Chapter 3: The Thirteenth Echo
The forest breathed around him, slow and damp. Leaves twitched in the breeze like whispering tongues. Every branch, every creak, and every crunch of twig underfoot felt alive.
Corren moved like mist. He was no heavier than smoke and no louder than silence.
He had been following the harvesters since dawn. Their careless laughter guided him through the woods. They were louder than beasts and clumsier than prey. It was easy to keep his distance. Easy to blend in. He was Elavari. Shadows were his home.
But fate had teeth.
Somewhere among the twisting vines and tangled roots, one of them wandered off. A tall one, slouched over. His leather armor was scratched and patched from a dozen raids. A scar ran down his neck like a split rope. He complained about needing to pee and turned left, his boots crunching over dried leaves as if the forest wasn't watching.
Corren was the forest now.
He waited. Thirty feet. Twenty.
Scar-neck undid his belt, muttering himself, unaware.
Corren's fingers brushed the knife, the black one. His own weapon forged of blood.t. He took it from its cloth wrapping. The blade shimmered like oil on water. It felt warm and familiar. It felt hungry.
His hand shook, but not from fear.
From need.
The man turned around, zipping up, whistling.
Then he stopped.
The whistle broke.
There, standing in the clearing, was a boy with a black-bladed knife in his hand and a scythe chained across his back.