They fell quiet as the path indeed sloped upward and narrowed. At times, they navigated single-file around fallen debris. Sela occasionally paused to mark the tunnel wall with a chalk sigil—little wayfinders for their return or for any Asterholt rescue party that might someday need to follow.
During one such pause, Connor noticed a faint electrical sensation on his fingertips, making the fine hairs on his arm raise. He flexed his hand curiously. Tiny blue static sparks danced between his glove and the wall where he braced himself.
His first thought was alarm—was he losing control? But no, these sparks felt tame, responsive. He closed his fist and they vanished. Opening it, he willed a tiny flicker, and one obediently crackled between his fingers. He smiled. Like a firefly trapped in his palm, the energy glowed softly and did not burn. Controlled kinetic static, just as he had hoped. A small sign of how far he had come.
"Catch a shooting star in your hand?" Zara quipped quietly, having noticed the spark.
Connor opened his palm upward and let the little orb of light rise a few inches before snuffing it out. "Something like that," he said.
Finally, after what felt like an hour but may have been less, a current of fresh air wafted through the tunnel. It carried scents of pine resin and wild grass. The horses perked up, sensing open space ahead.
Sela doused her lantern. A cool breeze kissed their faces as they rounded one last bend and saw the tunnel mouth—a ragged opening camouflaged by hanging vines and boulders. Beyond it lay darkness and freedom.
One by one, they led the horses out. Connor stepped into ankle-high grass wet with dew. The night sky above was breathtaking—without the city lights, the stars blazed tenfold, a sweep of the Milky Way like a river of jewels. He drew in a sharp breath. Twin moons had just begun to crest the eastern horizon, silver crescents that bathed the rocky clearing in gentle light.
They were outside. Truly outside the protective perimeter for the first time since he'd arrived in this world.
The horses nickered softly, sensing their riders' moods. Sela immediately moved to scout the perimeter, Zara close behind, blades drawn in case of immediate threats. But the clearing was silent save for a distant owl. No ambush awaited; no shadowy faction barred their way.
Connor helped Thea mount her chestnut gelding, then climbed onto Selene. From the small hill where the tunnel emerged, he could faintly see Asterholt's silhouette behind—a jagged black shape against the starlit sky, its highest spire just peeking above the treeline. Those black glass walls now lay between him and the life he'd known. A world left behind, at least for now.
Sela returned to his side, astride her own stallion, and followed his gaze. "Do you need a moment?" she asked softly.
Connor inhaled, then shook his head. "No. Time to ride." His voice did not waver.
She offered him a gloved hand. He clasped it firmly, a warrior's handshake in the dark. "Then lead on, Sir," Sela said with a proud incline of her head. In this journey, he realized, she considered him not a passenger, but a leader alongside her.
Connor nudged Selene gently, and the mare started forward down the slope. Behind him, the expedition fell into formation. They bore neither pennant nor trumpet, just quiet purpose. The forest ahead consumed them in its welcoming shadows.
At the base of the hill, the trail opened westward. Connor urged Selene into a steady trot. As he did, he glanced upward one last time at the waning outline of his sheltered city. His heart mourned it even as it yearned to explore what lay beyond.
He faced forward. Each stride of his horse carried him further into the unknown, but also further into a life of his own making. Sela's words from days ago echoed: safety without freedom is just gilding on bars. Well, here he was beyond the bars at last.
The twin moons cast their pale light on the path ahead. Connor straightened in the saddle, squaring his shoulders. A gentle spark of aether danced in the palm of his right hand where he gripped the reins, pulsing in time with his racing heart. This time, he did not shy from it; he guided it, matching the brightness of that spark with the rising fire of resolve inside him.
"I will chart my path," he whispered into the night, the words whisked away by the cool breeze but imprinted on his soul.
And under the watch of countless stars—and perhaps something more in the far distance—the young man rode onward, empowered yet vulnerable, surrounded by his chosen allies, into the great wide open beyond the black glass walls.
