The forest swallowed them whole.
Rain pattered against the canopy, dripping from the long, black needles of the pines in steady, hollow beats. The air smelled of wet bark and something else — faint but sharp, like burnt iron.
Kastor kept a brisk pace, glancing over his shoulder every few minutes as if expecting the scarred man to step from the shadows. Elara followed close, her boots sinking into the mud with every step. The fight by the stream still burned in her muscles, but it was the memory of that place — the throne wreathed in shifting flames — that weighed on her.
She broke the silence first. "You've seen it before, haven't you?"
Kastor didn't look back. "Once. Years ago."
"Then you know what it is."
"I know enough to run from it."
The trail narrowed, forcing them to walk single file. The trees here grew close, their trunks gnarled and scarred as if clawed by something enormous. The light dimmed, and for a moment Elara thought she saw faint shapes moving between the shadows — tall, thin figures that vanished when she tried to focus on them.
"You're not answering me," she pressed.
He stopped so suddenly she almost walked into him. "It's called the Ash Throne. A relic of Valmyr's last king — but it's not a throne anymore. Not really. It's… alive. And if you saw it, then it's already looking back at you."
She swallowed. "And the scarred man?"
"One of the Crownless," Kastor said, his tone darkening. "They're the ones who survived the last war, the ones who believe the Throne can be restored. They think if they put the Ash Crown back on a ruler's head, the old empire will rise again."
"That sounds like a fairy tale."
"Fairy tales don't send men to kill you."
A branch snapped somewhere behind them. Both froze.
Kastor drew his blade in silence, motioning for her to do the same. They stood still, listening. The sound came again — not from behind, but above.
Something dropped from the branches.
It landed between them, crouched low. At first glance, it looked human — until it raised its head and Elara saw its eyes. They glowed faintly red, the light reflecting in the rain. Its skin was pale, stretched thin over sharp bones, and in its hands it gripped two hooked blades.
The creature smiled, revealing teeth far too sharp.
"You've been carrying something that doesn't belong to you," it hissed, voice like scraping stone. "The Crownless send their regards."
It lunged before either of them could speak.
Kastor moved to intercept, steel flashing in the dim light, but the creature was impossibly fast. Its twin blades struck from different angles, forcing him back. Elara darted in from the side, aiming for its ribs, but the creature twisted unnaturally, her strike slicing empty air.
It was laughing. Not loudly, but in a low, gurgling way that made her skin crawl.
The shard in her pouch pulsed. Hard.
The heat seared through the fabric, and without thinking, she pulled it free. The crystal blazed with a dull red glow, casting shadows across the pines.
The creature froze mid-attack. Its eyes widened — not in fear, but in recognition. "The Heart Shard…" it whispered.
Kastor didn't waste the moment. His blade swept across in a clean, brutal arc. The creature staggered, its laughter breaking into a wet gasp. It fell to one knee, eyes locked on the shard even as the life drained from them.
When it hit the mud, the forest went silent again.
Elara looked at the shard in her hand. The glow faded slowly, but the warmth remained, curling up her arm like a living thing.
Kastor sheathed his sword, breathing hard. "We need to get out of the Black Pines before nightfall."
"What was that thing?" she asked.
"An Ashbound," he said grimly. "Servants of the Throne."
"And it wanted the shard."
"They all will," Kastor replied. "Which means if we keep going, the only safe place left is the one place we swore never to go."
She met his gaze. "Valmyr's ruins."
He nodded once. "And if we're lucky, we'll get there before the Crownless do."