The villagers gathered at the edge of the square long before the four were ready to leave.
Most of them still wore bandages, some around arms, some across ribs or shoulders, but they stood tall now—eyes bright, breaths steady, minds clear. The corrupted haze that once clung to them had evaporated during the night. Relief lingered in every smile, soft and fragile like something newly learned.
They had feasted together only hours ago, eating until the fires burned low and the children fell asleep where they sat. Now the feast's echo lived on in the parting gifts shoved into their arms: baskets of bread, jars of berry jam, dried herbs tied with twine, bundles of firewood someone insisted they "might need for the road."
Riel didn't know what to do with any of it.
He stood stiff and uncertain, holding a basket of bread like he expected it to explode.
Seris accepted everything with bright enthusiasm, tossing her hair over her shoulder as if it helped her carry more. Kaelith somehow managed to thank every person individually, warm and earnest, until his arms were full of folded blankets and jars of honey. Varen, meanwhile, had devolved into the carriage-loading commander, directing villagers where to place supplies with the seriousness of a man planning a siege.
"Put the jars on the left so the weight stays even," Varen said, gesturing with his notebook.
"You don't know how carriages shake," Seris teased.
He didn't look up. "I know how objects break."
Kaelith laughed. "He's got you there."
Riel muttered, "This is how we die. Buried under jam."
Seris nudged him. "It's cute."
"It's heavy," Riel corrected, adjusting the basket before it slipped.
When the last thank-yous were spoken and final hugs given, Kaelith turned back to the villagers, shoulders relaxed, smile soft.
"We'll make sure the Cradle knows everything. You won't be left undefended again."
They believed him immediately.
Riel wished he could believe himself that easily.
The four climbed into the carriage waiting at the edge of the path—repaired, polished, even decorated with little carved charms the children had tied to the wheels.
The horses started forward.
Ashvale disappeared behind them, swallowed by the forest.
The early morning light filtered through trees in shifting patterns, brushing gold across the carriage walls. Outside, the forest breathed a soft hush—an easy, gentle calm.
Inside, it took Varen ten whole minutes before he opened his notebook again.
"So," he said casually, flipping a page, "we should compile the Ashvale data while it's still fresh. One corrupted Heart, one Shade with unexpectedly structured behavior, a partially intact ritual chamber, and signs of external tampering."
Kaelith leaned back, boots tapping lightly against the floor. "You say that like it wasn't terrifying."
"I didn't say it wasn't terrifying," Varen replied. "I said it was structured."
Seris stretched, arms overhead. "It wasn't that bad."
"You screamed twice," Riel murmured.
"I scream for dramatic effect," she said, unbothered.
Kaelith snorted. "You nearly set my hair on fire."
"That was also dramatic effect," she argued.
Riel couldn't stop the soft huff of laughter that escaped him. The tension in his chest loosened, the kind that always felt like someone pressing their hand against his ribs.
He let his head lean back against the carriage wall. Seris was humming something tuneless, Kaelith tapping a rhythm with his fingers, Varen scribbling notes with his usual sharp neatness.
For a brief stretch of road, Riel allowed himself to feel… almost normal.
Almost safe.
Almost.
By the time the carriage rolled into the Cradle's front courtyard, sunlight glinted off the high spires of the academy like polished bone. Students filled the grounds—sparring, chanting, weaving spells, or falling on their faces attempting to do any of the three.
Riel stepped out and stretched, joints cracking in ways that made Seris wince sympathetically.
Instructors approached within seconds.
Kaelith began the account—not rambling, not dramatic, just clear. Honest. Warm. The way he always spoke when he wanted to be believed.
Varen added technical notes: the runic lattice, the structural pattern of the ritual circle, the changes in corruption density.
Seris chimed in only when needed, mostly describing sensations: the pressure, the strange pulse, the way the air thickened near the Heart.
Riel stayed quiet.
He didn't add anything unless someone specifically asked him—and then he kept it short. Straightforward. No interpretations.
Just what he had seen and done.
The instructors listened carefully. They nodded. They didn't dismiss anything outright.
But something hovered in their eyes—doubt mixed with caution, a careful distance like they were trying not to jump to conclusions too quickly.
When Kaelith finished, the lead instructor folded her arms.
