The forest did not chase them with footsteps. It chased them with growth.
Every time Ashaf's boots hit the mulch, the ground felt a second too soft, as if the soil were becoming liquid. Behind them, the "ribcage" of the dead tree didn't just break; it bloomed. Black vines, thick as a man's thigh and slick with something that smelled like old copper, wound around the trunks, pulling them inward to choke the path they had just taken.
"Don't look back," Ashaf said. His voice was flat, a controlled strike against the rising panic of the woods.
He didn't need to check on Guideau. He could hear her. Her breathing was a wet, ragged sound that cut through the whistling of the wind. She was draped over Morrigan's shoulder like a broken doll, her head lolling with every heavy stride the beast-woman took. Blood didn't just drip from Guideau's eyes anymore; it pulsed, staining the fur collar of Morrigan's coat a deep, angry crimson.
"She's getting heavier," Morrigan grunted. The iron chains beneath her coat clinked—a rhythmic, metallic warning. "The curse is feeding. It thinks we're still in the fight."
"We are," Reina snapped. She was moving with a frantic, bird-like agility, her eyes darting to every shadow. "The activation didn't just wake the vessel. It synchronized the area. The gods aren't distant anymore. They're here."
Kai, trailing at the rear, let out a short, jagged laugh. He had a piece of broken glass held between his thumb and forefinger, staring into it as he ran. "The mirrors are screaming, Ashaf. They say the trees have eyes now. Too many eyes. All of them looking at you."
Ashaf ignored the chill that crawled up his spine. You are untouched. That is why you will suffer most. The words of the corpse were a cold weight in his gut. He was the only one without a Brand, the only one whose mind wasn't a fractured playground for divine whims. In the eyes of a god, that made him a blank canvas. An insult.
"There," Ashaf pointed toward a rocky outcropping where the vibrant, artificial green of the moss gave way to gray stone. "The elevation change will slow the root spread. Morrigan, get her into the hollow."
They scrambled upward. The stone was cold and honest—a relief after the shifting, treacherous floor of the woods. Morrigan dropped Guideau onto a flat ledge with a grunt of exertion. The beast-woman's fingers were twitching, her nails elongated and sharp, scraping against the rock. She was fighting the urge to let the transformation take her, her jaw locked so tight the muscles stood out like cords.
Ashaf knelt by Guideau.
She looked terrible. The "Crimson Weaver's" curse was a greedy thing; it used her own blood as a conduit for power, and right now, it was trying to drown her in it.
"Guideau," he whispered, placing a hand on her shoulder.
Her eyes snapped open. They weren't blue anymore. They were two pools of shimmering, dark wine. She lunged forward, her fingers catching the front of his shirt, pulling him close enough that he could smell the iron on her breath.
"Ashaf," she gasped, her voice a fragile thing. For a second, the flirtatious, playful girl he knew flickered behind the mask of agony. "It... it won't stop. Vaelis is... she's weaving. I can feel the threads. She's trying to sew me to that thing back there."
"You're stronger than her thread," Ashaf said, his voice dropping into that calm, clinical tone he used when the world was ending. He pulled a small vial of clear fluid from his belt—suppressant, distilled from the very herbs the "Blooming God" used to corrupt. "Drink. Now."
She swallowed it, coughing as the liquid hit her throat. The bleeding slowed, the vibrant red fading into a dull, drying brown. She slumped back against him, her forehead resting against his chest. Her body was shaking, a fine, rhythmic tremor.
"I'm sorry," she murmured into his shirt. "I'm supposed to... protect you."
"You did," he said, though they both knew he was lying.
"We can't stay here," Reina said, standing at the edge of the ledge, her hands white-knuckled as she gripped a jagged piece of slate. Her overprotectiveness was vibrating off her in waves; she looked like she wanted to wrap the entire team in steel and bury them where the gods couldn't find them. "The laughter hasn't stopped. Can't you hear it?"
Ashaf listened.
The wind had died down. The forest below was silent, the trees frozen in their new, grotesque positions. But there was a sound. It wasn't coming from the woods. It was coming from the air itself—a low, melodic resonance that felt like it was vibrating inside their teeth.
It wasn't a laugh. Not exactly. It was the sound of a game being reset.
"Kai," Ashaf called out.
The scout was sitting on a rock a few feet away, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. He wasn't looking at the woods. He was looking at his own reflection in a pool of rainwater caught in a dip of the stone.
"They're coming for the 'Untouched,' Ashaf," Kai said, his voice devoid of its usual sardonic edge. "The mirrors don't lie when they're this scared. One god is a tragedy. Four is a massacre."
Ashaf stood up, his gaze turning toward the horizon where the "vibrant haven" of the world met the darkening sky. He felt the weight of the ancient texts in his pack, the secrets of the gods who were once men.
"Then we stop being players," Ashaf said, his voice cold and hard as the stone beneath them. "And we start being the rot."
Behind them, in the dark heart of the forest, the shattered containment mark began to glow with a new, hungrier light. The hunt had truly begun.