The forest was a cathedral of shadows and silver. A full moon hung overhead, but its light did not reach the ground. It was caught in the dense canopy, fracturing into a thousand useless shards that painted the leaves above in ghostly light, leaving the world below in a deep, breathing dark. This was no longer the familiar woodland of the River Reed territory. These trees were ancient, their trunks thick and gnarled like the limbs of sleeping giants. The air was cold, and it carried the scent of damp rot and something else—something metallic and sharp.
It was in this darkness that they ran.
Why did we run? The question was a silent, desperate scream in Xeno's skull, a frantic counter-rhythm to the pounding of his heart and the crunch of his own clumsy footsteps. We just... left. We didn't even see them. Who are they? What do they want? The only answers were the images burned behind his eyes: the splintered Sentinel Trees, the glittering dust that was once Iron Wood, the awful, total silence. A force that could do that... his mind couldn't even shape the thought. Running wasn't a choice. It was an instinct, the only thing left when facing the impossible.
Othniel was a phantom ahead of him, moving with a silence that seemed to absorb sound. But Xeno was a bull in a world of glass. Every footfall was a thunderous crack against the forest's hush. Twigs snapped. Leaves crunched loudly under his weight. He was a beacon of noise, and in the watching dark, he felt sure that every sound was another thread tying a net around them.
And the dark was watching.
He felt it—a pressure against his skin. The beautiful, moon-dappled canopy felt like a lid on a trap. The shadows between the massive trunks were no longer empty; they felt occupied.
"Move like the wind touches the leaves, not like you're fighting it," Othniel breathed, not looking back, his voice barely a whisper. "Don't give them a rhythm to follow."
Them. The word was a stone in Xeno's gut. He didn't know who "they" were, only that his father's entire being was bent on escaping them. He tried to lighten his steps, but his body, heavy and early-grown, betrayed him. They must hear me. They must know exactly where we are.
Slowly, the ancient trees began to thin. The ground hardened underfoot, the soft soil turning to rocky, unyielding earth. The air lost its wet, organic smell and turned dry and chalky, stinging the lungs with every gasp. The claustrophobic forest was releasing them into a vast, open emptiness.
It was here that Othniel's strength finally broke. He didn't choose to stop; his body gave out. He stumbled forward, catching himself on a jagged outcrop of rock, his shoulders heaving as he fought for air. They stood at the threshold of the Scarred Zone.
Xeno turned, his own endurance still burning within him, and looked back at the dark tree line. For a single, heart-stopping moment, he saw nothing but shifting shadows. But the feeling of being watched was a weight on his back. Are they there? Are they coming? What do they look like? His mind conjured formless shapes of teeth and shadow. The not-knowing was its own kind of terror.
He pulled his father into the scant cover of a rocky overhang. Othniel's hands shook as he unstopped their water skin. Two sips left. No food.
"This land…" Othniel rasped, his voice a dry rustle. "…it doesn't give life. You have to tear it from the ground." He looked at Xeno, his eyes hollow. "Your strength… use it here. Now."
Use it. The problem was clear, even if the larger one was not. The land was an immediate enemy. They needed the Wanderer's Bulb. Xeno crouched, his eyes tracing the lines in the shale. The stone has its own way of lying together. It wants to hold, but it also wants to split. I just have to find where it will let go. He pressed the heel of his hand against a seam, leaning his weight into it, not striking. He felt the rock groan and shift. He worked his fingers into the gap, and with a steady, patient strain, he began to peel the layers of stone back like the skin of a fruit. In minutes, he dragged the thick root from the ground. It was a small victory in a sea of fear.
Later, as Othniel coaxed a tiny flame to life, his face was a mask of grim shadows. "The Skull Eaters…" he whispered, the name itself making Xeno flinch. "They are a tide. They consume everything."
Skull Eaters. The name was a horror story. Do they... really eat...? Xeno's mind shied away from the image. He had no facts, no understanding. Only his father's raw, pained tone and the evidence of utter destruction. They weren't just an enemy tribe. They were a ending.
The next morning, Othniel's expression was carved from granite, but his eyes held a terrifying surrender. "We cannot outrun them here. This land has no cover."
He pointed to the only path left. Up.
The cliff was a brutal, vertical scar in the world—a wall of black judgment. It looked impossible.
"They will not look up," Othniel said, his eyes desperate and fierce. "My body is finished. I need you to climb. You must set the anchors. You must carry us over."
Xeno looked from his father's exhausted face to the sheer wall. The problem was terrifyingly simple. He can't. I can. So I must. This was no longer about the mystery of the Skull Eaters or the why of their flight. This was about the next handhold. The next breath.
The cliff loomed. One mistake meant death.
Othniel handed him the heavy, woven rope. "If you fail, we both fall. Use that power. Now go."
Xeno pressed his palms to the black wall. His mind, sharpened by fear, pushed all the unanswerable questions away. There was only the stone. Find a crack. Test it. Shift your weight. Don't think about what's below or what's behind. Just the next move. Only the next move.
He dragged his mass upward. Every handhold was a tiny victory. Every foothold, a prayer. His fear was a cold, sharp thing, not of the Skull Eaters anymore, but of the simple, physical fact of the drop below. There was no mercy in the wall. So he climbed.
Below, a pebble, dislodged by his heavy movement, rattled once before vanishing into the silence.