day, the hills gave way to forest. Towering oaks blocked the sun, their roots twisting like the backs of sleeping beasts.
It was there the shadows followed.
At first, Aric thought it was only his nerves. But Mira noticed too—the crunch of leaves that echoed their steps, the faint gleam of eyes in the underbrush.
"Not goblins," Edran said grimly, staff raised. "Worse."
Figures emerged from the trees, tall and gaunt, their skin gray as ash. Their mouths were sewn shut with black thread, yet whispers poured from them like smoke.
"Wraithbound," Edran spat. "Servants of the Crown's enemy."
The creatures rushed forward. Steel flashed, staff flared with runes, and Aric felt heat rise in his chest—like the lightning storm lived inside him. When one of the wraithbound struck, he raised his hands—and fire leapt from his palms.
The forest lit up as the creatures screamed and fled into the dark.
When the flames died, Mira's wide eyes found his. "Aric… what did you just do?"