The first signs of the trap came within minutes of Liora's rescue.
The black-armored giants didn't press the assault — they parted, letting the Dark Elves surge forward instead, bows and curved blades flashing. Above, the newcomers — the mysterious fourth force — spread across the treeline like vultures circling meat.
It was a noose, tightening.
Vaeryn ran at Eliakim's flank, knives dancing, cutting down enemies that came too close… yet Eliakim's eye caught every hesitation. Every angle where a single strike could have opened a path wider — but Vaeryn didn't take it. The triple-agent was managing their survival, not ensuring it.
"West!" Eliakim barked, Codex map burning bright in his mind as Skyling fed him constant updates from above. "We cut through the ridge before they seal it!"
The group moved — Gideon holding the rear, his twin blades burning cold fire and hottest ice in wide arcs, Kaelvryn's voice whispering new footwork in his head. Ezra's magic roared uncontrolled, obliterating chunks of forest and enemy alike, forcing Eliakim to time his orders perfectly so her blasts didn't take Caleb's arrows with them.
They fought for every step.
The ridge was a jagged wall of stone and gnarled roots, with arrows raining from both above and behind. The fourth force had archers everywhere, their shafts landing in deadly rhythm.
Caleb's bow sang back, each arrow punching through gaps in enemy armor like they were threads through cloth. "We're not making that climb without cover!" he called.
Eliakim looked at Ezra. "Now!"
Her eyes flared — and the world ahead exploded in a raw surge of heat and frost, tearing open a gap in the ridge's defenders. Rocks steamed; leaves curled into ash.
They climbed.
And still, the enemy harried them — dark shapes leaping from ledges, black-armored warriors trying to wedge into the group. Gideon's blades caught them mid-leap, his stance perfect, unyielding. Vaeryn vanished twice, reappearing only when an attacker was too close to Liora, his face unreadable.
The higher they went, the thinner the air grew, the more the world opened below.
Then — at the ridge's crest — Skyling's cry split the chaos. The Codex map flared in Eliakim's mind, showing open water glimmering far beyond the next valley. Not safety, but a direction — a way out.
Liora saw it too. "The river!" she gasped, voice shaking but bright. "If we reach it, we can break their lines!"
For a heartbeat, the entire group stilled, staring at that silver thread cutting across the landscape.
They didn't cry "Thalassa." But in that moment, every heartbeat said the same thing — Survive.
Eliakim drew his blade, pointed downhill toward the valley, and spoke the only order that mattered now.
"Run. Fight. Don't stop until we touch that water."
And the March of the Hunted began.