Bront rose stiffly from a crater in the ground left by his own landing. He scratched his head and looked up at the rough hole he’d carved through the canopy on his way down.

  “I hate flying…” he muttered, wrenching his shield from the mud and checking himself for injuries.

  A twig cracked behind him.

  He turned in time to see a soldier—helmet dented, eyes wild—charging straight at him. Clearly the man had landed nearby and was still too panicked to register Bront’s seven-foot half-orc frame as an ally.

  Sword raised overhead, the soldier sprinted in. Before either of them could fully react, a faint purplish glow snapped around the man’s body, freezing him mid-stride.

  Bront turned again just as Lyria floated down through the thinning leaves, a subtle blue aura softening her landing. Her hand remained extended toward the soldier.

  “Withdraw your weapon, soldier,” Lyria hissed, eyes burning. “He rode in with us—are you blind?”

  Released from her spell, the man stumbled back with a stuttered apology.

  “Thanks, Lyria,” Bront muttered, choosing grace over frustration.

  She glared once more at the soldier, then turned to Bront, worry cracking through her composure.

  “Are you hurt? I’m sorry I couldn’t reach you on the way down… or any of the others—”

  Bront shook his head. “Takes more than that to kill me. Did you see where the rest landed?”

  Lyria’s shoulders dipped. “I… lost track of them in the trees.”

  Bront’s ears twitched. “Wait.” He held up a hand, listening. “I thought I heard someone shout… sounded like our ranger—”

  Lyria’s head snapped up, scanning the gloom, but aside from the nervous soldier, the forest was a wall of shifting shadows.

  “Which direction—”

  A low, rumbling growl cut her off.

  Much too close.

  All three went silent.

  Lyria hesitated, then backed up slowly, her gaze locking with Bront’s. He followed her motion without a word. The soldier moved too, clutching his sword with both trembling hands.

  As she turned around, carefully and quietly, a wave of corrupted energy washed over her keen elven senses. It had to be emanating from the focal point Celeste had located… If the others were alive, they’d be drawn toward—or swallowed by—that same source.

  She motioned silently for Bront and the soldier to follow, fixing her glimmering lavender eyes in the direction she’d felt the energy radiate from.

  Bront, meanwhile, squinted into the fog, every one of his primal instincts screaming in warning. They were being watched. Followed.

  The soldier opened his mouth to whisper something, but another growl rolled through the trees—louder, closer, angrier.

  They froze, none wanting to look, but each knowing they had to.

  A shape emerged in the haze ahead. Huge. Unmoving. Wrong.

  “What in the black hall…” Bront breathed, barely audible.

  The shadow lurched forward onto massive forelimbs.

  Fog peeled back like curtains.

  Two burning green eyes tore through the dark.

  A head the size of a wagon wheel. A mouth packed with serrated fangs. Black fur matted with rot, hide peeled in places to reveal exposed bone and the slow pulse of corrupted organs within.

  A Night Bear.

  A beast of legend—named for their pitch-black coats and for the fact that most who crossed their path never woke again.

  Lyria’s eyes narrowed.

  Bront raised his shield.

  The beast leaned in, sniffing the air—its eyes locked directly onto Lyria—she didn’t budge.

  It let out a shuddering snarl that shook the branches overhead.

  And with a gradual first step, it charged.

  Kaela came to with her stomach in her throat and her legs dangling freely.

  “...Oh hells no.”

  She opened one eye.

  Her spear—her beloved spear—was wedged horizontally between two massive tree trunks, lodged deep enough to catch her mid-fall. Kaela herself hung from it like a windchime, arms hooked over the shaft, boots kicking uselessly a dozen feet above the ground.

  “Of course this is how I land,” she groaned, trying to pull herself up and only managing to swing once like a pendulum. “Bet Yukon stuck the landing like some kind of feral—”

  A distant roar rippled through the trees.

  Kaela froze.

  “…Or maybe not.”

  She gritted her teeth, muttered a string of curses that would make Bront proud, and started shimmying her way toward the trunk.

