"There is no other way," Rowenne heard again as she awoke inside the hut.
Her eyes darted around—the dim light, the cracked walls—and there they were: Alaric and Edmund, lying motionless on the floor.
Her chest tightened. She knew they were alive, but still trapped—facing challenges of their own. Alone. And she could do nothing to reach them. Whatever force had orchestrated this wanted it that way: wanted them separated, cornered, isolated in their battles.
********************************************
Alaric knelt in exhaustion within the forest.
Sweat dripped down his face, thickening with every heartbeat. His chest heaved; his heart thundered against his ribs as if it sought to burst free. His tiny shoulders rose and fell violently, each breath a desperate gasp.
Like Rowenne, he had tried to avoid what stood before him. But each time, he ended up back in the same place again. A circle without escape.
His vision blurred. His strength ebbed away. The choice loomed before him: continue running—or face the shadows and the souls that haunted him.
But to Alaric, there was no choice. He could only run.
Run until his legs failed him, until he collapsed.
He did not have the courage to face them.
Yet his small body could no longer keep pace. His legs shook, weak and trembling. For a moment, he staggered to a halt, desperately trying to steady himself, to recover. The forest fell eerily still—as though it, too, had paused to hold its breath.
But silence never lasts.
The wailing returned—louder this time, endless and suffocating. The sound wrapped around him, pressing in on every side. With the last of his strength, Alaric staggered upright and flung himself forward, running again.
But this time… it was different.
Unfortunately.
He ran as fast as his legs would carry him. When he glanced down, the ground blurred beneath him, proof that he was moving—escaping. Relief flickered through him at the thought that he must be putting distance between himself and the horrors behind.
But the sound told another story. The wailing had not dimmed. If anything, it pressed closer, clawing at his ears.
He lifted his gaze and felt his stomach lurch. He wasn't gaining ground at all. Though his body moved, though the air rushed against his face, the forest ahead seemed to stretch away with every step—while the forest behind chased him forward, always closing, never letting him go.
Panic flared. He pushed harder, his legs burning, lungs straining, desperate to break the circle. But the harder he ran, the tighter the noose became. At last his strength betrayed him, and he stumbled, crashing to the earth. He tumbled hard, rolling over stones and roots, each impact biting into his flesh. Pain shot through his body, sharp and raw.
Gasping, he pressed a hand to his chest and dragged in ragged breaths. But when he looked up—terror struck him anew. Though he had rolled several feet from where he fell, he was still there. The same place. The same cursed spot where it had all begun.
The shadows wailed louder now. He saw them clutch their smoky heads, writhing in agony. And as he listened—truly listened—he felt their emotions pour into him. Pain. Agony. Fear. Desperation. Hate. Loss. Regret. Love.
The torrent staggered him. Why did they feel so? What were they?
They did not give him time to wonder. The shadows lunged as one, a legion of souls screaming as they rushed him. The sound was unbearable, a storm of grief and rage and hunger.
Alaric dropped to his knees, hands clamped over his ears, tears stinging his eyes. His heart hammered, every breath a ragged gasp as the dark tide bore down on him.
He buried his face in his palms as they closed in on him. Maybe—just maybe—if he shut his eyes tightly enough, it would all end. Maybe they would vanish. But it wasn't so.
A rough hand seized the collar of his chest, yanking him upward, then let go mid-air. He crashed to the ground with a bone-jarring thud. For a few seconds, he could not breathe; his chest burned as he gasped and clawed at the air, struggling for breath.
Before he could recover, multiple hands clamped onto his legs, dragging him across the ground for some distance before letting them drop again. His body throbbed from head to toe. One after another, shadows blurred past his vision, each grabbing his shirt, hoisting him slightly off the ground only to release him again. They swarmed in numbers, a storm of figures jostling, clawing, reaching for his chest as if trying to tear his very soul from him.
It went on without end. Each shove, each pull grew more violent. Alaric lay helpless now—too exhausted, too bruised to fight back. His limbs felt like lead.
Then, suddenly, they stopped.
A weight fell upon him—but it wasn't a weight of flesh or bone. It was heavier than that, intangible yet suffocating. All the shadows converged as one and descended on him like a living tide. The weight pressed down until countless unseen hands pinned every part of him—his face, his body, his legs, his arms—every inch subdued. They pressed him so hard into the ground that the soil beneath began to give way under the pressure, swallowing him inch by inch.
He opened his eyes. Darkness. A darkness so thick and dense no light could ever pierce it.
And yet—there. In the void, a light. A figure in flowing white robes.
When the figure turned, Alaric's heart leapt. It was her. His mother. Rowenne. She stood with her back to him, reaching for something he could not see, a long glass spear in her hand. Hope flickered alive within him like a candle reigniting in the storm.
He tried to call out, but a cold, unseen hand clamped down on his lips. He thrashed, straining his neck so hard he didn't care if it snapped. He had to speak. He had to reach her.
With a final desperate jerk, he tore his mouth free. "Mother!"
Rowenne turned instantly, their eyes meeting—his wild and pleading, hers unreadable—as his vision blurred again. He knew he was slipping. Consciousness frayed at the edges.
He saw her knees buckle as she dropped, like a soldier struck down after a long fight. His own eyes fluttered, shutting then opening, every blink pulling him deeper into the void.
