Chapter 15 - Chapter 14 – Preparations – The Least Special Human

Two weeks had passed since they had ventured into the forest, beyond the protected zones. The silence that settled whenever one of them strayed away carried an uncomfortable weight, as if nature itself watched those who dared to cross that threshold.

Alaric had gone out to explore the perimeter at dawn. As he had done for days, he was scouting a new area he had not been able to reach before because of the hostility of the wolves that had been stalking them.

He stopped in front of a house sunken in its own abandonment, a wooden structure defeated by time, devoured by moss that seemed to have died recently, creaking roots and dampness. The door hung crooked and broken, barely held by a rusted hinge. From the outside, the interior looked like a pit of shadows.

He remained there, unable to decide whether to step fully inside. His hand trembled near the rapier.

He closed his fist around it, gripping it firmly without drawing it. With careful steps that avoided making noise, he approached, and nothing prepared him for what he would find inside.

"What… what a disgust…" he muttered.

His words were not enough to contain what he saw. And his mind did not even manage to brush against, even for a moment, what lay before him.

His gaze swept through the interior abruptly, afraid something might move if he lingered too long on one spot.

"What happened here…?" He took a few steps inside. "Shit!" A stench impossible to associate with any known body filled the air, and by reflex he covered his mouth.

"Why is there so much Miasma? This isn't normal."

The question dissolved as soon as it left his lips. He hesitated to advance. A single step cost him more than crossing half the forest armed and with his cloak full of his exploration tools.

The floor creaked beneath his weight. He lowered his gaze involuntarily.

His eyes first fell upon a flower.

Dark. Translucent along the edges of its petals, like stained glass created from dirty sand. With swamp-like colors. Its petals opened at an unnatural angle, rigid, brittle, beautiful in a way that repulsed. The stem, black as coal, had the texture of burned skin. It grew from the floor inside the house, but not from the earth.

Alaric fell to his knees once his mind understood what it was.

The flower grew from a body. From the head of a small child whose face could no longer be called a face. The flesh had collapsed into itself, deformed, open, as if it had tried to become something else before leaving. If not for the remains of the body, anyone would have thought that amorphous mass was just a grotesque vegetal variation, a flower of flesh without life. Nothing remained that allowed one to remember that it had once been a living being.

Alaric looked away, but the image remained burned into his mind. He tried to breathe. The air smelled of dampness, rust, and something older, something that did not belong to the world.

With clumsy fingers he pulled out one of his small knives. The steel trembled. He brought the tip toward the stem, hesitating even to touch it.

This flower was the one that grows on corpses when there is a massacre. Massacres tied to the shadow of the world. Alaric knew it. Everyone should know it. It was a taboo even to pronounce its name, just like that of any of its subjects. The punishment for doing so could be considered merciful, depending on which monster stood before you.

The blade barely brushed the stem.

The cut was clean. Too easy.

A crimson filth immediately welled out, thick, liquid, as if the corpse could still cry. It stained the knife's edge with a viscosity red like old blood, red like guilt.

The steel began to blacken. It wrinkled, cracked, like flesh abandoned beneath an implacable sun. The metal rusted in seconds, aging as if centuries had fallen upon it all at once. The knife came apart between his fingers, crumbling into fragments that soon became nothing more than dust.

Alaric dropped the remains and stepped back, his stomach churning and a cold certainty driving itself into his chest.

This was not something they could have controlled.

"It shouldn't exist."

The thought crossed his mind like a brief stab, almost foreign. He clenched his jaw.

"But without proof they won't believe me."

It was not a noble justification, only enough.

He took out another knife. This time he did not lean in immediately. He studied the flower with caution, aiming higher than the first cut. His fingers did not reach it; they stopped a couple of centimeters away, trembling. He inhaled deeply. The air smelled of stale dampness and something sweet and rotten at the same time.

He hesitated to cut. He moved the knife slowly before even touching the stem. Not out of fear of the weapon, but out of respect. A minimal gesture, almost useless, as if slowness could compensate for the profanation.

A rough, muffled scrape, like earth shifting beneath a thin layer of damp wood.

Alaric lifted his gaze for barely an instant. Just enough to search for the origin of the sound.

Something moved in front of him. A small hand emerged from the body, rigid, blackened. The fingers rose clumsily and brushed against his face. The skin was cold, rough, without any warmth; even so, the contact was soft, almost careful, as if it sought to confirm affection.

Alaric lost his breath.

"I… I didn't know…"

The words came out on their own, broken, without a clear recipient. The knife slipped from his fingers and fell at his feet with a dry knock.

His entire body tensed. Not to flee. Not to defend himself. It was a spasm of pure guilt, dense, paralyzing. He remained on his knees, his face still marked by the touch, unable to move.

That was why he did not see it.

A low, mocking, distant laugh broke the silence like a fingernail scraping stone. It did not come from the house, but from some indeterminate point among the trees. It tore him from his stupor.

Alaric lowered his gaze, searching for the knife.

The hand that had risen did not belong to an infant clinging to a last vestige of humanity. Beneath the torn skin, black roots appeared, twisted, covered with fine thorns. They retracted quickly, sliding back into the body and sinking into the ground, dragging the arm with them. The wooden floor creaked faintly and then became still.

As if nothing had happened.

He remained there for one more second. He clenched his fist until his knuckles paled. Then he slid his other hand toward the knife.

He did not hesitate.

The cut was clean, decisive. This time he held the flower so that the stem bent inward, preventing the crimson filth from splashing onto his clothes or skin. The liquid still poured out, thick and dark, but it fell onto the lifeless body and sank into the earth as if it had always belonged there. Alaric stepped back just enough to avoid touching anything more than necessary.

He did not look at the body again.

Wrapped in a cloth, the flower seemed harmless. Far too light for what it meant. Alaric stored it away without ceremony and stood up. His legs trembled, but he did not allow himself to stop. Remaining there was a bad idea, and he knew it.

As he withdrew, behind him stood dozens of pairs of houses in the same condition.

The forest received him with its usual indifference. Leaves crunched beneath his boots, trunks closed around him, and little by little everything was left behind, hidden among shadows and moss. Even so, the smell and the image clung to him, as if it was not necessary to look at them to know they were still there.

When he spotted the improvised camp, the tension in his shoulders did not ease. The fire was still lit, reduced to a low ember that kept silent watch. The tarps hung between the trees like tired skins, and the murmur of the group collided with him with a normality that felt almost offensive. Too alive for what he had just left behind.

He approached Vairon.

"We have a problem."

The words came out crooked, with an uneven pulse that betrayed the effort to maintain the calm that usually defined him.

Vairon looked up, ready to respond, but stopped when Alaric undid the wrapping. The dark edge of the flower appeared only a few centimeters. It was enough.

The reaction was immediate. Vairon's face tightened and his eyes lost any trace of rest. He said nothing. He did not need to. For the first time since they had entered the forest, he looked around as if the camp were no longer a refuge, but a fragile concession.

The camp was nothing more than the stable where they merely survived.

Alaric wrapped the flower again with care, as if hiding it could return it to a place where it would cause no harm.

"He's only been playing with us," he said after a moment. "We're nothing more than his livestock."

Vairon nodded slowly, but the gesture stopped halfway to acceptance.

"Yes. That became clear with…" He glanced toward the group, searching for someone he did not dare to point at. "And it seems he already chose his favorite."

Guilt slipped into his voice.

Alaric closed his fingers around the rapier more tightly than necessary. The metal answered with a faint creak against the leather.

"We don't know if this game has a limit."

"We also don't know where to find him," Vairon replied. "Did you see any trace? Anything that didn't fit?"

Alaric shook his head. It was not a firm or quick gesture, but a heavy one, burdened with failed attempts.

"If I move beyond a certain point, he doesn't let me continue," he said, his voice worn. "Of the few places where he could hide… Velk spoke about a cave. He said that, for no reason he could explain, his fur stood on end and he ran away."

"A cave?" Vairon frowned. "Here?"

"Yes. And it shouldn't be there. On the maps we checked there's nothing like it."

Vairon fell silent. It was too much information, too precise a fit. Something finished settling in his mind.

The wolves' attacks had been decreasing.

The thought settled slowly, and for the first time since everything had begun, that absence felt more unsettling than any ambush.

The silence that followed was neither comfortable nor brief. It did not fall all at once; it seeped in. It spread through the camp like persistent dampness, dimming the murmurs, forcing each of them to remain alone with conclusions no one wanted to voice.

Alaric sheathed the rapier with excessive care, almost deliberately, as if the gesture granted him time to put something in order beyond the weapon. Vairon remained still, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on an undefined point on the ground. Gundar, leaning against the nearest tree, listened without intervening, out of place like a poorly set stone in a wall. His frown said enough.