  Selene’s world snapped back all at once—sound, pain, cold—and a pair of strong arms holding her as if she weighed nothing.

  Her eyes shot open.

  Murasa’s face filled her vision. Sharp features softened by concern. fair skin marked faintly with purple scales along his jawline. Amethyst eyes glowing faintly under the fraying remains of a golden barrier spell.

  “Lady Selene,” he rumbled, voice deep as distant thunder. “You’re awake.”

  She stiffened instinctively. Then realized she was still in his arms. Heat bloomed across her cheeks.

  “I—I can stand,” she said quickly, pushing off of him with a little too much haste.

  Murasa allowed it with a small nod. “Good. We need every capable fighter conscious.”

  Only now did Selene register the group around them: Murasa’s entire party—the Knights of Golden Light—landing in a loose cluster. Barton the priest stood at the center, holy sigils flickering faintly around his hands as the last of his emergency spell dissipated.

  It clicked.

  “You pulled us together mid-fall… that’s why this group stayed close,” Selene guessed aloud.

  Barton exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow. “A wide-area gathering spell. I caught who I could. I fear many slipped beyond my reach in the chaos.”

  Murasa’s expression darkened, the weight of command settling across his shoulders.

  “Then we focus on who we did save,” he said. “Shield wall forward. Magic users center. Barton, start working on the injured, Celeste—we’ll need a heading…”

  Selene steadied herself, checking her sword was still at her waist as the Fellwood’s gloom pressed in around them. The air here was heavier—like breathing through a veil dipped in tar. Whispering. Shifting. Watching.

  A branch snapped somewhere far to the left.

  Kaela’s voice screeched overhead:

  “SOMEONE LOOK UP!”

  All heads snapped skyward just in time to see Kaela plummet, having finally dislodged herself from her spear’s perch. She crashed through a curtain of leaves and landed in a heap at Murasa’s feet.

  She shot up instantly.

  “I’m fine. No one saw that. If anyone says they saw that I will skewer them.”

  Selene blinked. “Kaela?”

  “Present.” Kaela grumbled, snatching up her spear, checking it as if it were a wounded pet. “Where’s Yukon? Bront? Lyria?”

  Selene scanned the group.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Scattered soldiers were still walking in from the thick brush, some even being dragged. Others were already starting the shield line. By her count, only about eight had landed with them. The other five were off gods knows where, maybe killed on impact…

  Platoon leader Coles was there too, also taking count.

  Celeste leaned against Haizen, paler than snow.

  But no sign of the others…

  “I’m not sure—” Selene began.

  Then, a low, sibilant rustle carried through the trees, like dry leaves scraping across stone. Then another. And another. Subtle at first, almost as if the forest itself were breathing.

  Kaela’s grip on her spear tightened. “...Hells. I’m sick of this place.”

  Selene tightened her stance, drawing her rapier slowly, ears straining. The air itself felt wrong here—heavy, watching, alive. Every snap of a twig or distant creak seemed amplified, like the Fellwood was aware of each step they took. And they all well knew it likely was.

  Celeste stepped forward, brushing mud and leaves from her robes. Her pale hands shook slightly from exhaustion, and her breathing was ragged. She had poured everything into sustaining the magical construct that had carried them this far.

  “Everyone,” she said quietly, voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “We don’t have time to panic. I can still sense it—the focal point I located before we left the cathedral. The ruins… they’re close. There’s nothing we can do now except head there and hope that those still missing do the same.”

  Kaela and Selene shared a quiet look.

  They were both worried about their friends, but realistically, Celeste was right. At this point, they could only press on.

  Murasa led the way with Celeste one beat behind, her steps sure despite fatigue, eyes never leaving the path ahead. Behind them, the others followed in tense silence. Soldiers fanned out to either side with shields raised. Everyone moved as quietly as possible, alert for any sudden movement.

  Every snapping branch, every rustle of leaves, every whispering echo of wind made them flinch. The Fellwood wasn’t just a forest—it was a predator. Watching. Waiting.

  And somewhere ahead, the ruins Celeste had pinpointed stood like a dark promise, the next step toward whatever corruption lay at the heart of this nightmare.