Act 3: Echoes in the Wild
Chapter 17: Into the Hinterlands
A briny mist clung to the dawn air, tasting of pine resin and distant salt, as golden light spilled over the endless expanse of highland heath. The breeze carried a mosaic of frontier scents—wildflower pollen, damp moss on ancient stones, a hint of woodsmoke from far-off homesteads. Thin trails of morning fog curled around shattered marble pillars that jutted from the earth, ruins half-devoured by creeping vines. In the hush of early day, the land itself seemed to sigh: a low harmonic hum that trembled through the dew-laden ferns and into Connor's bones, as if the wilds had a heartbeat.
Connor Varik drew a slow breath, the crisp air tingling cool in his lungs. For a moment, he simply listened—to the rustle of leaves overhead, the creak of leather harnesses on the wagon behind him, the distant caw of a raven greeting sunrise. So this is the world beyond the walls, he thought, shouldering the quiet awe and trepidation that had shadowed him since they'd left Asterholt. After weeks sequestered behind black glass ramparts, being out here under an open sky felt dizzyingly unreal. He ran a gloved hand along the coarse bark of a trail-side cedar as he passed, fingers drinking in the texture to convince himself this freedom was real.
Is this what freedom feels like? The thought flickered in italics across his mind, unbidden and wry. Connor's lips twitched in a faint smile as he moved along the rough path, boots pressing into soil that was still wet from last night's rain. Freedom, yes—but also exposure. Out here, beyond the fortress and its protective wards, there were no city guardians perched on rooftops or shimmering barriers to keep danger at bay. Only Sela's vigilance, Zara's sharp eyes, and his own wits stood between their little expedition and whatever untamed mysteries prowled the frontier.
A heavy wagon wheel crunched over gravel behind him, and Connor half-turned. Captain Sela Var rode astride her chestnut mare just ahead of the wagon, her silhouette framed by the slanted morning sun. The Captain's braided ebony hair glinted with copper highlights as she surveyed the trail, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of her saber. Her steel-plate pauldron caught a ray of light, flashing like a mirror signal. Even in repose, Sela projected an aura of readiness—Connor could sense the tension coiled beneath her calm, as if her very sinews were tuned to the forest's whispers. She glanced back at him then, catching his eye, and offered a small nod and a reassuring half-smile.
"Keeping up alright, Sir Connor?" she called softly. Her tone was polite, formal as ever, but tinged with genuine concern. Even now, Sela refused to address him without the honorific, a habit Connor had long since given up trying to change. In this matriarchal land, a man—especially one as rare as him—was to be afforded every courtesy.
Connor quickened his step to draw alongside her mare, his boots squelching slightly in a patch of soft earth. "I'm alright," he replied, looking up at her. He had to shield his eyes with one hand against the brightness haloing her figure. "It's beautiful out here." He meant it to sound optimistic, but the words came out quietly, almost a whisper.
Sela's stern features softened. She reached down and briefly touched his shoulder, a gesture of comfort that made the two accompanying Asterholt guards on the wagon bench straighten with vigilant reflex. "It is," she agreed. Her voice lowered as if confiding a secret between just them. "And it's dangerous, too. Stay close to the convoy, my lord." The emphasis was gentle but clear.
He nodded, a strand of his sandy-brown hair falling across his forehead as he did. Connor pushed it back absent-mindedly. They had insisted he not cut it too short; apparently even that was a symbol here—something about traditional male presentation. He found he didn't mind now that the initial fuss had passed. The longer locks kept his ears warm in the chill mornings, and besides, everyone else seemed to like it.
Behind Sela's horse, the rune-armored wagon rumbled along, its enchanted wheels leaving faintly glowing runic prints in the mud that faded after a few heartbeats. It was a smaller, sturdier vehicle than the grand land-barge that had carried them north to Asterholt—a compromise between protection and speed for this frontier expedition. Ironwood slats reinforced with silver filigree of warding runes made up its sides. Seated at the front holding the reins was Thea, her slight form bundled in a charcoal travel cloak. The young quartermaster's apprentice-turned-aide had proven adept with handling the mule team over the past days. She flicked the reins and offered Connor a shy wave when she saw him looking.