Velkari arrived from the other end of the camp, dropping from a branch with a measured movement, almost without noise. The impact was minimal, more intention than real weight on the ground. He walked toward them without hurry, as if each step were a decision he did not feel like making.

"I'm not going to change what I said," he stated, direct. "It wasn't normal. It wasn't a large animal or a predator. It was…"

He fell silent, searching for a word that did not appear. The air tightened again around the group.

"It was like it didn't want me to be there."

Alaric watched him carefully. In his gaze there was no doubt, but something more uncomfortable: a seriousness unusual in Velkari, one he rarely let show, not even in combat.

"I don't doubt you, Velk."

Gundar spoke with the firm tone he used when arranging facts in his head more than when arguing.

"The wolves stopped attacking. That doesn't happen. Something scared them… or forced them to withdraw."

Cecilia slowly pushed herself up. The fatigue was still there, but she no longer seemed disoriented. She raised her eyes just enough.

"Or someone," she added, as if only now she could allow herself to consider that possibility.

"Staying here isn't going to give us answers," grumbled Grumblin, who had been listening to everything from hiding, not bothering to lower his voice.

Gundar, serious, did not even feel like reproaching him.

Alaric nodded slowly.

"Preparing isn't throwing ourselves in headfirst."

No one contradicted him. Not because they agreed, but because saying otherwise would have been a lie.

The camp resumed its activity, but it did not return to being the same. There were no orders or final words. Even so, one by one they began checking their equipment, adjusting straps, testing edges and knots, as if the decision had already been made and only the coming days were needed to give them the courage to accept it.

Alaric could not take it anymore. He began wandering from here to there, as if searching for something he did not know how to name.

Eden kept his distance. Not enough to expose himself to danger again, but enough to avoid being caught in the silent weight that floated among the others.

"Mielchor!" he suddenly shouted.

He raised his hand, index finger and thumb extended, the same pose with which he celebrated small victories with Mielchor, pointing forward with exaggerated conviction.

From a bush that shook nervously, Mielchor jumped out and threw a curtain of smoke right where Eden was pointing.

"Gah!" he exclaimed, striking a victory pose as dramatic as it was unnecessary.

"What if we used a single short word?" Eden asked, approaching while imitating the pose with obvious mockery.

Mielchor brought a finger to his mouth, thoughtful.

"Gaah."

He pointed to himself and raised one finger, proud.

Eden stuck his tongue out at him.

"'Mielchor' is a word, but it's long," he said, ruffling his scaly head affectionately. "Look: if I say 'Fu!' while pointing, it means you throw fire."

Mielchor clicked, understanding. He made a couple of little jumps in place, waving his arms with clumsy enthusiasm.

"Hu!" said Eden, now pointing at a rock several meters away.

Mielchor jumped, puffing out his cheeks… but stopped. He frowned, confused, and approached Eden. He gently tugged at his pants to get his attention.

"Kuh, kuh?"

"'Hu!' is for you to throw smoke, Mielchor," Eden replied, unable to hide the disappointment. "I thought you had understood."

The moment deflated without a sound.

Eden closed his left fist. The pain was no longer there, or not entirely, but something remained. A dull discomfort, like a misplaced memory under the skin. It didn't hurt, but it didn't let him forget it either. Every time he clenched his fingers, he felt an uncomfortable pressure, a tense tingling at the edge of something more, as if his body were warning him that forcing it would not be wise.

I should start moving this arm, he thought. Not as an order, but like someone testing an idea he still didn't quite believe.

He crouched and picked up a couple of stones, weighing them briefly between his fingers before standing up again.

"Point somewhere and I'll try to hit it. Want to try?"

"Gah!" He spun clumsily on one of his legs and, after wobbling for a moment, stretched one out to point at a distant branch. "Kuh, kuh."

Eden prepared himself. He didn't adopt any special stance or search for balance. He simply let his right arm do what it knew how to do. With a single motion, the stone flew and struck the branch without difficulty: dry, precise.

"Gah!" This time he pointed at some small black fruits, covered with a whitish fuzz near the pedicel.

Eden didn't answer. He simply moved the rock from his left hand to his right, like someone redistributing an awkward weight more out of pride than necessity. The posture was forced; the angle of the throw, wrong. He felt it in his shoulders, in his wrist. That slight discomfort that comes before a miss irritated him… but he threw anyway.

The motion was clean.

The stone cut through the air with a brief, dry whistle. The impact shook the high branch and, for one suspended second, nothing happened. Then dozens of fruits broke loose at once and struck the ground in a dark, dull rain.

"Gahh…" He looked at him without hiding it, with open cheek, mocking the supposed miss.

Eden stuck his tongue out at him before starting toward the place where he had thrown the last stone.

"I didn't miss, look."

He pushed the bushes aside with his forearm and revealed dozens of fruits scattered among the leaves.

"I caught the food!"

He said it with scattered excitement, more focused on crouching down and picking them up than on defending his pride. He stuffed them into his pockets clumsily, pushing them in until the fabric bulged.

Mielchor, who had remained a few steps behind, approached with long, ceremonious strides, as if pretending dignity. He didn't keep up the act for even a meter: he broke into a run with a sharp squeal of excitement. In one leap he cleared the bushes and landed right behind Eden.

As he came closer, he slowed down. Something had changed.

Eden was no longer storing the fruits. Both hands were occupied and his lips were stained. He was eating them directly, one after another, making use of the ones that didn't fit in his pockets. The few left on the ground were too scarce to justify the backpack.

Mielchor circled him until he stood in front of him.

Eden swallowed hard. The reddish-violet juice slipped from the corner of his mouth and ran down his chin before he could wipe it with his wrist.

"Mielchor, do you want some? Go on, eat."

He extended his hand toward him, opening it slowly to show him the fruits.

Just from seeing them, Mielchor brought his paws to his mouth, almost by reflex, and shook his head.

"Come on! Don't be picky," Eden replied with his mouth still full. "They don't…" He looked away for a second, as if reconsidering. "They don't taste bad."

He bit into another. This time he couldn't hide it completely. The grimace barely tightened his nose. It wasn't complete disgust, but it wasn't pleasure either.

"They're not that bad," he insisted, more to convince himself than to persuade. "And even if they were…"

He crouched to pick up the ones that remained on the ground, wiping them against the fabric of his pants before storing them.

"Food is food."

He didn't say it as a challenge. He said it as if it were obvious.

"Kuh, kuh."

Mielchor shook his head again, without taking his paws away from his mouth.

Eden looked at him accusingly.

"You know what I bought is for when there's nothing left, right?"

He said it as if his friend's refusal were a childish whim, as if caution were a small but unforgivable betrayal. He placed one of the berries on Mielchor's head as a joke and, when he removed it, he stroked his scaly cheek.

Mielchor didn't answer. He only blinked slowly, with that ancient patience that irritated Eden.

The forest, however, did not share that calm.

Farther south, where the trees opened just enough to allow an irregular clearing, the air was different. Not more tense, but heavier. There were no confidences or gentle gestures there, only waiting.

Alaric had been tracing the same route around the improvised camp for almost an hour. It wasn't a tent; barely an extinguished fire pit at the center, blankets spread over thick roots, and a couple of crooked structures made from intertwined branches. Nothing firm. Nothing permanent. Like them.

He walked in circles without stopping, unable to stay still even when his body asked for rest. The ground was already beginning to betray him: the disturbed earth, the displaced leaves, the flattened grass marked an almost perfect circle. A faint wound in the clearing.

"Hey, you. Idiot."

The voice came from the shadow of a nearby tree. Velkari was lying there, changing position every few minutes to steal some warmth from the sunlight filtering through the branches.

"How long are you planning to keep pacing?" He straightened up lazily, adopting his bipedal form. "Don't tell me you're scared of a simple confinement spell."

The mocking tone was flawless. Cruel without seeming so.

Alaric didn't respond. He continued the circle with the same slow, measured cadence. He passed beside him without looking. Then, with a barely perceptible motion, he leaned behind Velkari and moistened the tips of his index and middle fingers. As he pulled away, he let a few drops fall onto the fur covering the top of his head.

The effect was immediate.

"Kaffff!"

Velkari jumped with a violent snort, a rough hiss that bared his fangs. His back arched in an instinctive reaction, more animal than conscious, ready for a threat that didn't exist.

"You piece of shit!" he shrieked, still bristling, muscles tense like a spring.

Alaric held back a laugh. Just a slight curve in his lips, which he hid as he turned his face.

"I'm not the only one on edge, right?"

