Ian stopped walking.
It wasn't the wind. Not a sound. Not even the unnatural silence of Blackblood's cursed heart.
No — it was pressure.
Like the forest itself had grown lungs and breathed in, filling the world too full. The trees bowed. Roots curled tight. The sky dimmed, though there was no sun above. And Ian—still, tense, fingers curled around the hilt of his dagger—felt it.
An aura.
Not simply power, but memory—so dense, so ancient, it dragged time with it. Like the world could crack beneath the weight of this thing's sorrow. Like the ground might forget it was earth and collapse into ash.
He didn't run.
Or speak.
Only waited.
And the beast arrived.
---
