Clive's POV
The deeper we walked, the more the forest began to close in—not just with trees, but with the feeling of being watched.
Selvara walked behind me, silent, step for step. She hadn't tried to speak since the fight. That was fine by me. I still didn't trust her.
Grimpel hadn't made a joke in over an hour. That worried me more than any monster ever could.
We followed the half-buried stones of a forgotten road. It wound like a scar through the trees, leading us somewhere unnamed, somewhere heavier.
I gripped my staff tightly. The Wyrmstone on my neck pulsed again—not as a warning this time. Just a pulse. A heartbeat. A reminder: I was still broken.
"You feel that?" Selvara asked.
"Yeah," I said. "Trouble."
A sharp breeze sliced through the clearing ahead. Too sharp. It came with the scent of metal and something fouler—burnt ink and sweat.
Then they stepped out.
Four of them. Bandits. But not ordinary ones.
They wore mismatched armor, and tattoos lit faintly across their skin—cheap magic, pulsing blue and red. Each had a different kind of trinket: rings, earrings, pendants. Fakes. Magic borrowed, not earned.
"You wandered too close to the edge, soul boy," the lead bandit growled. He twirled a copper ring and smirked. "Hand over the shiny stone and we'll let the girl go untouched."
I spun my staff in one hand. "Touch her and I'll cremate you sideways."
They laughed. The second bandit raised his hand. One of the tattoos on his forearm flared. A jet of frost burst toward us.
I stepped forward.
I didn't think. I felt.
Fire bloomed from the tip of my staff—not conjured, but dragged from the weight in my chest. It cracked in the air and shattered the frost mid-flight.
The bandit staggered. "That's not ink magic. That's... real."
"Yeah," I said. "It hurts."
Behind me, Selvara moved like water. She didn't cast spells. She didn't even speak.
A vine slithered up from the ground, wrapping the third bandit's leg and yanking him down. Moss crept over his mouth before he could scream.
Nature obeyed her. Not with power. With memory.
"You borrowed magic," she said to the last one. "He is magic."
The fourth tried to run.
Grimpel hummed. One low, strange note.
The air trembled. The man dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
"Overkill," I muttered.
"Efficient," Grimpel replied.
We stood in the silence after, breathing heavy. The bandits twitched in the dirt, stunned, not dead. That was enough.
I lowered my staff. The Wyrmstone on my chest pulsed once more—this time brighter. We were close.
"They were waiting for us," Selvara said.
I nodded. "They knew about the shard."
"The Wyrmstone draws attention. It's loud, magically speaking." She crouched beside one of the fallen bandits. "They were following the pulse, not you."
Grimpel hovered behind me, unusually quiet. "They wouldn't be camped this deep in the forest unless they were guarding something."
I glanced ahead. The road sloped downward. Past the trees, I could see lantern lights. Smoke. Buildings.
"A town?" Selvara asked.
"Looks like it," I said. "Didn't think we'd hit one this soon."
"Maybe the shard's there," she said.
The Wyrmstone's glow steadied.
"Yeah," I muttered. "It's there."
We walked the last stretch in silence. Past ruined signposts. Past weeping stone gargoyles swallowed in vines. Toward flickering torchlight and creaking rooftops.
The town was alive.
Drums pounded in the distance. Laughter spilled from open tavern doors. Music, loud and shameless, filled the air with heat and movement. Darswich wasn't just a place—it was a celebration trying to forget something terrible.
We entered through the east path. Lanterns swayed above us, casting golden hues across the streets. Dancers spun barefoot in a circle by a fire pit. Drinks passed from hand to hand. The scent of spiced meats hit me like a wave.
Selvara exhaled beside me, slow and low. "Gods, it's loud."
I glanced over.
She was flushed. Or maybe that was the firelight. Her cloak had been singed at the hem during the fight, revealing more of her thigh than I expected. She caught me looking.
"What?" she said, smirking.
"Nothing."
"You stare like someone who's never seen skin before."
"I've seen plenty," I muttered.
"Not like mine."
My stomach twisted. I turned away too fast.
"Don't worry," she added, stepping closer. "I don't bite. Unless you ask."
Grimpel groaned. "Kill me again."
"I might," I muttered.
But I could feel her heat behind me. Not fire—hers. It pulsed in the air between us. Tension, slow and electric.
The Wyrmstone stopped pulsing.
"Here," I whispered. "The next shard is in this town."
Selvara tilted her head. "Which means tonight's going to be interesting."
I didn't answer.
I was too busy wondering if I should trust her proximity… or fear it.
And the Loud Moon above Darswich just kept laughing.