He glanced at him sideways, with a subtle mockery that lasted only a moment before his expression darkened.

The smile disappeared.

The weight returned to his shoulders as if it had never left.

He turned abruptly toward the interior of the clearing.

"Vairon!"

The call broke the low murmur of scattered conversations.

"What happened?" Vairon turned immediately, attentive, as if he had been waiting for that exact tone. "Alaric, something new? Another report?"

Alaric slowed his trot when he was close enough.

"No. It's not that."

He passed beside him and, without asking permission, gently pushed him so he would walk at his side toward the undergrowth surrounding the clearing. He needed to move. Speaking while standing still felt impossible.

"I was just thinking."

They advanced between low branches and exposed roots. The sound of the camp remained behind them, muffled by the foliage.

"I think we should assault as soon as possible," he finally said, lower. "We don't know how much time we have left. It could poison our supplies, infect us, or simply wait until exhaustion makes us less effective."

There was no dramatics in his voice. Only calculation. And something harder to name.

Vairon stayed silent for a few steps.

"I know," he replied at last. "I've considered it. But it's dangerous not knowing what we're facing."

He paused, waiting for the reply. It didn't come.

"In these last few days we haven't only failed to receive answers; we know less than before. Every trace contradicts us. Every clue opens another doubt."

The forest seemed to close a little more around them.

The waiting, already heavy, was beginning to become unbearable.

"I know. I haven't discovered anything," Alaric replied. And before Vairon could intervene, he added, "Then tell me what your final decision is."

There was no reproach in his words, but there was urgency. It vibrated just beneath the firm tone.

Alaric continued:

"We could leave the less experienced here. You, Cecilia, Gundar, Velkari, and I move forward. One single movement. One single attack. That's all we have."

He didn't say it like an open proposal. He spoke like someone who had already accepted the risk and was only waiting for the other to do the same.

Vairon did not answer immediately. He kept walking at his side, brushing aside a low branch with the back of his hand. He was thinking. Not about strategy, but about the weight of choosing wrong.

He glanced at Alaric sideways this time, without hiding it. The young man radiated something that didn't fit the image he had built of him over the past few days. It wasn't fear. Nor simple impatience. It was contained anguish, almost desperation. And even so, his expression remained serious. Not calm as before, but firm.

Both were trapped in the same point: leading when information is not enough.

For an instant, a phrase crossed Vairon's mind with the clarity of a freshly sharpened edge: if something goes wrong, you will bear the consequences.

He discarded it immediately.

If something went wrong, the weight would not fall on only one person. It never did. Both were responsible.

"Alright. Let me consult it with them," he finally said.

It wasn't an evasion. It was a necessity.

"You should do the same with the cat."

Alaric looked at him directly this time.

"Don't worry. He goes where I go."

His voice, curiously, sounded steadier than before. As if, at least on that point, no doubt could exist. A minimal certainty, but real.

"Worry about your side."

That answer shook Vairon more than he would have liked to admit. Not because it was insolent, but because it was direct. Because of the naked conviction it carried. And, against all expectation, the atmosphere lightened.

Vairon let out a brief, dry laugh; more a breath than a laugh. He stepped closer and placed his palm on Alaric's shoulder.

The impact was firm. Measured.

Alaric did not move a single centimeter.

And Vairon noticed.

A slight additional pressure, almost imperceptible, confirmed what he already suspected: the young man was not only tension and haste. There was real strength beneath that restlessness.

"You two resemble each other, don't you?" he said, turning to return to the camp.

The decision was made without ceremony. It wasn't good. Nor elegant. But it was fast. In that moment it was worth more than being correct. And for now, that was enough.

Vairon returned to the camp as the sun began to sink between the high crowns of the forest. The path wasn't long; he had walked it countless times since they raised that improvised settlement. Even so, that afternoon it seemed longer, as if the trees leaned slightly to block his way, as if the undergrowth had thickened on purpose. Everything seemed to stretch.

The camp smelled of old smoke and damp leather. Of rusted iron. Of exhaustion.

He knelt beside the pile of recovered equipment and began to reorganize it with practical, almost rough movements. There was no real order, only the need to have everything in sight. He gathered his gloves first. He shook them, brushed dirt off with the back of his hand, and pulled them on one by one, tightening his fingers to test the seams. Then he pushed aside what belonged to the others until only the essentials remained before him.

The war axe had new nicks along the edge; he ran a fingernail across them and decided it would still hold. The buckler, small but solid, kept the domed curve at the center. The inner strap had been widened to fit the thick hand of a dwarf.

The cinquedea was wrapped in coarse cloth. Short, wide at the base, designed for thrusting in tight spaces. It wasn't elegant. It was practical. He drew it only a few centimeters. The dull steel returned a pale line of light.

The tanned leather shields they had brought at the beginning were still piled to one side. Deformed. Useless. Split; one was missing a fragment more than a span wide from its covering.

The first week they had held. The second, they had not.

The wolves did not attack like hungry beasts, but like something that watches and tests limits. They had increased in number without warning. For entire days they remained around the perimeter of the camp: visible sometimes among the trees, invisible almost always. A distant growl. A shadow slipping by. Eyes that shone too long in the dark.

They had not been hunting them. They had barely managed to drive them off. Only three died in tense and brief encounters.

Three.

It was not a hunt. It was defense.

And even so, when the meat was over the fire, no one spoke.

Less than half agreed to taste it. Vairon was surprised that even Velkari, so delicate, ate it; not so the duo who had joined them out of mere convenience. The taste was bitter, fibrous. The meat tough, almost leathery. But hunger does not argue with pride. It was eaten in silence, chewing more than necessary.

In this second week, the wolves had diminished. Not because they had defeated them. They simply were no longer there. Or they did not allow themselves to be seen.

That was more unsettling.

The equipment he was now gathering had not originally been his. They had found it thanks to the explorations of Alaric and Velkari. Both had ventured beyond the forest they had marked, expanding the improvised map they traced over damp parchment. It was in an area of fallen trees where they found remains of an old detachment, or something like it. Forgotten weapons. Beaten shields. Rusted iron, but still firm.

Worn, yes. Still useful.

And at that moment, useful was enough.

When everything was before him, Vairon remained crouched for a few seconds, looking at the set as if evaluating not the weight of the metal, but the weight of what it meant to use it.

Then he stood up.He did not raise his voice to gather them. He went one by one.

He sought each member in whatever they were doing. A brief word. A steady look. A concrete instruction.

He did not explain much.

There was no need.

When it was Eden's turn, Vairon did not enter the clearing immediately. He circled the perimeter cautiously, pushing branches aside with the back of his hand, as if expecting to find something out of place. The clearing was small, barely an irregular gap between tall trunks and thick roots. The two of them were usually there, almost always visible before he announced his presence.

Not this time.

The silence was too complete.

Vairon cleared his throat, more to break that stillness than out of necessity.

"—Hey!"

His voice came out louder than usual and dissolved against the trees.

"—Kid… are you around?"

He turned in place, scrutinizing the foliage. He narrowed his eyes, searching for a silhouette, a shadow that did not fit the green. He saw nothing. Nor did he notice the rope that descended beside the trunk of one of the trees, so close to the bark that it looked like just another root.

Above, on a thick branch covered in moss, Eden dozed. His back against the trunk, his head tilted to the side, his breathing slow. On his lap, curled into a compact ball, Mielchor looked like another extension of his body. His eyes were closed, but he was awake. Attentive.

Vairon's call made him blink.

Mielchor rose slowly, settled on Eden's chest and, with the tip of his nail, tapped his cheek.

"—Gah," he whispered, almost carefully.

He got no reaction.

He pecked more insistently, once, twice.

"—Uhmm…" Eden murmured without opening his eyes. "What is it…?"

He rubbed his face with his palm, dragging away the sleep. It took him a second to remember where he was: the bark under his legs, the damp smell of the forest, the slight sway of the branch.

Then Mielchor let out a sharp chirp.

"—Gahhh!"

He stretched out both legs, pointing downward.

Eden leaned carefully and moved aside a few leaves. Through the mesh of branches he made out Vairon, standing still in the clearing, looking around with growing impatience.

"—Kid? Are you there?" Vairon insisted, now sure he had heard something.

Eden did not answer with words.

He turned, felt for the rope tied to the branch and, without hesitation, let himself slide down. He descended almost three meters, passing through the foliage as if he were part of it. In his right hand he held a piece of tanned leather wrapped around it; the friction drew a faint complaint from the material, not from his skin.

The rope swayed when he touched the ground.

The dark leather backpack shifted against his back. One of the bone buttons was loose and revealed the hilt of the sword. Mielchor peeked his head out from the opening, his eyes now awake, watching Vairon with an attention that did not seem accidental.

