The morning mist curled low across the forest floor, cool and heavy as it clung to damp leaves. Saphira stirred first, blinking groggily at the sunlight dripping through the canopy above.
Beside her, Killian was already awake—of course, he was. He was leaning back against a tree, sharpening one of his knives with the kind of focused expression that made her feel like a slacker just for having eyelids.
"You stare in your sleep," he said casually, without looking at her.
Saphira groaned, dragging her cloak over her face."Don't flatter yourself. I was probably trying to murder you in my dream."
"Sounded like it," Killian replied, smirking.
He tossed a dried fruit at her. She caught it without looking, bit into it, then sat up fully, just as the faint sound of rustling leaves hit her ears.
She stilled.
"Did you hear that?"
Killian tensed too. The sharpening stopped.
There it was again. Not an animal. Not the wind.
Voices. Far off, but moving.
And below it, quieter footsteps. Faint impressions in the muddy ground near their camp.
Killian crouched to study the prints. "Fresh," he murmured. "Whoever passed here didn't even try to hide it."
Saphira turned toward the direction of the voices. "Someone's nearby. They might still be close enough to catch."
Killian looked up at her. She looked back.
A pause.
Then—
"I'll follow the trail," he said. "Whoever they are, they were heading that way."
"I'll go toward the voices," she replied. "If there are people, they'll lead somewhere."
Killian frowned. "You sure we should split up?"
Saphira gave a cocky shrug. "You scared, Killian?"
"Terrified you'll make friends and bring back an army."
She flashed him a grin. "No promises."
He hesitated—just for a second. Then nodded. "Be careful."
"You too."
Then they were off—
Saphira disappears through the thick brush toward the sounds
Killian moved like a shadow among the trees, his boots silent against the damp forest floor. The footprints ahead of him were unmistakably human—deep enough to show urgency, but not panic. Whoever had left them was walking with purpose, heading eastward through the woods. The mist still clung to the branches, diffusing the early sunlight and giving the forest a dreamy, unreal sheen.
His hand hovered near the hilt of his dagger as he followed the trail, senses alert. He couldn't hear the voices anymore. Just the wind, the occasional birdcall, and his own steady breathing.
He slowed when he reached a small clearing.
There, about twenty feet ahead, stood a man.
Killian immediately dropped low behind a patch of undergrowth, heart rate accelerating. The man was dressed in a long, dark robe that shimmered oddly in the light, like ink swirling in water. His back was turned to Killian, but the silver trim along the edges of his robe gleamed clearly.
A priest?
Killian's brow furrowed. Not many priests roamed this deep into the forest. Especially not alone. And especially not ones dressed like that.
He crept closer, careful not to make a sound. His eyes scanned the man's form. He wasn't armed—at least not visibly—but he stood with the stillness of someone completely aware of his surroundings. Too calm. Too unnatural.
As Killian prepared to step from the trees and confront him—
The man turned.
Killian froze.
The priest's eyes met his. They were pale. Almost glowing. And in that split second, the forest seemed to go silent.
Before Killian could move, the man raised a hand.
"Obligare," he murmured.
The words weren't shouted. They were soft. Casual.
But the effect was immediate.
Killian's body locked up. Arms stiffened, legs rooted in place. Panic surged in his chest as he tried to will his muscles to move, but nothing obeyed. He was completely paralyzed, like a statue mid-lunge. Only his eyes could move, wide with disbelief.
The priest approached slowly, as though inspecting a painting.
"You're not one of them," he said quietly. "Not yet."
Killian's jaw clenched, but no words came. He couldn't speak. Couldn't do anything.
"Fascinating," the priest murmured, circling him."The Mark on your chest. It burns still, doesn't it?"
Killian's heart pounded.
How did he know?
"You were supposed to die three days ago," the man continued. "Fate is falling behind schedule. That always makes things... complicated."
Killian wanted to demand answers. Who was he? What did he mean by 'one of them'? Why could he use magic that shouldn't even exist outside myth?
But all he could do was glare.
The priest leaned in close. Too close.
"You're curious, aren't you? Good. That makes you dangerous."
He placed a cold hand on Killian's chest, right over the Mark.
Pain lanced through Killian's body. He didn't scream—he couldn't. But he felt the heat spike, the scar reacting like a living thing beneath the priest's palm.
"Not yet," the priest whispered. "But soon."
Then, just as suddenly, he stepped back and snapped his fingers.
Killian collapsed to the ground, coughing as breath rushed back into his lungs. His arms trembled, legs numb from sudden release. Every muscle ached from being frozen.
When he looked up—
The priest was gone.
Not a single trace. Not a sound…. But the same footprint
Killian sat there for a long moment, trying to steady his breathing.
Then he looked down at his chest. The Mark had darkened. Slightly. Barely noticeable, but he could feel it.
Something had changed.
He stood slowly, staring at the empty clearing.
This wasn't just some trail in the forest.
This was a trap.
And now he was even more curious.
And more afraid.
But curiosity always won.
He turned, following the trail again—this time, with more questions than weapons.
And a burning feeling that nothing was going to stay the same