Connor returned the wave with a warm smile. Thea's presence was a comfort—she was a familiar friend in this strange new chapter of his journey. It still amazed him that the same timid girl who once cowered under Mistress Rana's gaze was now here, venturing into the unknown by choice. When their eyes met, Thea gave him an encouraging grin, cheeks dimpled, as if to say we've got this. Connor hoped she was right.
Zara rode scout a dozen paces ahead of Sela. The monster hunter's emerald cloak fluttered behind her like a war banner, revealing glimpses of the Titan scale she'd fashioned into a shoulder guard—a trophy from the battle in the high pass weeks ago. At the memory, Connor felt the phantom weight of that day's exhaustion—he could still recall the way the world narrowed to a tunnel of pain after he'd diverted the boulder, how Sela's voice sounded distant as she'd caught him from collapsing. That had been the worst of it, the last time he truly overextended himself. Since then Sela's nightly breathing drills and sigil therapy had helped. He had learned caution.
Now he could sense the aether around him, even manipulate it, with far more finesse and far less fanfare. Connor flexed his fingers subtly, drawing a slow breath through his nose as he walked. The fresh morning air tasted faintly of iron on his tongue—a telltale sign. Aether drift. He could feel it swirling invisibly in eddies through the forest, rising from the land's ancient ley lines like warmth from sun-baked stone. It tickled at the edges of his mind. Once, that sensation would have given him a headache; today it was merely an alertness, a presence he could tune in or out if he focused.
He was focusing now. Sela had asked him to periodically "scan" the surroundings with his innate sense, and Connor had grown accustomed to the ritual each morning. It was like adjusting his eyes to a dim room, except inwardly—he would quiet his breathing, match it to an internal metronome of counting heartbeats, and open an inner sense, letting the subtle tingling of ambient magic wash over him. Often it revealed nothing dangerous, just the low thrum of living things and old enchantments slumbering under soil. But occasionally…
Connor paused mid-stride. A prickle ran through his consciousness, raising the hairs on his forearms beneath his woolen sleeves. He tilted his head, as if listening for something just beyond hearing. There it was—a faint static in the aether, a crackle of tension coalescing not far ahead. It felt like the charged silence before a lightning strike.
Something's off… Connor furrowed his brow and quickly stepped forward to Zara's position, careful not to startle Sela's mare as he passed. "Zara," he called under his breath. The raven-haired hunter had already reined in her horse; perhaps she sensed something amiss too, if not by magic then by sheer instinct.
Zara looked back at him, one hand raised in a silent signal for the convoy to slow. Her other hand had drawn her crossbow from its saddle holster. "I feel it too," she murmured. Beneath the brim of her wide hat, Zara's sharp hazel eyes scanned the tree line ahead, where the trail bent around a cluster of mossy boulders. Sunlight and shadow dappled the ground there in an innocuous pattern—but the birds had gone quiet.
Captain Sela had noticed their exchange. In a heartbeat she was beside Connor on foot, having dismounted in one fluid motion. "Report," she said softly, eyes narrowing at the path ahead.
Zara inclined her head respectfully even as she kept her crossbow trained forward. "Possible threat ahead, Captain. The undergrowth to the right… I caught a glint."
Connor swallowed, following her gaze. He saw only tangled bracken and the charred husk of a fallen log to the right of the road. But now that he reached out with his aether-sense deliberately, he felt it stronger: a cluster of faint heat signatures of life, pulsing in the half-light beyond the bend, trying to still themselves into invisibility. The static tension spiked. He realized with a lurch of his stomach what it was—a killing intent, several of them, pressing on the ambient magic like stones on a drumskin. Bounty hunters. They were here, lying in wait.
His grey-blue eyes widened. "An ambush," Connor whispered. His heart thudded once, hard. Almost unconsciously, his right hand drifted toward the inside of his coat where a small etched focus stone lay warm against his chest—one of the few defensive tools he carried openly. He wet his lips, forcing himself to speak calmly. "Ahead and right—there are people hiding. Five, maybe six. Armed."
