Everyone turned.
The Wraith stood at the edge of the clearing, that androgynous voice carrying clearly despite barely rising above a whisper. The figure was perfectly still, wrapped in tattered
gray cloth that seemed to blend with the morning mist.
"Speak," Diana commanded.
"There is an ancient transport platform," the Wraith said. "Deep in this forest. From the old kingdoms, before the demons first came. It could transport us directly to Millhaven. Less than two hours of travel instead of two days."
"Transport platforms haven't functioned in centuries," Ashwood said, frowning. "The enchantments degraded long ago. Using one would be—"
"Dangerous," the Wraith finished. "Yes. It could malfunction. Could transport us somewhere random. Could tear us apart in transit."
"Then why suggest it?" Diana asked, her voice hard.
The Wraith's head turned toward her, though Don still couldn't make out a face beneath that hood.
"Because with Bardona's technology," the Wraith said, gesturing at Ashwood's projection device, "you could stabilize it. Your people understand dimensional transit. You could make it work. And two hours versus two days—that difference could save thousands of lives."
Diana stared at the Wraith for a long moment.
Then she looked at Ashwood.
"Can you do it?"
Ashwood's analytical mind was already working—Don could see it in the way his eyes unfocused slightly, calculations running behind them.
"Possibly," Ashwood said slowly. "If the platform's core enchantments are intact, if I can access the control matrix, if the dimensional anchor points haven't drifted too far..." He paused. "It's a significant risk."
"But possible?"
"Possible."
Diana nodded once, decision made. "Then we try. Wraith—lead the way."
The survivors gathered their meager possessions. Diana's team checked weapons and armor with practiced efficiency. Martha distributed the last of the food rations.
And Don stood near the edge of the clearing, staring into the Dead Forest's depths, his yellow eye tracking shadows between the blackened trees.
["Excited?"] Madness whispered beside him, both yellow eyes gleaming in the morning gloom. ["I can feel it, you know. That little thrill running through you. The anticipation of violence."]
Don's jaw tightened. "I don't enjoy killing."
["Oh, little seed. You don't have to enjoy it. But you're good at it. And that's what matters. Natural talent, honed by necessity, sharpened by pain."]
Don's hands clenched into fists.
["Besides,"] Madness continued, his voice dropping to something almost gentle, ["you know what's waiting in that forest. You can smell it. The taint. The corruption. Things that were alive once, now twisted into something that only knows hunger."]
"Don?"
He turned. Diana stood a few paces away, her good hand resting on her sword's hilt, emerald eyes assessing.
"You fought well yesterday," she said. "In the castle. During the escape. You held your own against enemies that should have killed you."
Don said nothing. Just waited.
"When this is over," Diana continued, "when we reach safety—I'll have questions. Many questions. About your abilities. About what you are."
"I know."
"But for now," Diana said, and something almost like respect flickered in those emerald eyes, "for now, you're one of us. You fight, you survive, you protect the others. That's enough."
She turned and walked back toward her team, leaving Don alone with his thoughts.
And with Madness.
["She sees it,"] Madness whispered. ["She sees what you're becoming. What we're becoming together."]
"We're not together," Don muttered under his breath.
Madness smiled—Don could hear it in his voice.
["Not yet, little seed. But soon. Every kill brings us closer. Every drop of blood spilled. Every moment you let me guide your hand."]
"Ready?" Thorne called out.
Don dismissed the conversation, pushing Madness to the back of his mind where the entity lurked like a patient predator.
The Wraith moved to the front of the group, gray cloth trailing like living mist.
"This way," that whisper-voice said. "And be ready. The Dead Forest does not give up its secrets without cost."
They moved into the trees.
The forest grew darker as they traveled deeper. The gray leaves overhead blocked most of the wan morning light, leaving them in perpetual twilight. Dead branches creaked overhead with sounds like breaking bones.
The ground was soft with centuries of rotting vegetation, every step sinking slightly into the mulch.
And it was quiet.
Too quiet.
No birds. No insects. No sound of life at all—just the whisper of dead leaves stirring in a wind that carried the faint smell of rot and old blood.
Don's yellow eye tracked shadows constantly, searching for movement, for threats his normal eye might miss.
Beside him, Martha gripped her stolen demon sword, knuckles white. Karn's breathing came too fast, his makeshift club held in shaking hands. Even Gorath, the massive blacksmith who rarely showed emotion, looked tense, his huge frame coiled tight.
They walked for an hour.
Then another.
The Wraith led them deeper, following paths only they seemed to see. Diana's team stayed alert—Thorne and Sylva on the flanks, weapons ready. Ivy with an arrow perpetually nocked, bow half-drawn. Rowan at the rear like a mobile wall, his cracked shield somehow still imposing.
Don's hand drifted to his side, ready to form a weapon at a moment's notice. His mana had recovered more during the march—not full, maybe sixty percent, but enough.
Enough to fight.
Enough to kill.
["There,"] Madness whispered. ["Do you feel it? The wrongness in the air. The taint spreading through this place like poison through veins."]
Don did feel it. A wrongness that made his skin crawl, that set his teeth on edge. Like reality itself was sick here, corrupted by something unnatural.
And then—
A sound.
Distant. Echoing through the trees.
A howl.
Everyone froze.
The howl came again, closer this time. Lower. Hungry. Wrong.
"Tainted," Martha breathed, her scarred face going pale. "Tainted wolves."
"How many?" Diana asked, her voice clipped, commanding despite her injury.
Another howl answered. Then another. Then a dozen more, surrounding them, echoing from every direction until it was impossible to tell how many throats made that terrible sound.
"A lot," Thorne said flatly, his twin blades already in his hands.
Don's heart hammered against his ribs. His right hand formed a knife—black blade materialized from imagination and will. His left hand formed a short sword. Both weapons felt right in his grip, extensions of his body, tools of survival.
And from the shadows between the trees—
Yellow and Green eyes .
Dozens of them. Scores. Hundreds maybe. All fixed on the group with mindless, ravenous hunger that transcended normal animal instinct.
The first wolf emerged into the dim light.
Don's stomach turned.