  Before I even had a chance to reconcile who we were facing and what he had become, Darron jolted into action.

  He sank into a low, coiled stance, cloak flaring aside. When his hand emerged, three slender throwing blades gleamed between his knuckles. They flew the moment I noticed them—silent silver arcs cutting through the fog.

  One struck August square in the chest with a dull, fleshy thud. He barely slowed. The other two ricocheted off each other mid-air, embedding into neighboring trunks and drawing a taut line of cordage between them.

  August, still charging in blind fury, never noticed. His foot hit the line. He crashed face-first, the forest floor trembling under the impact.

  My instincts screamed: Finish him. Now. But my heart cinched tight. What if it were Ron lying there instead? Could I really drive my blade home?

  Tenebrae stood rigid at my side, obsidian fur bristling, his red eyes burning with expectation. Waiting for my will.

  Darron had no hesitation. He sprinted in—footfalls soft and deadly—closing the distance with a killer’s precision.

  My chest locked up.

  This was the right thing. This was mercy. And yet my legs still didn’t budge.

  As Darron’s dagger plunged, I whispered a prayer for August and cursed the useless guilt rooting me in place.

  Then August twitched.

  A knot of vines burst from the forest floor like a striking serpent, slamming into Darron with brutal force. He flew backward, crashing into the brush in a tangled roll.

  I swallowed a gasp, my grip tightening around my sword hilt until pain flared in my knuckles.

  August rose—not by muscle or will, but pulled upright by a web of vines erupting from the soil around him. They heaved him up like a grotesque puppet. Sickly green ichor streamed from the blade lodged in his chest, bubbling as it flowed.

  And suddenly—I remembered something.

  These twisted trees. The pulsing growths. Fog crawling low over dead leaves…

  August standing there, blade gleaming against the shadows, luminescent ichor spilling from hollow eyes…

  I’d fought this before. In a dream.

  And in that dream… I died.

  Was it a glimpse into fate's threads…? Was this my end?

  Tenebrae prowled forward, a low growl vibrating through the earth beneath us—promising violence with or without my command.

  No.

  I’m not who I was then.

  How and why I saw the future in that dream would have to wait. For now, I had to make sure it was just a vision, and not a premonition.

  Whether it felt right or not. I had to fight if I wanted to live.

  August moved first.

  The vines holding him upright snapped back into the earth, vanishing like startled serpents. He lifted one arm—fingers contorting, reaching—and the forest obeyed.

  A thick tangle of vines erupted from the ground, lashing toward me like a living spear.

  Tenebrae and I reacted as one, waiting until the last heartbeat before splitting apart, the hardened tendril cleaving the air between us.

  We charged.

  Moonlight surged down the length of my sword as I focused Lunae’s energy into the metal—cold light blooming into an icy, spectral glow.

  August roared. His jaw unhinged far beyond human limits as he whipped his arms, commanding the forest with nightmarish authority. Pillars of bark and fungus-veined vine burst upward, thrashing wildly to cut us off. Every dodge was a hairsbreadth from annihilation—step too slow, and I’d be impaled or crushed.

  A wall of vines slammed up before me. I dug in, blade snapping upward in a clean arc. Frost-coated steel parted the tangle like splitting muscle—ichor spraying in thin strands as I shoved through.

  Tenebrae danced through the chaos like liquid shadow. He snatched a barbed tendril from the air with his jaws, ripping it clean before vanishing again between trees.

  My eyes locked on August as I vaulted over a sweeping arm of spines—finally within reach.

  August’s blade was already there to meet me.

  Steel rang out sharply, my sword meeting his once pristine weapon, sparks scattering into the gloom on impact. His strength was unnatural, his movements jerky yet terrifyingly fast, pulled as if by invisible strings.

  He twisted, slashing low. I blocked—barely—shock running up my arm.

  He spun again. Faster this time.

  Another strike. Then two more—sharp, relentless, mechanical. Each swing was punctuated by tendrils rooting into the ground to propel him forward, augmenting his speed in sudden bursts.