Sela's jaw clenched. There was no time to question how he knew; by now she trusted his inexplicable sixth sense. She raised her left fist to signal halt to the wagon and guards. The creaking and rumbling behind them ceased as Thea pulled the reins and the two armored guards, Nima and Farrah, hopped off the wagon quietly with spears at the ready.
For a moment, the group stood in poised silence on the narrow trail. Connor's pulse quickened, the rush of blood loud in his ears. The ambushers had not yet realized they'd been detected. If they were after him—and who else in these wilds would a band of six lay in wait for?—they would likely spring the trap as the wagon came parallel to those boulders. He was suddenly aware he stood near the front now, dangerously close to where the attack would erupt.
Sela gently but firmly moved to position herself slightly in front of Connor, shield arm flexing though she carried no shield at present. Zara slid from her saddle, tying the mare's reins loosely to a branch without taking her eyes off the undergrowth. Thea remained perched on the wagon seat but had nocked a shortbow, her face pale yet determined. Connor caught her gaze; she gave a tense nod as if to say ready. He tried to return the gesture, though his mouth was dry.
In the underbrush ahead, a twig snapped—a tiny sound, but in the pregnant hush it was as loud as a thunderclap. It began.
A war cry—female voices—shattered the stillness. Three figures in mottled cloaks burst from behind the mossy boulders to the right, rushing the road. Two more leapt from behind the burnt log on the left flank. Blades gleamed in the morning light: curved short swords and spears. These weren't bandits; their formation was too coordinated. Mercenaries, then, or guild enforcers. Connor barely had time to glimpse snarling faces—painted with ash and determination—before Sela was shouting a command.
"Form on me! Protect the ward!" Sela's voice cracked like a whip. In an instant, Nima and Farrah flanked Connor, their spears crossed in front of him defensively. It rankled him, a spike of helpless frustration—he didn't want to be shielded like some frail thing—but he understood. They had their duty. And he had his.
Zara's crossbow thrummed. A quarrel hissed through the air and struck one charging attacker in the thigh, dropping the woman to one knee with a scream. The forest seemed to explode into motion. Sela met the central assailant head-on, steel ringing as her saber clashed against the attacker's sword. Sparks flew from the metal kiss. The captain moved with disciplined fury, a living whirlwind of blade and boot. With a sharp cry she slammed her elbow into the woman's jaw, sending the assailant reeling.
On the left side, two attackers lunged at the wagon. Thea yelped and ducked as a spearpoint sliced the air where her head had been a second earlier. Farrah, the older of the two guards, intercepted one attacker with a thrust of her spear, forcing the mercenary back. But the second assailant, a wiry woman with a scar down her cheek, evaded Nima's swing and was now running straight for Connor, a serrated dagger in hand.
Connor's stomach flipped. She was coming for him, eyes wild and triumphal, as if she already saw her bounty prize in hand.
Time slowed. Connor felt a surge of heat flood his limbs—fear, adrenaline, and something more. The world around him sharpened into startling focus: he saw dust motes frozen in a sunbeam, the desperation etched in the lines of the scarred woman's face, a single drop of sweat rolling down Nima's temple as the young guard tried to pivot towards the threat. In that crystalline moment, Connor touched the well of energy inside him—the aether he carried, that carried him. He did not reach for a massive torrent of it as he once might have in panic, but instead something clicked in his memory: steady, like a pendulum; precise, not too much. Mastery through moderation.
He raised his hand toward the charging assailant. From the outside it must have looked a feeble gesture—an unarmed man raising an open palm. But Connor felt a pulse of invisible force gather at his fingertips, warm and humming. He shaped it with a snap of will, weaving a quick sigil in his mind as Sela had taught him. The air between him and the woman shimmered.
She was two steps away when the telekinetic shove caught her mid-stride. Not a wild blast—no, Connor forced it into a narrow cone aimed squarely at her chest. It was as if an unseen battering ram struck her. The woman's breath flew from her lungs in a choked gasp; her momentum turned against her, sending her tumbling backward. She hit the ground hard enough to skid back several feet, leaves and dirt spraying. The dagger flew from her grasp.