Eden looked up at him, still with traces of sleep in his gaze. He did not feel the weight on his back. The air was cold, but not enough to clear his mind. The camp's embers exhaled a thin smoke and the forest, damp, seemed to listen.

They had tried to coexist those two weeks. Tried was the right word. It had not been camaraderie or understanding; it had been a rough truce, sustained by necessity. They shared fire, food and watches, but almost no words that were not strictly useful. Maybe that was why, when Eden looked at him, something felt strange. It was not only that Vairon was there. It was the way he was looking at him.

"—Vairon!" he greeted, with a cheerfulness that broke his usual neutrality.

The name came out lighter than he expected. That unsettled him.

Did something bad happen?, he thought. Being sought out was not common. Not for something good.

"—Did something happen?" he finished straightening up, fixing his eyes on his.

There was a pause. Brief. Barely a blink held longer than necessary.

"—Yes. We will leave soon and we would like…"

"—Did you recover whatever it was you had to steal?" Eden interrupted, too quickly.

There was a barely concealed impatience in his voice, a clear desire to close the matter and leave that place as soon as possible.

Vairon pressed his lips together.

"—That is what I was getting to. Sir Alaric and his companion found a cave where that thing hides. We will go deal with it. You and Grumblin should stay here," he said, closing his eyes for a moment and lowering his gaze with an air of concern. "While…"

"—While you take care of everything…" Eden murmured, low enough to pretend carelessness, loud enough not to go unnoticed.

Vairon looked away for a moment before fixing his gaze on him again.

"—It is for the best. It would not be wise to put the inexperienced in danger."

He scratched the back of his neck, a small gesture, almost childish in such a large body.

Inexperienced.

Eden held his gaze for one more second.

The useless ones, surely, Cecilia said, he corrected himself silently. And, without realizing it, an almost imperceptible smile curved his lips. It was not joy. Nor anger. It was something smaller and denser.

"—Of course. I will stay here," he replied with a grimace difficult to decipher. "Taking care of things, until…" he made a minimal pause "…you arrive with the victory."

Vairon nodded with more relief than he tried to show.

"—Good. I am glad you understand. Grum did not like the idea."

He held his gaze for another moment, as if he wanted to add something. Maybe an explanation. Maybe an apology he did not know how to phrase. But in the end he only nodded, briefly.

"—I had better get ready," he murmured, stepping away.

Eden did not respond. He took a few steps back and pulled on the rope hanging from the high branch.

"—Mielchor! Let go of it!" he raised his voice, narrowing his eyes to make out something among the leaves.

The foliage trembled. A second later, a weight fell onto his back and pushed him forward.

"—Gahhhh!" Mielchor shrieked, jumping out of the backpack and landing with his arms raised, proud of his feat.

Eden straightened with a snort.

"Funny. Climb up. You have to untie the rope."

He grabbed him with his right arm and lifted him above his head so he could begin climbing.

The little one climbed with agility while the camp began to transform.

The conversations grew shorter, more tense. The murmur gave way to the sound of metal being adjusted, of straps pulled tight, of boots sinking into the damp earth. Alaric checked his equipment with precise movements, almost ritual. Velkari tested the edge of his weapon under the pale light that filtered through the leaves. Cecilia walked from one side to the other, impatient, tapping the ground with the tip of her foot as if the delay were a personal offense.

Grumblin gathered his things with contained brusqueness. He did not protest out loud, but every gesture said what his mouth kept silent. Gundar, on the other hand, remained closer to him than usual, as if proximity could compensate for the decision that had been made.

Eden watched in silence. No one asked for his help. No one offered it. He simply made sure the provisions were properly stored, that the fire was covered, that nothing was left loose that could betray the camp. It was minor work, but he did it with stubborn attention.

When everything was ready, the air seemed to tighten.

Gundar approached his brother first. He said nothing. He only looked at him, as if trying to memorize his face.

Then he hugged him.

Grumblin stiffened. His arms hung tense at his sides. His pride fought against something deeper. The embrace lasted a heartbeat… two.

Then, with a low grunt he tried to disguise as annoyance, he raised his arms and returned it. Not gently, but with strength.

"—Do not take long," he murmured.

Gundar nodded against his shoulder before pulling away.

Alaric was already waiting at the edge of the foliage, firm, with Velkari on one side and Cecilia on the other. She was still tapping the ground with the tip of her foot, unable to stay still.

Vairon stepped into the center of the camp and raised his voice.

"—Let us hope to meet again in health and prosperity."

He looked at Eden and Grumblin. He did not see the young lizard girl and, even so, made the ogre greeting sign: the palm extended, the fingers together except for the thumb tucked in, while the other hand gave three soft taps against his own chest.

Eden and Grumblin returned the gesture.

"—Likewise!"

In one, the word sounded firm, almost enthusiastic. In the other it was barely a formality.

The forest received them without ceremony. It did not creak or whisper any warning. It simply closed its shadows behind them and swallowed their steps one by one, until the camp was left behind and the silence settled again.

There was no clear cut between one world and the other. Only the feeling that something had changed.

They moved forward along what, generously, could be called a path. A faint line of crushed leaves and compacted earth suggested previous passage. Not enough to tame the forest. Only the vague insistence of someone who had crossed more than once.

The air grew denser with every meter.

Velkari was the first to notice it. The smell of petrichor arrived before any sound, damp and earthy, as if it had rained somewhere where the sky remained clear. His nose began to vibrate, making his whiskers bristle.

Without announcing it, he changed form. His body contracted naturally until it took on a quadrupedal shape: a feline larger than any common cat, compact, with a stillness too conscious to be animal. With an agile leap he climbed onto Alaric's shoulder and murmured something in his language, short and tense words that smelled of warning.

Alaric did not hesitate.

"—Vairon! Something does not fit. Everyone, alert."

He did not raise his voice.

He shifted slightly while his hand descended to the hilt of the rapier. One foot behind the other, separated just enough. The body aligned to thrust without readjustment. Not rigid: ready.

Velkari transformed again. His bones cracked as they lengthened into a stylized bipedal form. He steadied himself for a moment against Alaric's waist and, from his own fur, drew two daggers of cold iron.

Iron effective against what you still do not understand. Against what belonged to the buried Old World, he murmured to himself.

Vairon did not seek cover.

He advanced half a step.

The boots settled in the damp earth. He separated his feet naturally, one forward. Knees bent. Arms in front, open. The reinforced gloves creaked when he slowly closed his fists.

His chest remained exposed.

His shoulders lowered. His neck leaned slightly forward, like a bull measuring distance. He inhaled deeply and let the air escape through his nose. His fangs showed as his jaw tightened.

He was not waiting to attack.

He was waiting for the mistake.

Gundar closed the formation. He unhooked the axe from his back with a clean movement. The buckler came forward in front of his chest, protecting the center without blocking his vision. The axe remained drawn back, ready for a short and brutal arc.

Cecilia took the center.

She formed an inverted triangle with her hands in front of her abdomen and raised it until it became a rhombus at the height of her face. Her fingers tensed into exact positions.

She activated her analysis.

Her eyes flashed red for an instant and then shifted to a deep green when the visualization settled. She was not looking at the forest. She was breaking it apart.

The air dropped several degrees.

It turned cold, damp, like the breath of a rainy night. The sky remained clear, but the light seemed filtered through an invisible layer.

The forest was not silent.

It was holding its breath.

Without breaking formation, they stepped back with slow and coordinated steps until they closed back to back, leaving less than half a meter between them. Weapons ready. Eyes open.

Waiting.

From where the wind did not pass, something cracked.

A minimal sound. The dry complaint of a branch under foreign weight. In the dense silence it sounded like a gunshot.

They all turned at once.

Alaric's rapier was already halfway through the motion; it came out in a metallic whisper and aligned with his forearm. The other hand opened at chest height; between his fingers an orange spark trembled, small, contained.

Vairon clenched his fists. The leather squealed under the pressure. His feet sank, shifting dark dust beside the boots. He did not step back.

Gundar brought the buckler closer to his torso. The axe creaked when the handle protested under his grip.

Cecilia lowered her center of gravity. Her left hand moved forward with the fingers tense, open, as if she already held an invisible string. The right settled between shoulder and chest.

The posture of an archer without a bow.

Of an arrow that did not yet exist.

Then the laughter came.

"—Ha, ha, ha…!"

It did not come from where they were looking. It emerged behind them, rough, rasping, with a tone that seemed to break and rebuild itself at the same time. It was not the same voice they had heard before, but it shared that unpleasant contradiction Eden already knew: thick and shrill, heavy and high, as if two throats argued inside the same chest.

