The fire sputtered low, its glow barely keeping the night at bay. Shadows clung to the edges of the clearing, stretching long and dark, like the forest itself was listening. None of us spoke for a long time after returning. The runes carved into those ruined stones still burned in my mind, and the hiss of that corrupted creature haunted my ears.
Borgu broke the silence first. He spat into the dirt, wiped his mouth, and growled, "Hah! Coward worms. Run away when Borgu about to chop them all into stew." He leaned back with a scowl, though his fingers drummed restlessly on the haft of his axe.
Sylvara, perched cross-legged by the fire, didn't even look at him. "You can't stew corruption, orc. You'd choke on its rot before it ever filled your belly." Her tone was flat, sharp in a way that even Borgu didn't immediately challenge.
Lorian sat hunched, staring at the flames. His spear lay across his lap, cleaned but still scarred with black burns where the ichor had eaten the wood. "I thought it would just… fall when we killed it," he said softly. "Like any other beast. But it didn't. Even when it split apart, it kept writhing." His voice faltered, his knuckles tightening on the shaft of his weapon.
I poked the embers with a stick, stirring the coals back into flame. "That's the point. This isn't something that dies easy. It isn't something that plays by rules we understand."
The silence that followed pressed heavy, like damp wool around the shoulders.
Sylvara's gaze flicked toward me then. Her silver eyes caught the firelight, sharp as cut steel. "You've faced unnatural things before, haven't you? You weren't surprised by the stag. Or the eel-things."
Her words weren't accusation, but they weren't curiosity either. They carried the weight of expectation.
I met her gaze evenly. "I've seen the world break itself in smaller ways. Rot spreading through villages. Fields that wouldn't grow again because of something foul beneath. The signs were there in that creature too."
Her brow furrowed, but she didn't push further. Perhaps because she already understood.
Borgu finally huffed, scratching his chest. "All this talk, and no one saying what we do. Orc tired of waiting. Waiting makes the belly hungry, and the heart soft."
"Then you'd rather rush into the ruins?" Sylvara snapped, finally lifting her head. "March straight to the thing your ancestors might've sealed, and open it wide just because you want a fight?"
"Better than waiting like scared rabbits!" Borgu roared, jabbing a thick finger toward her. "At least Borgu does something!"
His voice cracked across the clearing like an axe splitting wood. Lorian flinched, half-rising, but I raised a hand, steadying him. Then I turned to Borgu, my own voice low, deliberate.
"Doing something is only worth it if it keeps us alive. Fighting until you fall won't protect anyone. Not me. Not her. Not him. Not even you."
The orc's nostrils flared. For a moment, I thought he'd swing his axe in blind fury. But then he exhaled hard, his shoulders sagging. He looked away, muttering, "Hrrn. Still think talking like this is soft."
Sylvara didn't smile, but there was the faintest flicker of relief in her eyes.
Later, when the fire had burned lower and Borgu snored against a log, I found myself staring up at the canopy. The stars peered faintly through the cracks in the branches.
Sylvara shifted beside me, her voice barely above a whisper. "That ruin… I recognized some of the runes. They weren't just a warning. They were a binding. A promise, etched by blood."
I turned my head toward her. "And now it's failing."
She nodded, her face pale in the faint firelight. "If the corruption has reached even the beasts, then the seal must be weakening faster than I imagined. We have time… but not forever."
"Then we make use of the time we have," I said.
Her eyes lingered on me for a heartbeat, and I thought I caught a flicker of trust—or maybe desperation. Either way, it was enough.
The next day dawned gray, the sun smothered by clouds. We rose quietly, as if the forest might notice if we were too loud.
Breakfast was simple—roasted roots Sylvara had dug up the day before, and a few strips of dried venison. Borgu complained the whole time.
"Tch. Not enough meat. Orc stomach not made for rabbit food." He tore at the venison anyway, grumbling between bites.
Lorian managed a small laugh, though it sounded forced. "If you want more meat, maybe you can ask those eel-things politely next time."
Borgu narrowed his eyes, but instead of snapping back, he grunted. Almost approval. Almost.
It wasn't much, but it was something.
The day itself passed with work. We couldn't go back to the ruins—not yet. Not when the memory of glowing red eyes still lingered so fresh. So instead, we turned inward. Toward survival.
Borgu and I felled two small trees, shaping their trunks into sturdier posts for a stockade. Lorian hauled stones from the stream, his hands blistered but his jaw set. Sylvara moved silently between us, guiding where walls might rise, where traps could be set, her sharp eye catching details the rest of us missed.
It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't heroic. But as the posts went into the ground, as the stones stacked one atop another, I felt the tension in my chest ease just slightly.
Every strike of axe and hammer, every grunt and heave, was a statement: We are still here. We will not be swept away.
That night, the stew pot simmered heavier than usual. Borgu had gone hunting, returning with a hare and a brace of birds. Sylvara had added herbs and roots, Lorian had helped carve strips of bark for bowls, and I had stirred the pot, letting the flavors meld.
The four of us sat close to the fire, bowls steaming in our hands.
Borgu tore into his portion with relish. "Ha! This food. Not rabbit leaf stew. Good. Strong. Worthy."
Lorian chuckled, though his voice still carried the weight of the last two days. "If we keep eating like this, maybe I'll actually grow muscles like you."
Borgu thumped his chest proudly. "Muscles come with battle. Not stew."
Sylvara smirked faintly. "Then perhaps you should thank Kael for saving yours yesterday. Without him, you'd be muscle for those eel-things."
The orc grunted, glaring into his bowl. "…Borgu saved himself." But his ears twitched in a way that betrayed more than his words.
I didn't call him out. Some things didn't need saying.
Instead, I lifted my bowl, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "We faced something yesterday that should've killed us. And it didn't. Because we stood together."
The fire popped, and for a moment, none of us spoke. Then Sylvara raised her bowl slightly in response, her gaze soft but steady. Lorian followed quickly, a nervous smile on his lips. Borgu hesitated… then grunted, raising his half-empty bowl a fraction.
It wasn't a toast. Not truly. But it was enough.
As the night grew deeper, and the stew pot emptied, the four of us lingered by the fire. The weight of the ruins and the corruption still pressed against us like a storm waiting beyond the treeline. But here, in the circle of firelight, there was something else too.
Resolve.
We weren't running. Not yet. We weren't broken. Not yet.
We were preparing.
For whatever lay beneath. For whatever waited in the shadows.
And as long as we held to this fire, to each other, the forest would not take us easily.