A flare of pain ignited behind Connor's eyes—sharp but brief, like an ice pick quickly withdrawn. He staggered, a hand flying to his temple. The push had cost him, but less than before. No blackout, no uncontrollable torrent—just a spike of headache and the coppery taste of magic on his tongue. Connor grit his teeth. He could manage this.
Nima was immediately at his side, her spear tip leveled toward the downed enemy to prevent any further lunge. "Back away from the lord!" the guard snarled at the woman, who groaned and rolled onto her side, clutching her ribs.
Meanwhile, on the right, Zara had discarded her crossbow and drawn twin hunting knives. She danced between two opponents with lethal grace, each slash of her blades drawing sparks from parried attacks or blood from exposed flesh. One mercenary fell clutching a slashed arm. The other swung a broadsword at Zara's head. Zara ducked, the blade whistling over her raven hair, and retaliated with a precise stab upward—her knife found the gap under the attacker's arm guard. With a cry, the woman crumpled to her knees, weapon dropping. Zara kicked it away and pressed a blade to her throat.
Captain Sela had dispatched her first foe and now moved like lightning to assist Farrah at the wagon's left. Farrah was locked in a fierce struggle, her spear clanging against a mace wielded by a stocky attacker. As Sela approached from behind, the mace-wielder caught sight and swung desperately at the captain. Too slow. Sela ducked under the swing and brought her saber in a ruthless arc across the woman's calf. The mercenary howled and collapsed, unable to stand. Farrah finished it with a quick pommel strike to the temple; the attacker went limp.
In heartbeats, it was over. The forest clearing stilled save for the ragged breathing of the combatants and the moans of the injured ambushers. The last attacker—the one Zara held at knifepoint—spat a curse but ceased struggling when Zara pressed the blade a bit closer.
Connor exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His legs felt unsteady. Adrenaline still pounded through him, but he forced himself to scan around: Sela was already barking low orders to secure the prisoners, Nima and Farrah moving to bind the wounded with rope from the wagon. Thea climbed down from the driver's seat, bow in hand, eyes wide but shining with relief now that everyone was alive and safe. She rushed over to Connor's side.
"Are you hurt?" Thea asked softly, her voice trembling just a touch. She placed a steadying hand on his arm. Connor realized he was still pressing a hand to his temple and quickly dropped it, hoping to hide the worst of his fatigue.
"I'm fine," he lied gently, managing a small reassuring smile for her sake. Truthfully, his head still throbbed from the sudden use of power, but it was already receding to a dull ache. That was progress; a week ago, even a controlled push like that might have sent him to his knees with nausea.
Thea peered at him, unconvinced, but she didn't press. Instead, she released a shuddering breath and her face broke into a grin. "That was incredible, Connor. You stopped her cold." There was pride and wonder in her tone.
A warmth flared in his chest at her admiration, but Connor shook his head. "We all did what we had to," he murmured. He glanced to where the scar-cheeked woman he'd pushed lay groaning. Perhaps he'd cracked a rib or two of hers. He hoped not—guilty conscience already nibbling at him—but the pragmatic side of him felt grim satisfaction that she wouldn't be threatening anyone for a while.
Captain Sela approached, wiping her blade clean on a scrap of cloth. Her eyes swept over Connor appraisingly. "Good work, everyone," she said, raising her voice just enough for all to hear. Then she focused on him. "Connor—my lord—are you unharmed?"
"Yes, Captain," he answered. His formal tone reflexively matched hers. He stood a bit taller, trying to show her he was steady on his feet. "Thanks to your quick action. And… I managed to contribute."
Sela's stern visage cracked into a rare, approving smile. "That you did." She sheathed her saber and stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Your warning gave us the edge. And what you did just now…" Her eyes flicked to the fallen attacker and back, pride shining in them. "Textbook focus and control. Marisela would be proud."
Connor felt a rush of relief and pride at the praise. Coming from Sela, who never gave compliments lightly, it meant a great deal. He bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment.
Zara strode over, dragging the disarmed ringleader by the arm. "Captain, this one's still kicking. What shall we do with them?"
The mercenary leader glared up from her knees, defiant despite the cut across her forearm and Zara's blade hovering near her throat. She was middle-aged, hair graying at the temples—a veteran by the look of her scarred armor. "Finish it, dogs of Asterholt," she hissed through clenched teeth, voice thick with pain. "Get it over with."