A branch cracked to the right.

Another, to the left.

It was circling them. No. It was playing.

The tension stretched until it hurt. And just when they decided to turn—

A whistle.

It lasted less than a breath.

Something cut the air with surgical precision from a direction impossible to anticipate. Gundar barely had time to raise the buckler. The impact sounded like a dry hammer blow. The metal vibrated. The force threw him backward; his boots tore up dirt and he collided with Cecilia, who lost her balance. Alaric staggered a step when the formation broke.

It all happened without them seeing anything.

"—Sorry," Gundar grunted, straightening immediately and extending a hand to Cecilia.

When he took it, he felt the strange weight of the shield. He looked at the umbo. It was dented inward, deformed as if an invisible mass had struck it with calculated fury.

Vairon turned on himself, searching. Alaric sharpened his gaze. Every branch seemed twisted. Every shadow denser than it should be. Every irregularity in the bark suggested a crouching silhouette.

The entire forest had become suspicious.

"—How boring!" the voice shouted, now to the left, then farther away, then closer. It crawled between the trunks like an insect. "—He, at least, needed me to introduce myself…"

A sharp tug on Alaric's tunic pulled him from his calculation. Velkari, clinging to his shoulder, aimed his ears toward a precise point.

"—There."

"—Now!" Alaric ordered.

His posture changed instantly. The forward foot turned, the weight fell onto the rear heel. With a clean flick of the wrist, he slid the phalanges along the spine of the rapier and released the gathered spark. The blade ignited in a brief streak and launched a cut of compressed fire, a burning half-moon that tore through the air toward a black-wood tree a few meters away.

The flash lit the clearing in a red blink.

Velkari launched himself from his shoulder at that same instant. He used the flare as a distraction. His claws found the bark of the adjacent tree and he climbed three meters in a heartbeat. The daggers shone as they were drawn. His gaze did not follow the fire: it followed the void where the voice should be.

The cut passed through a thick branch. It split it in two. The wood fell spinning.

But it found no flesh.

The burning half-moon continued its path and burst against the next trunk, ripping off smoking splinters.

Velkari stopped short. From halfway up, he pressed the daggers against the bark and let himself fall backward, using the tension of the trunk to propel himself back. He landed again on Alaric's shoulder with a light thud.

Nothing.

"—Tsk, tsk…"

The clicking sounded right behind them.

On the opposite side from where they had attacked.

"—I expected more," the voice said with almost childish disappointment.

And then something worse than the attack happened.

The pressure that had been pressing the air down, that density that made even swallowing difficult, suddenly dissipated.

The forest sounded normal again.

That meant it no longer needed to intimidate them.

Now it was having fun.

It was not a wide smile or an open laugh. It was something more contained. More cruel. As if the group's simple confusion were enough entertainment.

Gundar was the first to break the silence.

"—What the hell was that?!"

He was not pointing at anyone. He clenched his fists at the air, knuckles tense, forearms marked by contained strength. He needed to hit something. Anything.

"—That was…" Alaric stepped forward, trying to order the scene in his head. "—Damn it! How should I know! Do you think that if I knew I wouldn't have hit it?!"

His calm broke on the last word. Frustration burned in him. And in that same instant, by responding, he lowered his guard.

The composure he had maintained until then opened into a brief and rough crack. He was not shouting out of fear. He was shouting because he hated not understanding.

There had been no visible enemy, no clear direction, no target to answer. The uncertainty had left him exposed. He had reacted to doubt instead of to danger.

Vairon straightened with a slowness that contrasted with the group's tension. He gave a light clap, dry and precise. The flames that had begun to insinuate themselves around them went out as if they had never had the right to exist.

"—Let us continue."

The order fell firm, without nuance.

"—But—" Cecilia tried.

"—Let us continue, I said!"

It was not an uncontrolled shout. It was a line carved in stone. There would be no discussion.

Alaric opened his eyes wider than usual. Not out of surprise, but because of that uncomfortable feeling that something invisible had just torn reality in front of his face. The pupil, reduced to a rigid point, betrayed him. His half-open mouth failed to form a word.

He cleared his throat. The sound was clumsy, dry.

Velkari's ears folded back. Before the thought finished forming in his mind, the small body had already moved. With a light jump he perched again on Alaric's shoulder. He placed his palm with contained firmness. He did not squeeze. There was no need.

The contact was enough.

The slight tremor that had begun to show in Alaric's pulse disappeared. He clicked his tongue.

"—Tsk."

He tightened his grip on the hilt of his rapier and, after a second of unnecessary tension, sheathed it.

"—Let us continue," he murmured to himself.

Dry. Determined. Without a trace of the previous outburst. The Alaric who knew how to control himself had returned.

They resumed their march.

The earthen path was barely marked, as if something had used it many times without leaving clear traces. They advanced with weapons ready, guard high, maintaining the formation with almost stubborn discipline. No one broke it again.

Every crack made them tense.

It was not only the sound of branches, but the vibration before they broke. Not the song of birds, but the exact instant when they fell silent. Not the wind, but its absence.

The forest began to change without anyone being able to point to the precise moment when it happened.

The colors faded first. The green lost depth. The brown turned to ash. The air stopped feeling fresh; it no longer smelled of damp earth or sap. It smelled of nothing.

The animals were not there.Or they were, and had decided not to exist.

When they reached the clearing where the cave opened, they knew they had crossed an invisible boundary.

The earth there seemed stripped. Not withered nor sick: torn away. As if something had sucked out the last trace of vitality from what, ironically, was already inert.

The entrance was not enormous, but it was not narrow either. At its highest point it brushed four meters. Asymmetrical. Natural, though with an uncomfortable irregularity, like a wound that had not closed properly.

From outside, the interior was black.

Not dark.Black.

A clean void that began a few steps beyond the light.

"I can light myself with snaps," said Alaric, rubbing his bare fingers together. From them sprang a small swarm of sparks that danced for an instant before dying out. "But what about you?"

Gundar approached one of the grayish trees that surrounded the entrance.

"We'll have to improvise. And… do you think we'll have time for tar?"

He placed a hand on an exposed root and pulled.

He found no resistance. It gave way as if it had never been alive. It broke into dry splinters that cracked like old bones.

Gundar let the remains fall and looked at them in silence.

He placed his hand on another root and pressed. It crumbled beneath his fingers. The result was the same: brittle, hollow, dead.

He tried the trunk. The wood yielded. His fingers left a mark.

"Cecilia! Check the trees!"

Urgency snagged his voice.

Cecilia approached and extended her palm. She barely brushed the bark.

She knew at once.

"Dead."

She did not breathe deeper nor step back immediately. She simply confirmed the obvious.

"Everything is dead. Everything."

Her voice rose at the end, as if the word needed to leave her chest to become real.

She pulled her hand away from the trunk as if she had touched a fresh corpse. She leaned her body back. Her legs failed.

She stumbled.

"Careful!"

Alaric threw himself toward her. He held her by the shoulders, but her weight was more than he expected. Not because she was heavy, but because her legs simply did not respond.

He fell to his knees, dragging her with him until he could hold her more firmly.

Velkari descended from his shoulder and climbed along Cecilia's arm until it stood before her face. Its feline eyes, enormous, fixed on hers. It made a low sound, almost a forced purr.

Breathe.

Cecilia inhaled with difficulty. She exhaled slowly. Again.

Gundar picked up one of the broken roots and split it into more manageable sections. The dry crack echoed in the clearing.

"It isn't sick," he said with a more controlled voice. "It's drained."

Vairon was watching the cave. Not the wood. Not the forest.

The cave.

"Then let's not waste time here," he said.

Alaric helped Cecilia to her feet. This time she held herself up on her own. Still pale, but steady.

"We can use this," Gundar said, showing the fragments of root. "It's dry as tinder."

"We need something denser so it burns slowly," Alaric added.

He helped Cecilia sit on a solid stone and then began gathering the thicker roots. They snapped easily, but that worked in his favor. Gundar selected long, straight branches, solid enough to serve as supports.

They knelt. They gathered thick branches, split roots, and splinters. Gundar scraped two pieces together until he obtained fine dust. Alaric let measured sparks fall over the small pile.

"I'm fine," Cecilia whispered, though not entirely convinced.

Vairon looked around with a closed expression.

"If everything is dead, it will burn easily."

With a slight movement of his hands, a low fire began to crackle.

It did not smell of resin or sap. It smelled of old wood.

While the fire consumed the heart of the pile, Gundar placed denser fragments on top. The slow combustion began to release a dark, sticky substance that seeped from the carbonized cracks.

Rudimentary tar.

Not perfect, but enough.

