I didn't sleep.
Neither did Father.
By dawn, he was already sharpening his blade. The rhythmic grind of steel on whetstone echoed through the house. Each stroke felt like a heartbeat.
Controlled. Focused. Final.
I sat across from him, waiting for answers. He didn't make me wait long.
"They were Husks," he said. "Crafted by necromancy. Not true undead, not mindless either. Reflections. Echoes."
I nodded. "Whose?"
"Doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
He paused, then met my gaze. "An adept necromancer. Old. Patient. Dangerous. He makes echoes from scraps—bone, blood, memory. He only sends Husks when he's hunting."
I felt my throat tighten. "Me?"
He shook his head. "No, Igris. Me."
He told me everything.
Years ago, before I was born, before he met Mother, he was an adventurer—one of the quiet kind. No titles, no banners. He and a handful of others roamed the borderlands, protecting people when the kingdoms didn't care enough to send soldiers.
They found a necromancer near the Spine Hills. Building something. Preparing something. Father burned it to the ground. Burned a drake corpse too—one the necromancer needed.
"He's never forgiven me," Father said. "And he's never forgotten."
"So why come now?"
"Because he thinks I've gone soft. That I have something to lose."
His eyes met mine.
He's not wrong.
We left before noon.
Mother tried to stay strong. She kissed Father first, then knelt and held me tight.
"You come back to me, both of you," she whispered. Her voice didn't tremble. Her aura did.
"I promise," I said. It felt too small, but I meant every word.
Father turned and began carving into the ground with his dagger—complex patterns, deeper than simple runes. They shimmered to life beneath his fingers. Rings of light. Glyphs of power.
Wards. Arrays. Invisible to the naked eye.
But not to me.
My Void senses saw them clearly—silver veins etched through the soil, pulsing faintly with power I couldn't name.
"What do they do?" I asked, stepping closer.
"They keep evil out. And keep you in," he said, giving Arla a knowing look. "And this one here…" He pressed his palm into the center circle. "…calls for help."
The whole village felt different as we made our way toward the northern gate.
Magic hummed in the air. Defensive wards had bloomed like flowers from the roots of buildings—curling symbols running up stone, wood, and bone. Golems stood beside old wells and watch towers—silent, dormant giants with eyes of crystal and armor of stone.
"I didn't know we had golems," I said quietly.
"We didn't," said Harun, the village smith, stepping out from his forge. His hammer was slung across his back. His hands glowed faintly with aura.
"Not until now."
More villagers came to see us off—Raisa the herbalist, old Talden the rune-weaver, and several others I only half-knew. Most bore faint auras. A few had magic. Some had anima beasts at their heels.
They had always been more than simple villagers.
They had just never needed to show it.
At the gate, Father knelt beside me.
"This is your first trial, Igris. Not training. Not games. A true hunt. You'll see death. You'll feel it breathing down your neck. But you'll keep moving. Understand?"
I nodded.
"Good." He rose and looked to the woods. "Then let's begin."
We stepped beyond the barrier and into the wild.
The air changed immediately. Thicker. Quieter. More alert.
Every branch, every shadow, every gust of wind—it all felt… aware.
Hunting us.
Or waiting to be hunted.
I reached for the blade at my side, felt my aura stir, and whispered to myself.
Let them come.