Sela arched an eyebrow. "Hardly." She nodded to Nima and Farrah. "Bind her with the others. We'll see who sent them."
At mention of interrogation, a flicker of uncertainty crossed the woman's face. Nima and Farrah efficiently tied the hands of each conscious assailant with rune-laced cord. Connor watched in silence, catching his breath. His heart was slowing now, the reality of the attack sinking in. This was likely not the last. They had been on the road less than a week and already opportunists or assassins were upon them. Who knew how many more lay ahead?
As the guards gathered the mercenaries by the roadside, Sela knelt by the one Zara had shot in the thigh. The woman was whimpering, the crossbow bolt still lodged in her leg. Sela spoke in a low tone, not unkindly. "Why target our expedition? Who hired you?"
The wounded woman just shook her head, tears streaking her dirty face. It was the leader who answered instead, barked a bitter laugh. "Who do you think, Captain?" she sneered Sela's title. "Half the factions in Aurelia would pay for a prize like him." She jerked her chin toward Connor. "But you already know that."
Connor felt Thea's grip tighten slightly on his arm. He swallowed hard. The woman's words weren't untrue. Lady Vesna's guild, the desert cartels, perhaps others—they all had reasons. He stepped forward, gently disengaging from Thea, and addressed the mercenary leader directly. "You took a big risk attacking a convoy escorted by the Watch. Why? Bounties?"
His voice was calm, but inside he felt a cold dread coiling. The leader lifted her gaze to him, and for the first time Connor realized she was avoiding his eyes—no, not avoiding, lowering hers. Even captured and seething, she upheld that peculiar social code: a woman not meeting a man's stare without permission. It felt absurd in these circumstances.
"Bounties," the woman confirmed after a silence. "Enough to set each of us up for life." Her lip curled. "Didn't expect you'd have such fight in you, sir." She spat the honorific like a curse, perhaps resenting that she had to use it at all.
Connor flushed at her tone. He wasn't sure if it was anger, embarrassment, or some mix of both. He had no witty retort. He simply nodded, accepting her answer.
Sela stood, her face a mask of composure though Connor sensed her annoyance in the slight flaring of her nostrils. "Thea, fetch the water. We'll tend wounds and then decide our next move." The Captain turned to Connor. "We can't tarry long. Others may have heard the scuffle."
He agreed wholeheartedly. Already the ambient hum of the forest was returning—the natural peace that precedes or follows violence. A few birds cautiously resumed their songs, as if to ask if it was safe. Connor flexed his fingers; they ached slightly from channeling power. He could still taste a tang of metal on his tongue.
Zara walked past, muttering about checking the perimeter. Connor let out a slow breath and moved aside to help Thea, who was rummaging in the wagon for their water and the small satchel of woundwort poultices. As he lifted a water skin and some bandages, a distant hawk's cry echoed over the trees. Connor's gaze drifted in its direction, to the rolling expanse of green and gray beyond the trail. Somewhere out there, beyond the next ridge, was another day of journey, and beyond that more unknowns on the road to the crater.
Who else is hunting? The earlier crackle of danger still rang in his nerves. This group had been desperate but relatively unorganized compared to the trained kill-squad that could have been sent. Would others try again, perhaps in greater numbers? Will rival factions track the expedition?
He felt Sela's presence as she came to stand beside him, following his gaze into the wilderness ahead. Unprompted, she spoke what they were both thinking. "This will not be the last attempt."
"No," Connor said quietly. A slight breeze stirred the trees, carrying the faint smell of smoke from their brief battle. He closed his eyes for a second, steadied by the familiar outline of Sela's silhouette at his side, the gentle clink of her armor as she breathed. "But we're ready."
Sela nodded once, confidence radiating from her in steady waves. "We are," she affirmed. Then with a faint, almost teasing note, she added, "Especially with you watching over us, my lord."
Connor huffed a soft, half-sarcastic laugh at that, opening his eyes. "And all of you watching over me."
