They tumbled down the embankment, the fortress shrinking behind them, a jagged crown of stone against the night sky. Breathless, Kaelen leaned against a crooked pine, listening for pursuit.
It came quickly.
The forest shuddered with the thrum of mounted riders—iron-shod hooves cracking roots, armor creaking in the gloom. A hunting horn wailed, the sound sliding along Kaelen's nerves like a blade.
"They'll run us down in minutes," he panted.
Orien was scanning the trees, eyes distant. "Not if the forest doesn't want them."
Before Kaelen could ask what that meant, Orien stepped away from the trail and placed a hand against the rough bark of an old oak. The night air seemed to still. Then—faint at first—Kaelen felt a pressure, as though the earth beneath them were inhaling.
Leaves rustled without wind. Roots shifted with a slow, deliberate creak. And then the ground moved.
The trail behind them buckled, torn open by massive roots that arched upward like the ribs of some ancient beast. A startled whinny split the dark, followed by shouts as riders were thrown from their saddles. One horse bolted; another went down screaming.
Kaelen stared, frozen. "You… you made the trees—"
Orien turned, face pale but resolute. "No. They chose."
But Kaelen had seen it. That same ripple across Orien's skin, now spreading up his neck like ink in water. In the flicker of moonlight, his eyes caught the light in a way no human's ever could—shifting from gray to something molten, alive.
The riders regrouped farther down the slope, but none dared cross the tangled wall of roots now sealing off the path.
"Move," Orien urged, voice low. "This will not hold long."
Kaelen obeyed, though his mind churned. Whatever Orien truly was—it wasn't just dangerous. It was something the earth itself seemed to answer to.
And Kaelen wasn't sure whether to be grateful… or afraid.