"We believe you were exposed to something dangerous," she said, voice gentle. "And Ashvale's readings confirmed heightened corruption activity."
Riel waited.
The "but" followed.
"But the magnitude you describe—Shades of that strength, rituals of that complexity—would normally leave more widespread signs. We need to verify before drawing conclusions. We're sending a senior team to confirm the residue."
Kaelith's brow creased. "We're not making anything up."
"We don't think you are," she said softly. "But we must be sure."
It wasn't denial.
But it wasn't trust.
It was the space in the middle—grey and uncomfortable.
They were dismissed with instructions to rest.
Riel wasn't sure resting would be possible.
The room welcomed him with its usual quiet: the small bed under the window, the books stacked messily on the shelves, the dagger resting on the desk like a reminder that sleep was not safe.
He sat heavily on the bed.
He didn't bother changing. He didn't meditate. Didn't analyze the Ashvale fight. Didn't break down mistakes.
He was exhausted—physically, yes, but more so in a way deeper than flesh. A tiredness that lived in the marrow.
Sleep crept up before he meant to let it.
He barely exhaled once.
And the nightmare took him.
Cold water clutched his ankles the moment he opened his eyes.
Riel inhaled sharply.
Fog coiled low across a vast, rotting swamp, thick enough to blur the horizon. Trees rose like blackened ribs, draped in moss that dripped and swayed like something breathing.
The air ticked with slow, pulsing vibration—a heartbeat buried deep beneath the marsh.
Riel summoned his dagger instinctively. It formed in his hand with a cold ripple, shadow-dark metal threaded with faint gold along the edges.
He scanned the swamp.
Every night, he had been carving pieces out of the monster.
Every night, its movements slowed.
Every night, it bled more.
Tonight—
He wasn't ready for what happened next.
The water exploded upward.
The monster rose—massive, swollen, flesh translucent enough to show bone and pulsing organs beneath. A wet, rattling sound crawled out of its half-torn throat. One of its arms hung by shredded muscle. Its remaining eye glared with a fevered, hateful glow.
It was dying.
He had been killing it.
Bit by bit.
Riel tightened his grip on the dagger. His breathing steadied, slow and controlled.
"Come on," he muttered.
The creature lurched.
Then—
Its chest convulsed.
For a moment, Riel didn't understand what he was seeing. The monster's skin boiled. Veins bulged, glowing a sickly, luminescent green. The light spread under its skin like wildfire.
"What—"
The creature spasmed again.
A hiss escaped its body—steam venting through tearing flesh.
Riel's eyes widened.
"No. No, no—"
The chest ruptured.
Vents tore open across its torso.
And then the swamp exploded with green light as the monster dissolved into a roiling wave of toxic vapor, its entire form unraveling into boiling mist.
Second stage.
He hadn't even known it had a second stage.
Panic snagged his breath—but he crushed it down. Controlled inhale. Sharp exhale.
He retreated a step as the mist surged toward him with unnatural speed.
He slashed straight through it—the dagger tearing a gouge in the vapor like slicing through muscle.
The mist recoiled—
Then surged twice as thick.
Something splashed behind him.
Riel spun—
Too slow.
A tendril of liquefied flesh whipped up from the swamp, wrapping around his ankle with blistering burn. He stumbled, caught himself, drove his blade down and severed the tendril—
But the mist was already wrapping around his throat.
He clenched his teeth. Held the scream in. Shoulders trembling.
The vapor forced itself into him—down his nose, down his throat, straight into his lungs. It burned like someone pouring boiling acid into his chest.
He tried to stay silent.
Tried.
His body betrayed him.
A strangled, ripped scream tore out of his throat as the mist forced him to his knees.
He fought back.
Slashed blindly.
Cut deeper than before.
The dagger blazed—shadow and gold, flickering like a heartbeat trying to stay alive.
The mist shrieked.
Teeth formed inside it—long, bony, crooked.
The monster's jaw reassembled only long enough to clamp down on his shoulder and rip half of it away.
Blood sprayed across the water.
Riel collapsed.
Vision whitening.
He tried to lift the dagger again—
He got it halfway up—
The mist swallowed him whole, crushing his ribs, flooding his veins with burning green venom.
He felt his spine snap.
He heard something inside him burst.
And then the world tore apart.
Darkness took him before the scream finished leaving his mouth.