And then—at the edge of despair—pain. A sharp, piercing agony like the tip of a sword sliding slowly into his flesh. The scream tore out of him before everything went dark.
There was no Rowenne, no dead souls, no shadows—only darkness.
Alaric drifted in it, weightless, as if floating in a void. A gentle stream seemed to carry him onward, slow and effortless. For the first time in what felt like ages, he was at peace. No pain, no attacks, no bruises biting at his flesh. His exhaustion had melted away. He smiled faintly and let himself go, surrendering to the current, content to be carried wherever it wished. Better this eternal drift than the shadows that lurked, waiting to seize his soul.
But peace never lasts.
A voice, sharp and furious, pierced through the silence:
"You couldn't save us!"
His eyes snapped open. Before he could make sense of what was happening, a violent grip seized his shirt and yanked him upward. The void dissolved like smoke, and suddenly he was back in the forest—suspended in midair, surrounded once again by circling shadows and wailing souls, torment pressing in from every side.
Realization hit him just as the wind did. The shadows beneath gave way. His stomach dropped.
He was falling.
The ground met him with brutal certainty. He landed on his hand, and the sound came before the pain—an ugly, sharp crack that tore through the silence, followed by an unbearable surge of agony. Alaric screamed. His cries echoed through the forest, raw and broken, but no tears came to soften the torment. He writhed in the dirt, clutching his shattered hand.
The shadows were not done. They surged toward him, swift and merciless.
Fear gripped him harder than the pain, and adrenaline burst through his veins. Somehow, he scrambled to his feet, one arm limp at his side, and ran. His screams tore from his throat as he stumbled through the darkness.
The shadows followed—close, relentless, but never striking. They kept their distance, hunting without pouncing, herding him onward.
Until there was nowhere left to go.
He burst from the trees and found himself standing at the edge of a cliff. Clouds rolled beneath him, thick and endless, as if he stood atop the world itself. His chest heaved, his broken hand throbbed, but he had no escape.
Slowly, he turned.
The shadows rushed forward. In a single sweep they swallowed him whole. Darkness engulfed him—yet this time it was not a void. Shapes took form within the blackness, walls rising, towers stretching into the sky. A kingdom loomed before him, sculpted from shadow.
And then Alaric saw it clearly. The high walls, the spires piercing the sky.
Eryndral.
Although shrouded in darkness, Alaric could tell—the kingdom was burning. Fire devoured its edges, smoke warped the sky, and ruins twisted the land into a nightmare. Confusion weighed on him.
As he moved forward, shapes began to take form. People. Their faces twisted in hatred as they pointed at him. Stones were hurled his way, their voices hissing with venom. The force of their loathing pierced him deeper than any weapon. Terrified, he pushed past them, but they followed, their rage unrelenting. He ran until he stumbled into the palace.
There, one of the shadows broke away, shifting into the form of Rowenne. Her voice echoed, sharp as a blade:
"This is your fault. You caused this! You are a mistake!"
"No!" Alaric cried, staring in disbelief. "You're not my mother—Mother would never say that!"
"Oh, really?" another voice spoke. He turned—and his blood froze. It was Edmund.
"But you are. You're a curse… our curse."
Alaric's chest tightened, but he did not answer. He pressed on, each step heavier than the last, until he reached the throne room.
At the entrance, another figure materialized—Ronan, cloaked in shadows.
"You will only bring destruction to us. And even I cannot stop it."
Shaken, Alaric pushed past again, only to see Kaelion upon the throne. His expression seethed with anger, his voice thundered:
"You deserve death! You should have died the moment you were born!"
Alaric's heart shattered. He could neither believe nor understand. What had he done? Why did they all hate him?
He fled, retracing his steps through the halls where every soul he had seen now stood silent, watching, their eyes like knives. Desperate, he climbed the highest wall overlooking the kingdom.
"Why is this happening? What did I do? What did I do?" His voice broke as he looked out.
Eryndral burned. The kingdom lay in ruins—people screaming as flames devoured them, homes collapsing into ash, walls crumbling to nothing. Chaos reigned in every corner.
And then the voices returned. Louder. Crueler.
"This is all your fault! You caused this! You are a mistake!"
"You're a curse—our curse!"
"You will bring only destruction, and even I cannot save you!"
"You deserve death. You should have died the moment you were born!"
Alaric trembled in horror, tears streaming down his face. He did not know why. He did not understand. But the hatred was absolute.
Then—new voices pierced through.
"Save me! Save us!"
"Why are you doing this to us?"
"You're a monster!"
"Spare us!"
"Do something!"
The chorus multiplied, twisting into a storm of torment, clawing at his sanity. The souls began to move, drawing closer, while those in the palace climbed the wall, reaching for him, ready to drag him down into their void.
And then—
A scream tore through the chaos.
Rowenne's.
It was so loud, so desperate, it shattered the illusion. The forest itself trembled.
Something inside Alaric broke. He snapped, his voice exploding with a power he had never known:
"STOP!"
The single word thundered, deep and resounding, echoing across the forest. Shadows and souls recoiled instantly, trembling. Though invisible, Alaric felt it—they obeyed. They feared him. And one by one, they prostrated before him.
The very fabric of the forest split. Light blazed through the tear, radiant and blinding. Exhausted, terrified, yet unyielding, Alaric stepped toward it.
The brilliance swallowed him whole.
And when it faded—he was back. Back in the hut.