The adrenaline that had fueled Kael's desperate escape from the Fen Stalker faded, leaving behind a crushing exhaustion and the searing pain of his twisted ankle. Every step was agony. The Heartstone, now dim and unresponsive after its powerful surge, offered no immediate solace, only its usual faint coolness against his skin.
He knew the Stalker wouldn't give up easily. He had wounded its pride and escaped its grasp. It would hunt him. He had to keep moving, despite the pain, despite the weariness that threatened to pull him under.
The Blackwood, which had seemed menacing on his way in, now felt like a suffocating, endless labyrinth. The eerie quiet was punctuated by sounds that made his skin crawl – the snap of a twig behind him, a rustle in the canopy above, a half-heard growl that could have been the wind, or something far more sinister. Every shadow seemed to hold the lurking form of the Stalker.
He pushed himself relentlessly, rationing his meager supplies. He found a sturdy branch to use as a makeshift crutch, which helped, but his progress was agonizingly slow. The Moonpetal Ferns, carefully wrapped and tucked away, were a constant reminder of his purpose, the only thing keeping him from succumbing to despair.
He relied on the passive enhancements the Heartstone still provided – the slightly sharper senses that warned him of a hidden sinkhole or the approach of lesser, but still dangerous, Blackwood creatures. He avoided confrontations whenever possible, his priority now solely on escape. He had no energy for unnecessary fights, and the Heartstone was clearly in its "recharge" phase.
Days blurred into a haze of pain, hunger, and fear. He slept in short, fitful bursts, hidden in dense thickets or the hollows of ancient trees, his spear always within reach, one ear always attuned to the sounds of the swamp. Several times, he found fresh tracks – large, feline prints with an unnatural shadowiness to them – confirming the Fen Stalker was still on his trail, sometimes drawing uncomfortably close. Each discovery spurred him onward with a fresh jolt of terror.
Once, huddled in a shallow cave as a chilling, unnatural rain lashed the Blackwood, he heard it: a low, mournful howl that was definitely not the wind. It was closer than he liked. He pressed himself deeper into the cave, clutching the Heartstone, trying to will it to respond, but it remained stubbornly inert. He was on his own.
He began to truly understand Roric's harsh lessons: the stone was a powerful ally, but it wasn't infallible. True survival came from wit, endurance, and an unyielding will.
His ankle, despite his best efforts to bind it, swelled and throbbed. Infection was a constant worry. He remembered watching Myra treat wounds with specific mosses and saps. He forced himself to recall those lessons, identifying and applying what poultices he could find, hoping to stave off the worst.
During one of his brief rests, weak with hunger and pain, he took out the journal. He couldn't read it, but the familiar sight of the script, the drawing of the hand and the shard, was a strange comfort. He traced the lines, his mind numb with exhaustion. He found himself focusing on the intricate geometric patterns in the margins of some pages. They seemed to pulse with a subtle, almost subliminal rhythm if he stared at them long enough. He didn't know what it meant, but it was a distraction from the gnawing fear.
As he neared the edge of the Blackwood, where the oppressive canopy began to thin and the air felt a fraction cleaner, hope, fragile but persistent, began to flicker within him. He was almost out.
But the Fen Stalker was relentless.
On his final day within the Blackwood's oppressive gloom, as he limped towards what he prayed was the Blackwood pass, he heard a rustle directly behind him. He whirled, his makeshift crutch falling away, spear coming up defensively.
The Fen Stalker stood not ten paces away, its emerald eyes burning with cold fury. It looked leaner, angrier, but no less deadly. It had cornered him.
There was no time for strategy, no time for the Heartstone to hopefully grant him clarity. This was raw survival.
Kael roared, a sound of pure, desperate defiance, and charged – or rather, hobbled as fast as his injured ankle would allow – directly at the beast. It was a suicidal move, born of utter desperation.
The Stalker, perhaps surprised by the audacity of its wounded prey, paused for a heartbeat. In that instant, Kael did the only thing he could think of. He didn't aim for a killing blow. He threw his spear with all his remaining strength, not at the Stalker's body, but at its eyes.
It was a wild, improbable throw.
But the Stalker, in its arrogance or surprise, flinched. The spear didn't find its eyes, but it struck the side of its head with enough force to make it yowl in pain and stumble.
Kael didn't wait to see more. He turned and fled, pushing his battered body to its absolute limit, ignoring the agony in his ankle. He could hear the enraged roars of the Stalker behind him, closer now.
He burst out of the Blackwood and into the relatively open terrain of the Blackwood pass, the pale sunlight a shocking, welcome sight. He didn't stop. He ran, stumbled, and crawled, driven by the primal need to escape.
When he finally collapsed, miles from the Blackwood's edge, he looked back. There was no sign of the Stalker. Whether it had given up the chase once he left its domain, or if his desperate ploy had bought him enough time, he didn't know. He didn't care.
He was out. And clutched in his pouch, battered but intact, were the Moonpetal Ferns.
He lay there for a long time, gasping for breath, every muscle screaming, his vision swimming. The journey back to Veridian Hollow would still be long and hard, but he had faced the Shadowfen and its master, and he had survived.
He touched the Heartstone. It felt a little warmer now, a faint thrum returning to its depths. It was slowly, but surely, recharging. And so, he knew, was he.