With pieces of cloth torn from a sack and twisted dry fibers, they improvised torch heads around longer branches. They soaked them with the hot, thick substance, letting it saturate the fibers.

The process was silent. Focused.

They did not speak of what had drained the forest.

They did not need to.

When they finished, Alaric lit the first torch, which he would share with Velkari. The flame caught with uneven strength, sputtering before stabilizing.

Gundar did the same. Then Cecilia. Vairon was the last.

Four lights trembling before a mouth of absolute darkness.

The contrast was violent.

Alaric took a step toward the entrance. The light barely penetrated a few meters before being devoured.

Velkari returned to his shoulder.

No one said anything.

And then, together, they took the first step into the blackness.

The darkness did not receive them; it swallowed them.

They advanced almost in unison, though none of them would have admitted that they did so out of fear of falling behind. The sensation of being watched tangled along their backs like cold ivy. Every blind spot was a threat; every shadow, a motionless pupil that seemed to blink when they were not looking.

Inside, the torch barely managed to open a trembling circle at their feet. Beyond a few steps, everything closed again, as if the cave breathed and reclaimed what belonged to it.

Gundar did not wait. He shifted one step to the left, careful not to lose the warmth of the other bodies. He stretched out his hand, determined to feel the wall. It could not be far; he had sensed it when they entered. His fingers searched for rock, moisture, any texture that would confirm a boundary.

They found nothing.

No stone. No colder air. No resistance.

Only emptiness.

He held his breath for a moment, as if the mere act of extending his arm might make him disappear as well. Finally he stepped back and returned to the others, feigning normality. He kept the failure to himself. He said nothing.

The walk began to lengthen in an unnatural way. The echo of their steps seemed delayed, as if it did not belong to them. Each of them ended up locked inside themselves, looking at the ground to avoid tripping over the black roots that covered the floor, focused on the rhythm of their breathing, avoiding thinking about what surrounded them.

Vairon was the first to notice the change.

He was in front, setting the pace, when the darkness began to lose its impossible quality. It did not dissipate all at once; it simply stopped feeling supernatural. The blackness stopped pressing and began to seem like what it should be: the natural gloom of a cave.

Then he saw it.

A small light, distant and close at the same time, as if space had forgotten how to measure distance.

"We're close," he said, barely turning his head.

He got no response.

In the next instant, the light grew and bathed him from above. He blinked, blinded. When he focused again, the three flames that should have been burning behind him were gone.

No murmur. No warmth. No footsteps.

Only him.

Clap! Clap!

The sound of applause echoed down the corridor with obscene clarity.

A few meters in front of him, something began to form. It did not emerge walking; it uncoiled from a cocoon of shadows intertwined with roots. The figure was small, twisted, almost childlike in proportions, but there was something earthen in its posture, like old, diseased wood.

Vairon barely had time to take in the surroundings.

It was not a chamber, but a narrow corridor. His shoulders almost brushed the walls. Yet the ceiling rose far above, disappearing into darkness. The lights that illuminated it floated nearly two meters above him, pouring down a glow that barely reached his waist and left his face half between clarity and shadow.

The creature finished forming.

"Well…" it whispered with a metallic voice, as if the words were filings dragged by a magnet.

It tried to smile. Its teeth were sharp, irregular, twisted like broken roots.

Before the grimace was complete, Vairon was already moving.

The leather shrieked as it tightened. The ground cracked beneath his boots. Pressing himself to the opposite side, he launched a wide lateral strike with his right arm; his forearm scraped the wall and tore a deep groove in the rock. The crack spread like a living scar.

Impact.

His fist slammed into the left wall with a dry explosion. The blow thundered through the corridor, returning the echo multiplied.

But there was nothing in front of him.

"Oh, oh… Excited to play?" the voice crooned, now a few steps behind him.

Vairon spun around. He only managed to make out a silhouette dissolving into the air, like smoke drawn into an invisible crack.

"But I will not be the one who plays with you, unfortunately," it continued, with a pity so exaggerated it bordered on mockery. "I…"

The word vibrated against the walls.

"…will only be the one who harvests."

The figure vanished completely. It left no trace. No shadow. No echo.

Only an endless corridor stretching before Vairon. In a silence that would not last long.

"Good," he nodded.

There was no challenge in his voice. Nor fear. Only acceptance.

In the distance, something began to strike the ground. They were not firm footsteps. It was an irregular drag, wet, decomposed. And it was approaching with unnatural speed.

Vairon raised his hands in front of him, fists closed, one ahead of the other. He tried to separate his feet, to find the wide base he had trained so much… but his heel struck the wall before reaching his usual distance. The corridor was too narrow.

"Come on!" he roared into the darkness.

The words had barely left his mouth when the world broke into violence.

A weight slammed into his side. Fangs pierced the left flank of his abdomen. It was not a wolf. Not entirely. The creature looked like a charred corpse that had been forced back into motion: cracked skin, blackened flesh, bones protruding beneath scorched fur.

The pain came late. First the pressure. Then the tear.

Vairon dropped his elbow to crush the skull clinging to his flesh… but before reaching it, another body shot out of the blackness and hurled itself at him.

Fangs closed around his left forearm just as it descended.

A guttural growl escaped his throat. It was not a scream. It was fury.

He grabbed the skull that had fastened onto his stomach and pulled. The jaw did not give at first. He felt the teeth tear flesh as they separated. Then, with a brittle sound, the neck snapped. The body fell limp, but the fangs remained embedded, tearing a piece free as they came loose.

Vairon did not hesitate. He hurled the corpse upward, striking one of the wall lights, and smashed the wounded arm against the wall to crush the one still hanging from it. Bone against stone. The impact rang out dry. The beast tore free, leaving a dark thread sliding over his skin.

The light fell.

The small lantern struck the ground and shattered. For an instant, the flame flared, fed by the spilled oil. The poor light illuminated the corridor.

And then he saw them.

They were not two. Nor five. They were dozens. Thin, charred bodies crouched over one another, pressed against walls and ceiling like insects waiting for a signal. Dead eyes. Open jaws.

Waiting.

The flame faltered.

It went out.

Darkness swallowed everything again.

Vairon was breathing with difficulty. He adopted his ogre stance, the one he took such pride in: back straight, shoulders forward, fists firm.

But this time it was hard to close his left hand.

The bite was deep.

He did not notice the abnormal throbbing in his abdomen until something warm began to slide down his hip.

Blood. Too much.

The next attack was not one by one.

It was an avalanche.

He felt simultaneous impacts on his legs. Something clung to his thigh. Another to his calf. One more leaped straight onto his chest, pushing him against the wall. Claws scraped, searching for soft flesh between the ribs. Short bites. Quick. As if they were trying to tear him apart piece by piece.

Vairon struck.

Each punch cracked bones. Each knee shattered dry ribs. The wall vibrated with the impacts. The corridor thundered with growls and the echo of flesh tearing.

He crushed a head against the stone until it burst apart. He tore another jaw free with a brutal yank. He stomped a torso until it split in two.

But for every body that fell, another took its place.

The beasts did not retreat.

They did not fear.

They did not hesitate.

One managed to climb onto his back and sank its teeth into his shoulder. Another reached his neck, grazing the jugular. He felt the damp heat spreading beneath his shirt. His breathing became irregular. The air no longer filled his lungs completely.

He tried to move forward.

One step.

Something tangled around his ankle and he fell to his knees.

The blow against the ground tore the air from his lungs. Before he could rise, three bodies threw themselves onto his back. Two others clung to his arms, pulling them backward.

He shook himself with desperate strength. He managed to rise halfway, dragging creatures hanging from him like dead weight. He turned and slammed his back against the wall. One snapped. Another fell.

But he no longer had balance.

His legs failed him.

He fell onto his side.

Then they covered him.

Claws. Jaws. Weight.

It was not a fight.

His fists moved a couple more times, slow, clumsy. He crushed something. He felt bones break beneath his knuckles. But each movement was weaker than the last.

The stance collapsed. His arms, stubborn, finally gave way. The last sound he made was an attempt to inhale while he still struggled to move.

In the darkness, Gundar and Cecilia eventually found their own light at the end of the tunnel. It was not a glorious flash nor a sudden revelation, but something more human: a stubborn persistence that finally tore through the thick fog that had covered them for what seemed like an eternity. The mist retreated reluctantly, as if yielding them passage with resentment.

When the echo of their steps ceased, only two figures remained upon that worn ground.

The floor was no longer solid stone. Beneath Alaric's boots, the surface crumbled into reddish tones, as if the earth bled rust. In stretches it turned into compact clay, heavy, sticky, absorbing each step with a wet sound. He walked with Velkari perched on his shoulder, the weight tilted to one side, without it altering his measured pace.

