The trees in the Northern Grove stood taller than anyone could remember, like ancient giants wrapped in ivy and secrets. The whole place was smothered in mist, hugging the ground and swirling around Sylen's boots as if it had a mind of its own.
The air was thick, heavy with that weird kind of tension you get right before a storm, like the whole forest was holding its breath and waiting for something to snap.
Sylen dropped in without a sound, landing on a bed of moss so soft it barely noticed him. Behind him, the shimmer of his portal buzzed out, gone in a blink of an eye, like a candle snuffed by a careless gust. His cloak, never one to miss a dramatic moment, gave a little flutter, as if it was showing off for the trees.
"That was subtle," he muttered, rolling his eyes at himself. He gave the hilts of his twin blades a reassuring tap. "Let's try not to die in style today, yeah?"
He moved through the greenery like he owned the place, light on his feet, every sense dialed up to eleven. Every rustle, every shift in the air, every leaf that dared to twitch sent a jolt of information straight to his ears. But this wasn't the usual wildlife shuffle. This was something else.
It was magic. Runic vibrations, the kind that lingered after someone had done something they really shouldn't have. The Order of the Veil, those guys never did anything halfway.
Sylen crouched by a busted tree stump. There they were: glyphs, etched deep into the wood, pulsing with a faint, eerie glow. It looked like someone had carved them with both fire and shadow. He didn't even think about touching them.
But he knew what they were.
"Anchoring sigils," he whispered, brow furrowed. "Woven with memory threads… but who are they trying to chain up this time?"
He dug around in his coat and pulled out a tiny obsidian mirror. One word under his breath, and he angled it toward the glyphs. For a heartbeat, the glass fogged over, then flashed with a blurry image.
A cloaked figure. No face, just a pair of eyes glowing, locked right on him. "Charming," Sylen deadpanned. "Guess they're watching now."
The mirror cracked in his hand. He swore, stuffed it away, and scanned the woods. The pressure in the air was almost physical now, magic thick enough to choke on. Someone or something had set off a binding spell. This wasn't just a warning. This was a bait.
But who was the trap for?
Before he could figure it out, a sound drifted through the trees. It was not a voice or a song. It was something soft, haunting, unmistakably feminine. And, somehow, painfully familiar.
Sylen spun around, his eyes narrowing and trying to pin down the source. The melody tugged at something deep inside him, something he'd buried under years of sarcasm and reckless grins.
"Esme…?" The name slipped out before he could stop it. He shook his head hard. No way. She couldn't be here.
And yet…
He picked up the pace, ditching the casual act. Every step was deliberate, a careful dance through a forest thick with secrets and spells. He was all business now, weaving between shadows and runes, until—
The song cut off. So did Sylen.
In the middle of a clearing, half-swallowed by earth and time, stood a twisted stone arch. The second he laid his eyes on it, his heart skipped a beat.
Symbols from the House of Elarien covered every inch. But these weren't just for show, they were locked up tight, sealed by an enchantment only Esme's blood could break.
Sylen took a slow step back, voice barely above a whisper. "Yeah… that's way above my pay grade."
A low growl rumbled behind him. He spun around, his blades half out, ready for anything that could attack him. But nothing came out of the shadows.
There was just the wind and trees. And that prickling sense that someone or something was watching him. Or maybe waiting.
He shot one last look at the archway, then melted into the darkness, muttering to the breeze, "Zaire's really not gonna like this."
* * *