Her scream tore through the air. It was raw and full of terror.
They were closer now. Very close.
Five men emerged from the thick mist, their faces hidden behind masks made of bone and ash. They moved like shadows, their feet barely making a sound on the rocky ground.
Their glowing eyes stayed locked on her like she was prey they'd been hunting for years.
Arena stumbled backward, her hands reaching blindly for Peter. Her heart hammered so hard she thought it might burst.
"Wh–what do they want from me?" she whispered, her voice barely holding together.
Peter didn't answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the figures moving toward them like death itself.
"You shouldn't be here," he said through gritted teeth. "They can smell you now. You're not just lost anymore—you're marked."
"Marked?" Her voice cracked with fear. "What are you talking about? I just followed Freya! I thought I saw—"
"That wasn't Freya," Peter cut her off sharply. "It was her. The Lure. She takes the shape of someone you love, someone you trust. That's how she pulls you into this place."
Arena shook her head frantically. "No. That's impossible. This isn't—this can't be real."
But the fire in her lungs, the throbbing pain in her scraped knee, the cold stone beneath her feet, everything felt more real than anything she'd ever experienced.
Peter reached out, grabbed her wrist. "We have to go. Now."
"Go where?" she asked, voice rising. "What even is this place?"
He glanced behind them, fear flickering across his face. "The Boundary Realm. It exists between life and what comes after death. It chooses who it wants—and it almost never lets them go."
Suddenly, a low growl echoed through the air, making her bones vibrate. The tallest of the masked men raised his arm. His palm began to glow with symbols—red, ancient, and pulsing with rage.
Arena's body locked up completely.
She couldn't move. Couldn't even breathe properly.
Her arms and legs froze mid-motion. Panic flooded her mind as she struggled against whatever force held her.
"Peter—!" she tried to scream, but only a whisper came out.
Peter was already moving, placing himself between her and the men. His own hands stretched out in front of him, trembling with faint blue light. Arena had never seen anything like it.
"You'll have to go through me first," he growled.
The men stopped—but only for a heartbeat.
The leader raised two fingers, and Arena felt the air around them turn thick and poisonous.
Dark energy shot toward them like a living thing, hungry and violent.
Peter turned his head and shouted, "Run when I tell you to. Don't look back, no matter what you hear."
Arena wanted to scream, to fight, to run—but her body remained frozen, bound by whatever spell had been cast.
And then, just as the wave of dark power hit Peter's body—
Everything went black.
She didn't fall. She didn't float.
She simply... disappeared.
Until suddenly—
Light hit her eyes.
A ceiling above her. Cracked and made of old wood.
The sound of fire crackling somewhere close by. Warmth touching her cheek.
She was lying on some kind of old wooden bed, rough blankets covering her body. Peter sat beside her, breathing hard, blood staining the side of his torn shirt.
"You're awake," he said quietly. His eyes looked exhausted, like he'd been fighting for hours.
"What happened?" she whispered, her voice hoarse.
"They tried to claim you."
"And you?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he stood up slowly, walked to the door, and slid a heavy metal bolt shut.
"They'll try again," he said, not looking at her. "Because you're more than just marked now, Arena."
She sat up quickly, her heart starting to race again. "What do you mean?"
Peter turned around slowly.
His eyes burned with a strange, unnatural light.
"Because you're one of us."
Arena's breath caught in her throat.
"One of what?"
Peter walked closer and crouched down to her level. Gently, he reached for her wrist and turned it over.
And there it was.
A symbol burned deep into her skin, glowing faintly in the dim light—the exact same one the masked leader had on his palm.
She stared at it in complete horror. The mark pulsed like a heartbeat, warm against her cold skin.
"What... what does this mean?" she asked, barely able to speak.
Peter's expression was grim.
"It means they won't stop hunting you until you're theirs. Or until you're dead."
Outside the small hut, something scratched against the wooden wall.
Scritch.
Scritch.
Scritch.
Then, soft as a lullaby—
A whisper.
"Arena... please let me in. It's cold out here."
She froze.
That voice.
It was Freya.
TO BE CONTINUED…