Velkari was the first to notice the absence.

Vairon's light was not ahead anymore. There was no glow, no cast shadow, not the slightest sign that the others were still there.

He turned his head sharply, eyes narrowed, searching for silhouettes in the void.

"Shit… shit… shit!" his fingers closed over Alaric's shoulders and he began to shake him. "The others are gone!"

In his agitation, the claws emerged without him noticing. They pierced through the fabric, into the flesh. Alaric barely tightened his jaw; the gesture was minimal, but enough to betray the pain.

He clicked his tongue twice.

"Tch. Tsk."

He separated one hand from the grip and rubbed his fingers with almost mechanical precision. Sparks sprang at once, small orange embers that floated for a second before going out. The light was weak, but it was enough to tear outlines from the path beyond the immediate shadow.

"Easy, Velk," he said quietly, without reproach. He let the last embers die and, with that same hand, stroked the side of his neck. "We'll get out of this. Like always. Then we'll keep heading toward the horizon."

It was not a grand promise. It was habit. Routine.

Velkari let out a snort, though he did not completely loosen his grip.

"Are we going to make any report about this?" he finally asked, without taking his eyes off the void opening before them.

What lay ahead was not only a lack of light. It was a dense, expectant presence.

"Sure. If the carts weren't raided, our records should still be there," Alaric replied, rubbing his fingers again. Another spark. Another instant of light.

Velkari gave him a light knock on the head with his knuckles."No, idiot. To the guild. Or to the executors. You know nobody reported any of this. If they had, the roads would be closed until they purified it, or whatever it is those guys do."

Alaric stayed silent for a second longer than necessary."Ah. I hadn't thought about not doing it. I thought you meant writing it down in our travel records."

Velkari snorted."You really are an idiot."

Another spark lit the calm profile of Alaric, the small drops of blood darkening over the torn fabric of his shoulder."I love you too, Velk."

With minimal movements, almost lazy, Alaric tapped the tips of his fingers together. Each touch produced a brief spark, a red exhalation born with a dry crackle and dying a few meters away. They did not illuminate much, but they were enough to pull shapes out of the corridor and keep the gloom from swallowing it completely.

He moved forward slowly, measuring each step. The air smelled of damp stone and something else, something old.

Then he saw it.

A distant light, faint but steady, like a silent invitation in the middle of the tunnel. It was not an erratic reflection like his sparks. It was stable. Real.

"Get ready," he whispered, without stopping.

He passed the torch to his non-dominant hand. The change was slow, calculated. With the other he slid his palm to the hilt of the rapier and left his thumb resting against the guard. He did not draw it, but he left it ready. If something was breathing in that gloom, he wanted to feel it before seeing it.

He shortened his stride.

The brightness grew as he approached, but it did not clear his doubts. On the contrary. When he took the final step out of the corridor's closed shadow, the first thing that greeted him was emptiness.

He stopped abruptly. His body leaned forward for a moment too long, long enough to feel his balance betray him. He saw the fall before taking the step. He leaned back.

"I can barely see anything…"

It was "light" compared to the unnatural corridor behind him, but what lay before him was unreadable. A wide space. Silent. Open.

He took his hand off the hilt and, with a broader gesture this time, let a handful of sparks fall into the abyss. He did not throw them; he released them like someone scattering seeds.

As they descended, they began to split open. One became two. Two, four. Each red point stretched as if the air itself were tearing it apart. In a matter of seconds they illuminated about ten meters of depth.

Only those that expanded at just over five meters managed to touch solid ground. The rest kept falling.

Falling.

For a few moments they seemed suspended in a bottomless darkness. Then they disappeared.

Alaric took a cautious step toward the edge. The brush of his boot dislodged small rocks and clods that tumbled downward. He counted the time in his head.

One.

Two.

Three.

The impact came after. A wet, distant thud.

More than twenty meters, he calculated.

It was not a simple splash.

Something bubbled down there. The surface, which had seemed solid from a distance, cracked where the stones had fallen. The upper layer broke with a viscous crack, revealing a dark reddish liquid that began to devour everything it touched.

It did not dissolve.

It burned.

The stones crackled. They blackened. They came apart as if they had been thrown into a living acid. A sharp vapor, almost metallic, rose in thin spirals, accompanied by a shriek that made the skin crawl.

The last sparks still shining down there dyed the liquid mass red for an instant, outlining the contour of what they could not step on.

"That…" Alaric swallowed. His throat felt dry. "That's it."

"What do you mean?"

The silence weighed more than the darkness. One second. Then another.

"It's what wore down one of my knives in seconds," he said at last. "I don't know what it is."

"Shit… how do we get down? If we fall…"

He did not finish the sentence.

Not even he knew what that substance would do to flesh, to bone, to something alive.

"Are you seriously asking how to get down, Velk?" he said with a low laugh that barely vibrated in his chest. "Will any of your knives hold weight?"

He slipped his hand under the cloak with almost insulting ease.

He stepped back two paces. Then three. He began striking the ground with his heel, first softly, then with greater firmness. He was not doing it at random. He listened. He felt the vibration travel up his leg. He bent down, ran his fingers across the rock, scraped the surface, broke apart a layer of loose dirt with his nail. He tested another spot. And another.

He was looking for firmness.

"You can count on that! But what are you planning?" Velkari stepped forward and placed one of his daggers in front of him, holding it by the blade, offering it with distrust.

Alaric did not answer immediately. He smiled.

"Wait and see."

He snatched the dagger with a dry, precise movement, as if afraid the rock might change its mind.

The blow resounded brutally when he drove the blade between two plates of compact stone. It was not a simple stab. He twisted his wrist, adjusted the angle, struck the pommel with the base of his palm until the metal was buried like a stake.

He tested the resistance. Pulled once. Then with all his weight.

The dagger did not give.

"Are you coming with me or staying up there watching?" he asked while taking the rope off his shoulder.

In seconds he secured it to the dagger's handle with a firm knot. Holding the torch with one hand, he passed the rope under his forearm and tensed his body.

He did not look like someone improvising. He looked like someone who had already done that too many times.

Before Velkari could answer, the ground cracked beneath Alaric's feet. He did not hesitate.

He let himself fall.

The descent was not clumsy. He pushed himself against the wall with his legs, body diagonal, cushioning the fall in short intervals. His boots struck the rock, pushed, sent him away and brought him back in a calculated rhythm. He was not sliding; he was dancing on the vertical.

With one arm he held the rope. The other kept the torch raised, protecting the flame from the wind rising from the depth. Each push dislodged dust and gravel.

He was still high.

He wrapped the rope around his forearm and descended another stretch, faster. Ten meters, maybe more. He swung to one side, searching the wall for some irregularity.

He was not satisfied with going down. He was looking for an intermediate point.

He pushed off again, harder.

His foot found something unexpected.

Where there should have been wall, there was emptiness.

He slipped half a step inward and his body partially disappeared into a lateral shadow. He clung with his fingers, tightened his abdomen, and stopped the fall with a violent twist of his torso, driving his knee in to keep from falling further. The rope tightened with a rough screech.

He remained suspended, half hanging in front of a black opening.

He turned the torch.

The light revealed the mouth of another tunnel, narrow but passable.

He looked up.

"Velk. There's another tunnel here. Come down."

He did not wait for confirmation. He adjusted the rope on his forearm, bent his legs and, with a controlled push, partially released the tension to drop into the opening. He landed on one knee, rolled over his shoulder, and stood in a single fluid movement without putting out the torch.

Above, the rope swayed gently.

Alaric stepped back and measured the distance ahead. About five meters away, across an irregular gap, a natural platform of rock stretched out that looked more stable than the edge where Velkari still remained.

He did not hesitate.

He stepped back two paces inside the tunnel to gain momentum. He ran just enough. Planted his foot on the edge of the opening, launched himself into the void with his body extended, twisted his torso to protect the torch and caught the platform with both hands. His fingers found cracks.

The impact shook his arms, but he did not let go. He swung once, pushed his legs against the wall and, with a clean pull, propelled himself upward, landing on his feet.

The torch was still lit.

He raised his gaze toward Velkari, from the other side.

"Come on! I'll wait for you, scaredy-cat."

He looked at him with both arms extended, as if he could already feel him trapped between his hands.

In the murky light behind him, the ground rippled. The mist swirled with almost imperceptible slowness.

Alaric turned.

He rested his hand on the mouth of the sheath and slid the rapier free, using the metal as a catalyst. The brush of his fingers left a film of alcohol suspended in the air. With a curved motion, he drew a perfect U that cut through the saturated atmosphere. The blade touched nothing solid, but the air opened before it.

