Elara
The forest still remembered the blood.
Every step Elara took carried the echo of what she had done—what she had become—and the night responded accordingly. Leaves whispered her name. Roots shifted beneath her boots like living things, guiding and misguiding all at once.
Her first kill hadn't faded.
It lived under her skin now.
Rowan stayed close, one hand never far from his weapon, his body angled subtly toward her as if he could shield her from the weight pressing down on her chest. Ahead, Malrik moved like a shadow given intent—silent, precise, always watching the spaces between trees instead of the path itself.
They weren't alone.
Elara felt it before anyone spoke. The pressure. The tightening. Like the forest drawing a slow, deliberate breath.
"They're not chasing," she whispered. "They're waiting."
Malrik slowed instantly. "Good," he murmured. "That means they think we're already cornered."