She smiled, and in that mutual understanding they found a brief island of calm amid the uncertainties.
As the sun climbed higher, the convoy gathered itself and pressed on, leaving the trussed mercenaries behind for the next Asterholt patrol to find. Connor took one last glance over his shoulder at the clearing—broken weapons, muddy footprints, and a smear of blood on the rocks the only testament to the clash. The forest would reclaim it soon enough.
He turned back to the road ahead. Every step carried them deeper into the wild unknown, and Connor felt both the thrill and the weight of it settling on his shoulders. At the very edge of hearing, or perhaps only in his mind, the land's low hum seemed to resolve into an echo of unspoken words, urging him onward.
And somewhere far ahead, beyond the next bend, the Hinterlands waited with bated breath, ready to test whatever resolve he had gained.
Chapter 18: The Mawing Wood
Twilight painted the heart of the forest in hues of deep green and haunted gold. A damp loam scent rose from the mossy earth, rich and peaty, while high above, gnarled branches interlocked to blot out all but stray spears of setting sunlight. The silence here was uncanny—not the peaceful hush of evening, but a tight-lipped silence, as if the wood itself were holding its breath. Every footstep of the convoy was absorbed by thick layers of pine needles underfoot. Now and then, an unseen creature scurried in the underbrush, the only hint of life in this timbered graveyard of sound.
Connor walked near the front, one hand trailing along a jagged trunk. The bark was strangely warm to his touch, feverish, and when he pulled his hand away he noticed a faint bioluminescent sheen clinging to his fingertips. Radiant sap? He rubbed his fingers together and the residue glowed pale blue before fading. Another reminder that they were entering the star's shadow—this part of the frontier had been touched by whatever fell from the sky, and nothing here was untouched by its echo.
A few paces ahead, Zara halted and raised a clenched fist to signal a stop. The convoy obeyed in tense synchrony. Connor peered around her and saw why: the trail simply vanished beneath a massive fallen oak, its trunk easily six feet across and covered in emerald ferns. The great tree must have toppled ages ago, but oddly its leaves were not all dead—some of the branches still bore patches of withered, blackened foliage that rustled without wind. They would have to go around.
Sela dismounted carefully from her mare, armor clinking softly. "Stay alert," she cautioned in a low voice. She patted the horse's neck; the mare snorted, ears flattening. The animal was uneasy here too. Sela's steel grey eyes flicked to Connor. "This is the Mawing Wood. Locals say it swallows unwary travelers."
Connor stepped over a snaking tree root as they began to skirt the fallen oak. "Swallows them?" he echoed quietly. He tried for a light tone, but it came out thin.
Zara answered with a grim smile, not taking her eyes off the dim forest ahead. "Meaning those who stray from the path often find themselves turned around… or worse. Some say the forest plays tricks." She tapped one temple with a gloved finger. "Messes with your mind. Makes you walk in circles until exhaustion claims you."
Thea, who walked just behind Connor leading the wagon mules, gulped audibly. "That's… comforting." Her attempt at humor wavered.
"We have Sela's map and Connor's senses. We'll be fine," Zara replied, more kindly. Her boots squelched in a patch of mud as she navigated around the oak's massive root system.
Connor nodded, though he couldn't shake the feeling of eyes watching from the dark hollows between trees. He brushed his fingertips against the focus stone in his pocket—a nervous habit—and reached out with his aether sense again. The ambient magic here was strong, almost oppressive. It pressed on his skin like humid air before a storm. There was a distortion to it as well, a subtle warping that made it hard to get a clear "read" on distant life forms. He sensed flickers—small critters, likely—scuttling away from their presence, but deeper in the gloom, the energies blurred like a smudged painting.
As they rounded the fallen tree, Farrah and Nima took the lead momentarily to push aside some hanging creepers blocking the way. The two guards exchanged a brief look—both were sweating despite the coolness under the canopy. Farrah muttered something about the sooner they were clear of these cursed woods the better.
Soon the party found what seemed to be the continuation of the trail on the other side of the oak. Sela motioned for them to continue in formation. They pressed on, slower now, wary for more obstacles or illusions.