Without stopping, he advanced his forearm, protected his torso and brushed the blade against his own forearm. This time the cut was diagonal. Sparks were born from the steel, clung to the trail of alcohol and ignited with a dry hiss.

He repeated the movement, wider, more violent. The cuts struck the ground. Fire ran like an eager tongue, illuminating what crouched ahead.

When he raised his gaze, he saw it.

A small figure, incomplete, wrapped in flames that never fully formed. An appendage extended from it, something that could barely be called an arm: a mass of intertwined fibers that rose and made an enveloping gesture, as if it wanted to cover him with its palm.

The ground under Alaric's feet vibrated.

He did not hesitate. He lunged forward just as a cocoon of roots emerged where he had stood an instant before. He ducked and ran, the rapier ready for another cut.

They were no longer sprouting only behind him. Also ahead.

A minimal crack, like a dry blow in the earth, announced the next birth. As he passed over it, a spike the size of a human fist burst upward. Tiny thorns ran along its surface; wrapped roots that twisted upon themselves as if writhing in pleasure.

Alaric intercepts the rise with the blade. The impact vibrates up to his shoulder. He spins on his axis and pushes upward as a garden of thorns is born at his side, sprouts in every direction, retracts and emerges again with blind violence.

In the air, spinning with a speed that borders on reckless, he throws more cuts. Invisible pools of alcohol scatter; a second later, the sparks descend before he does and the ground burns again. The roots do not flinch before the fire and the battlefield lights up once more with a dirty glow.

He lands rolling over his shoulder and rises.

Velkari is no longer where he should be.

He climbs the walls of the chamber, sliding above the corrosive substance that covers the base of the field. A viscous matter. Putrid. The space is wider than it seemed at first. Far too wide.

"Idiot. Don't expose yourself," Velkari whispers in his mind as he moves laterally, fast, silent. He activates the stealth of his race, a hunting gift that has accompanied them since birth. His silhouette dissolves until it becomes little more than a distortion in the air.

Alaric, after the tumble, remains crouched. One hand on the ground. The other holds the rapier with the blade resting on his shoulder, ready for a wide cut.

When he places his palm down, he feels the earth vibrate. Dozens of pulses. Most predictable. If he keeps the rhythm, he might dodge them.

"So…"

He does not finish.

A root as thin as a pencil rises with a minimal motion and pierces the hand holding the rapier. The steel falls, torn from his fingers.

Before the pain fully registers, three others erupt violently, aimed straight for his throat.

Alaric raises his left forearm and blocks. The roots pierce skin and flesh. It is not a simple cut; it is a wet perforation, an invasion.

The vibrations multiply. Dozens. From every angle.

He yanks the skewered hand free. The root comes out tearing tissue. It has barbs. Tiny spines angled backward. Every millimeter of withdrawal is a new stab.

He grabs the roots embedded in his forearm, which try to push deeper, searching for bone. He tries to tear them out, but they are unnaturally solid. Like tempered steel.

There is no alternative.

He pulls.

The tear on the way out is worse than the entry.

The world reduces to a red heartbeat. A white flash crosses his sight. The scream breaks in his throat and he barely manages to choke it between his teeth.

He spins on himself, using the impulse of pain to rise. This time he does not move forward. He begins to circle.

In the exact place where he had stood a second earlier, dozens of roots burst from the earth like spears fired from multiple directions.

He had dodged a slow death.

And horribly conscious.

Every step is a measurement.

Alaric does not run. He calculates. He feels. Every vibration rising through the soles of his boots is a pulse he tries to decipher before it deciphers him. He cannot win in speed against something born under his own feet. He cannot flee from the earth.

But he can lie to it.

He breathes deeply. Lets the air burn his lungs, lets the pain in his forearm remind him he is still alive.

The roots emerge more often where the vibration is denser, where pressure remains constant. If he provokes a false rhythm… if he alternates his weight… if he steps with intention instead of fear…

He moves to the left. At the last instant, he shifts his weight to the right.

A black spear bursts where his shoulder would have been.

A splinter of earth grazes his cheek.

"Good," he thinks with forced coldness. "You're starting to repeat yourself."

His gaze finds the metallic glint several steps away. The rapier, stuck tip-first in the blackened ground, waits like an uncomfortable memory.

Too far if he runs in a straight line. Perfect if he forces the creature to split its attention.

"Velkari."

It is not an order. It is a mental pulse, brief and precise. A shared signal.

The distortion in the air responds.

Velkari descends along the wall almost without producing sound. Not because he wants to go unnoticed, but because the noise must be exact. Measured. Just enough to attract.

He had been looking for blind spots. Now he offers himself as a distraction.

The creature, which has barely stopped burning, turns its head toward the origin of the scrape. The hanging skin contracts and recomposes like wet fibers. Beneath that incomplete mass, something beats.

Velkari then feels the same vibrations as Alaric, but rising through the stone. They do not come from the ground. They come from the wall.

He closes his eyes.

The world reduces to small tremors, to microfractures in pressure. He waits. Counts. Holds his breath until the correct moment forms like an invisible crack.

A pillar of roots, twisting upon itself, erupts from the wall with violence.

Velkari is already moving.

He pushes upward just as the column begins to grow. Not one or two meters: it keeps extending, seeking height. He uses the ascent. He drives the dagger between the tight gaps left by the twisting roots and hangs without touching the spines pulsing on the surface.

He does not climb. He lets himself be lifted.

Alaric advances.

Three steps.

He retrieves the rapier in a clean turn and, without stopping, executes a horizontal cut.

First, alcohol.

The blade opens the irregular mass. The sour smell fills the air, mixing with the old smoke.

Second movement: sparks.

The steel brushes, strikes, and the fire awakens again, spreading across the surface as if it had been waiting for an excuse.

The creature does not retreat.

A dry shriek vibrates in the air, too sharp to be human, too contained to be animal.

Velkari falls from above.

He does not shout. He does not announce his presence. He is simply there, behind the creature, as if he had always occupied that place.

He drives the cold iron dagger between the fibers that form the incomplete torso.

The iron goes in.

This time there is a reaction.

The figure contracts violently, as if its own flesh rejected the metal. The matter yields as it is pierced, but the point where the blade rests trembles, tense.

Velkari is no longer there when a lash of roots crosses the space he occupied a heartbeat earlier.

"Now," murmurs Alaric, more to himself than to his companion.

He closes the distance.

Roots are born in front, behind, to the sides. He jumps over one, steps on another to propel himself and twists his body in the air. Each turn leaves an invisible trail of alcohol that, a second later, becomes fire. He clears ground, reducing the immediate emergence zone, buying seconds with flame.

He arrives.

The body aligns. The pulse concentrates.

Thrust.

The rapier penetrates the burning mass where a chest should be. It finds no bone. No real resistance. Inside, everything is as soft as that hanging skin, wet bark.

He withdraws.

He enters again.

One.

Two.

Three.

Velkari reappears at the creature's back. He recovers his dagger with a rough pull and drives it into the exact point where an appendage joins the torso. Then another, lower. He does not seek to wound. He seeks to weaken the structure.

Alaric sinks the rapier to the hilt.

Fire climbs through the internal wounds.

The figure contracts.

For a second, only one, the vibrations cease.

Silence.

Velkari falls on all fours after one last push backward. Tail bristled. Ears pressed to the skull.

Alaric keeps the rapier in guard. He breathes with difficulty. Blood runs down his pierced hand and slides along the torn forearm, hot, thick.

"It's over…" he begins to say, without conviction.

Within the fire that still surrounds the creature, something recomposes.

The skin tightens.

A smile slowly forms. Crooked teeth, sharp, dark at the tips, as if rot were part of their design.

A finger slides forward.

"Shhhh…" the voice whispers, almost amused. "Your companions are already sleeping after playing."

The whistle that follows is brief. As short as a breath.

The earth responds.

Alaric's back opens in a lateral tear, as if something had ripped it from the inside out. Velkari's torso splits in an oblique cut, clean and brutal.

They do not see the attack.

They feel it.

From every point in the field, even from areas that had already burned, the same black roots they had been dodging emerge. But now they do not seek to cut.

They seek to pierce.

Alaric tries to jump.

A root pierces his thigh before he leaves the ground. Another passes through his side, clean, precise, pushing him backward. The air leaves his lungs in a dry blow.

"Damn it…" he says with a broken voice. "Velk! Run!"

He tries to raise the rapier, to tear sparks from the air, but the strength is already leaving him.

Velkari rolls.

Too late.

Two roots cross his shoulder and thigh. They impale him and lift him from the ground as if he were a freshly conquered trophy.