The fire burned low, its glow soft against the moss. The forest was quiet, too quiet, as if even the crickets dared not sing under Ashwyn's gaze. He sat cross-legged on a root that rose like a throne, the faint golden flecks in his eyes catching the firelight.
For a long time, no one spoke.
Finally, Ashwyn broke the silence. His voice was low, like stone rolled in the earth.
"The corruption spreads. Not as fire spreads, or sickness, but as a thought spreads. Slow. Patient. It waits for a voice. It waits for a host. It waits for one spark to grow black."
Rowan leaned forward, drawn to every word.
Ashwyn's gaze turned toward him. "Flickers are seeds. Fragile. Bright. Too many think a Flicker is harmless because its flame is small. But rot touches small things first. It twists them before they have roots. That is why they came for you. That is why they will come again."
Ari's jaw tightened. "Then we're already behind."
"You are not behind," Ashwyn said, shaking his head. "You are… very small. Small can move where large cannot. But the corruption—" his voice deepened, "—it does not need to win battles. It only needs to find the young before you do."
Rowan's hands clenched on his knees. The words pressed on him like a weight. "Is that why you have those… creatures? The stag, the wolf. They guard you against it?"
Ashwyn's eyes softened, just slightly. "They are not creatures. They are Soul Sprites."
Rowan swallowed. "What are they?"
"Fragments of soul-essence. Born when a spirit chooses to stand beside you, rather than apart." Ashwyn lifted a hand, palm up. A faint shimmer of green light pulsed along his fingers, fading as quickly as it came. "Most Sprites vanish when dismissed. Mist. Smoke. Nothing more. But when you become Merged…" He let the word hang, and it settled heavy in the air. "They do not vanish. They return. They are not mine to command—they are mine to carry. As I carry breath. As I carry blood."
Rowan's chest tightened. His own water swirled in his skin, restless. Could that one day become something like Ashwyn's Sprites?
Before he could ask, Nyx stirred. "Then why don't more have them? Why only you?"
Ashwyn's eyes flicked to her, unreadable. "Because few listen long enough. Fewer still survive what they hear."
The fire cracked.
And then—horns.
Distant, thin, carried on the night air. A scream followed. The sound of metal clashing.
Ari was on her feet in a blink. "That's close."
Ashwyn stood, and the forest seemed to move with him. His face was carved with something Rowan hadn't seen before: sorrow. "Too close," he said. "And too late."
Brennar hefted his axe. "Then let's see what's left of it."
They ran.
---
The forest gave way to smoke. It stung Rowan's throat, burned his eyes. The air reeked of pitch and blood.
When they broke from the trees, Rowan saw what Ashwyn had meant by too late.
The town—little more than a hamlet—was broken. The gate had been splintered. Homes burned low, roofs collapsed. Bodies lay in the mud, some torn, some blackened, some twisted beyond shape. Survivors—if there had been any—were gone.
And in the center, Rowan saw him.
A boy. No older than twelve, clutching his stomach, veins spidering black across his skin. His eyes rolled back, mouth open in a soundless cry. The corruption was inside him, writhing.
Over him loomed the figure that had brought it.
Tall, robed in tattered black that seemed to bleed shadow. Its face hidden behind a mask of bone, its eyes two green coals that smoked as they burned. Around its body curled a haze of sickly vapor—thick, green, poisonous.
The Corrupted Eclipse.
It did not raise a blade. It did not roar. It simply opened its hand above the boy, and green essence poured down like smoke into lungs.
Rowan stumbled forward, harpoon half-raised. "Stop!"
The Eclipse's head turned. Just once. Just enough for Rowan to feel those burning green eyes on him. Then it released the boy.
The child screamed. His body arched, veins crawling black from neck to wrist. He convulsed once, twice—then went limp.
Rowan froze, horror pinning him.
The boy's eyes snapped open again. For a heartbeat, they glowed the same poisonous green.
Ari's arrow flew. It struck clean between the boy's ribs. His breath caught, and he sagged, still at last.
Rowan gasped. "Why—why did you—?"
"He was already gone," Ari said, her voice a razor. "You saw it."
Rowan couldn't answer. His stomach lurched.
The Eclipse figure tilted its head, almost in amusement. Then, with no warning, its entire body dissolved. The black robes, the bone mask, the burning eyes—everything split into a roiling cloud of green gas.
It spread fast, hissing as it rolled across the street. Grass shriveled. Wood blackened. Rowan's lungs burned at the first breath.
"Cover your mouths!" Brennar bellowed, dragging a cloth across his face.
Rowan coughed, his chest clawing for air. He stumbled back, eyes streaming, the harpoon slipping from his hands.
The gas thickened, choking, until Rowan could see nothing but green haze. Figures blurred—Brennar's wide shoulders, Ari's drawn bow, Lyra's pale face pressed into cloth, Nyx vanishing into shadow.
And then it began to thin. Slowly. Fading as if it had never been.
When the haze cleared, the Eclipse was gone.
Only the broken boy remained, lying still in the mud with Ari's arrow buried in his chest.
---
Rowan dropped to his knees, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the boy's still face. His gut twisted. That could have been him. He had been the same once—lost, confused, flickering on the edge of nothing by the riverbank. Helpless. A spark waiting to be snuffed out.
But Brennar had been there. Brennar had dragged him to his feet, shoved a weapon into his hands, stood unflinching between him and death. Brennar had been the wall that held when Rowan could not.
The boy had no Brennar. And now he never would.
Rowan's throat burned, his eyes stung. For the first time, he understood the truth: he was alive because he'd had someone so stalwart, so unyielding, standing beside him. Fortune wasn't enough of a word for it. It was mercy. It was grace.
He clenched his waterskin until it creaked, his chest tight with a vow he could barely hold inside: one day, he would be that wall for someone else. He would not let another fall the way this boy had.
Ashwyn's voice cut through the silence, heavy as stone:
"Now you see. The corruption does not need to win battles. It only needs to reach the young before we do."
No one replied. Rowan's gaze stayed fixed on Brennar, on the man who had saved him when he could not save himself. And deep inside, beneath fear and grief, something new took root—hard and sharp as iron.