The forest burned.
Not with fire, but with silence. A thick, choking quiet that swallowed even the wind.
I stood at the edge of the trees. Alone. My father was gone. The sky above me pulsed like a dying star, red veins cracking through black clouds. The ground bled shadow.
Something was moving in that shadow.
A shape—tall, crooked, twitching like a marionette missing its strings. Bone and rot. The stench of old magic and older death. Its mouth opened, and I heard my own voice scream from inside it.
"Igris…"
It stepped forward.
"Igris!"
I gasped and sat up.
My hand reached instinctively for the dagger at my belt. The ruins of the old shrine were still around me. The air was cold and damp, and the soft crackle of a magical flame glowed faintly from our campfire ring.
"You alright?" Father asked quietly, not turning from his seat on the stone.
He was carving something into the ground with a bone-handled knife, each movement precise and deliberate.
"I saw… something." I shook my head. "It was a dream. A nightmare. A Husk, I think. But twisted."
He didn't react. "Dreams are warnings sometimes. Other times, they're echoes. But don't let them shake your footing."
I breathed slower. His calm was contagious.
Then his voice changed—softer, but sharpened by urgency. "Don't move. We've got company."
My body froze.
He stood slowly, still not looking at me. His eyes were distant, scanning the treeline.
"A scouting party. Five Husks. At least."
I could barely sense them, flickers of pressure on the edge of my Void sense—like old bones clattering in wet soil.
"What do we do?" I whispered.
His reply was a single word.
"Run."
We sprinted down the ridge path—Father leading, me just a pace behind.
But even as we ran, he moved his fingers through the air like a conductor. His aura flared subtly, not enough to draw attention, but enough to bend light and energy to his will.
With each flick of his wrist, he touched the environment—stones, trees, broken pillars—and left behind burning trails of silver and gold glyphs, some circular, others jagged and branching.
I couldn't read them, but I felt their weight.
Then the forest behind us roared.
An explosion cracked through the trees—louder than thunder, sharper than any beast's roar. A wave of heat washed over my back as dirt and bark rained from the sky. Moments later, another blast followed. And another.
The trees screamed. Roots tore free from the ground. Something massive groaned as if waking from slumber.
"What was that?!" I called, leaping over a fallen log.
"Explosive runes," Father replied, surprisingly calm. "Layered with disruptor glyphs and splinter tags. Meant to confuse the senses, trigger unstable anima in corpses."
He pointed to a massive tree he had brushed minutes ago. A glowing sigil pulsed on its trunk—vines curled in the shape of a spiral eye.
"That one," he said. "That's special."
I felt it before I saw it.
A surge of energy, deep and old. The tree trembled—its bark splitting open as green light seeped through like blood from a wound. Roots writhed. Branches twisted.
Then the entire trunk moved.
Limbs snapped into arms. Roots curled like toes. Its upper half stretched toward the sky, and a gaping hollow opened where a face should've been. The glow of spirit-fire danced within.
It let out a bellow that was half-growl, half-rustle-of-leaves. Then it charged in the direction of the approaching Husks, tearing through the forest like a storm.
I froze mid-stride.
Father turned back toward me with a grin.
"Trent spirit. Learned that one from a Druid after I helped him banish a swamp leech god. Said it was a thank-you."
I blinked. "You summoned a Trent with a rune?"
"Technically, I invited a lesser forest spirit into a suitable host. Takes very little anima if you know the sigil. The trick's in the timing."
He glanced toward the chaos behind us. "Too early, and the spirit refuses. Too late, and it bonds… poorly."
We kept running until the explosions faded into echoes.
Eventually, Father pulled us off the path and ducked behind a thick outcropping of stone. We crouched, both breathing hard. He checked his surroundings, placing a few quick glyphs in a triangular pattern above us.
"Cloak ward," he said. "Will blur our scent and blend our energy signatures."
I nodded and sat back, heart still pounding.
"Those Husks…" I murmured, "they were faster than the ones from the village."
"They were stronger too," he said, face grim. "The necromancer's probing. Testing our limits. And he's getting closer to knowing them."
I looked down at my hands. My aura pulsed weakly. I had trained, fought, learned—yet still felt like a shadow next to Father.
He noticed.
"You did well," he said suddenly. "Stayed close. Didn't panic. That buys time. And time is everything out here."
I nodded slowly, swallowing the tightness in my chest.
"Was that your first time seeing a Trent?"
"First time seeing anything like that."
He chuckled. "Good. First times stick with you. They shape your instincts."
I let the silence sit for a while, then finally asked, "So what now?"
He unsheathed a curved dagger and began drawing new sigils in the dirt.
"Now," he said, "we prepare for the second wave."