  I parried high, ducked, rolled from a slicing backhand that would’ve taken my head—and still he pressed harder.

  It wasn’t like fighting a man.

  It was like fighting the entire forest wearing a corpse’s skin.

  Tenebrae pounced from the flank—fangs driving for August’s shoulder—but a nest of vines coiled like a shield and smashed the wolf aside, sending him sliding back with a snarl.

  I gritted my teeth and lunged in, ignoring the light graze by a vine tearing past my cheek, and slashing for his ribs. My blade cut deep, blue light hissing as it seared corruption—but the only reaction was a convulsive jerk, followed by thin vines snapping tighter around his torso, pulling the wound closed.

  I jumped back.

  He hissed through his gaping maw, no breath, no voice, just venomous malice.

  Then his empty eyes flickered in recognition.

  Not of me.

  Of my hesitation.

  His blade shot for my heart.

  Time constricted—every instinct screaming too slow—

  A blast of shadow collided with August’s torso, Tenebrae slamming him off-balance with a thunderous impact. The vine-puppet staggered back, roots tearing in protest.

  I exhaled hard, sweat cold against my spine.

  The dream had shown me how I’d die. August cutting me down—just like this.

  But this time, I wasn’t alone.

  This time, fate would bleed.

  I surged forward, sword poised, Tenebrae at my flank—and August rose back to full height, vines writhing into new armor along his limbs, leaving only his head exposed.

  His blade leveled. His vines bristled.

  The Fellwood held its breath.

  Then all three of us struck.

  We clashed in a blur of steel and shadow.

  August swung first—heavy and reckless. I ducked under a vine-laden arm as his blade whistled past my ear, cutting a strand of hair clean off. I countered with a rising slash to his ribs—he twisted unnaturally, spine bending like wet rope, the strike shaving only bark-hard skin.

  Vines tore from the ground to snare my ankles.

  I sliced free—too slow.

  August’s elbow crashed into my jaw, sending stars exploding across my vision. I stumbled, tasting blood. He didn’t relent. A vine snapped like a whip, cracking across my forearm with bone-numbing force.

  My sword dropped.

  He lunged, blade pointed directly at my heart.

  Tenebrae roared—shadow flaring as he launched himself, all muscle and spectral fury.

  He intended to take the hit…

  August’s sword-tip soared in to meet Tenebrae’s abdomen.

  My chest tightened.

  I realized I had no idea what would happen to Tenebrae if he was struck down when summoned…

  Would he—?

  —Could he die?

  A whisper of steel from behind.

  Shffft.

  August jerked—frozen. His sword halted a hair’s breadth from its mark.

  His head angled down. A short dagger protruded from the base of his skull, buried to the hilt, a hand still firmly holding it in place.

  A voice exhaled behind him, calm and lethal:

  “That was unpleasant…”

  Darron.

  He stood with one knee braced on August’s back, hand still locked around the dagger. His chest heaved, blood drying on his cheek, but his eyes were sharp as ice.

  August convulsed violently—vines thrashing like dying snakes—

  Then the corruption gave way.

  His body collapsed in a wet, twitching heap as the vines turned brittle and fell away like dead weeds.

  Silence swallowed the clearing.

  Tenebrae landed beside me, circling protectively as I stared down at what remained of the man who once laughed in the guild hall… who once carried dreams of being a great adventurer… who once believed he’d make his parents proud.

  Green ichor pooled at my boots.

  I forced myself to look away.

  Darron wiped his blade on a torn patch of cloak and flicked it clean with a stab back into its sheath.

  He met my gaze—voice as flat as the fog around us:

  “Did you know him?”

  I shook my head. “Barely.”

  He nodded slowly, eyeing me for just a moment. “We need to keep moving.”

  Tenebrae growled low, crimson eyes sweeping the shadows ahead, ears pinned toward deeper darkness.

  The Fellwood had gone quiet.

  Too quiet.

  I picked up my sword again, knuckles white around the hilt.

  “Right,” I breathed.

  This wasn’t over.

  Not even close.