The forest only grew thicker. Towering pines and twisted oaks crowded close, their roots tangled in knots across the path. It forced a serpentine route; more than once they had to double back a few yards to circumvent impassable thickets of bramble. Each time they did, Connor felt a prickle of anxiety—was the forest rearranging itself, or was that just his imagination? The light was fading fast too. In the greenish half-light of dusk beneath the canopy, every shadow looked like a lurking shape.
A sudden snap of a branch to their left caused everyone to freeze. Connor's heart lurched into his throat. He squinted toward the noise but saw only a tangle of blackberry bushes and darkness beyond. Zara had an arrow nocked instantly, aiming toward the sound. Sela stepped protectively nearer to Connor, her injured arm held a bit stiffly at her side while her good hand rested on her sword hilt.
After a long moment with no further sound, Sela signaled to move on. Just an animal, Connor told himself, forcing down the adrenaline spike. Yet even the animals here sounded… wrong. The occasional birdcall they'd heard had a distorted echo to it, as if a chorus of ghosts repeated each chirp a heartbeat later.
As night threatened to fully descend, they decided to make camp rather than risk wandering off-track in darkness. None of them relished sleeping in this eerie wood, but pressing on blindly would do no good. They found a relatively open glade adjacent to what might once have been a stone shrine—broken plinths and cracked flagstones peeked out from the weeds, hinting that travelers long ago had sought shelter here too.
The guards cleared the perimeter while Thea and Connor unhitched the mules and saw to the small fire. It took effort to light; the wood here was damp and oddly resistant to catching flame. Finally, a modest fire crackled, its light pushing back the immediate dark. They dared not make it too large—Zara warned that bright light could attract unwanted attention in a place like this. So it remained a small comfort against the looming blackness between the trees.
Connor sat close to the fire, warming his hands and trying not to dwell on how the darkness beyond the circle of light seemed to press in like a living thing. He noted Sela flexing her left arm with a grimace as she rolled her shoulder; that old wound of hers must be bothering her. He remembered when she took a graze from shrapnel during the sabotage in Asterholt's underworks—a blast meant for him, most likely. It healed, but not cleanly. Now the damp chill of the forest was aggravating it.
She caught him watching and offered a tight smile. "Old scars," Sela said by way of explanation. "Nothing to worry yourself over."
Before he could reply, a forlorn howl echoed through the trees. It sounded close, and it was unlike any wolf cry Connor had heard on Earth or in this world. It began low, a traditional call, but then it elongated unnaturally, notes overlapping as if two or three voices emanated from one throat in dissonant harmony. The howl ended abruptly, cut off as if swallowed by the night.
Thea shuffled nearer to Connor, eyes wide. "That didn't sound normal." She clutched her blanket around her shoulders.
"No," Zara agreed, rising slowly from where she had been crouched whittling a stake. Her posture was tense, predatory. "Echo-wolves."
Connor's blood went cold at the name. He had heard of them in passing—a footnote in one of the smuggled bestiaries he'd read. Wolves twisted by arcane fallout, known to haunt places struck by great magic. Their howls could unnerve even seasoned hunters, and it was said they could appear as more than themselves, confounding prey.
Another howl answered the first, from a slightly different direction. Then a third, overlapping the others. It was impossible to tell how many wolves there were—each howl sounded like a chorus. The effect was disorienting, making the forest seem filled with phantom packs.
Nima swore under her breath and backed toward the fire, spear in hand. "Captain, maybe a larger fire—"
Before Sela could answer, a pained yelp rang out, startlingly near on the right. It wasn't the eerie multi-voiced howl this time, but a genuine cry of an animal in pain. It was followed by snarls and a vicious growling that tapered into whines. Something was happening out there in the darkness.
Zara motioned for silence and gestured that she would investigate the noise. But Connor was already moving. He grabbed a fresh torch from their supplies—a simple wooden torch coated in resin—and thrust one end into the campfire until it caught.
"Connor, wait—" Sela whispered sharply, but he was already inching toward the sound, torch in one hand and his focus stone in the other. He felt compelled; that yelp had not been aggressive, it was full of agony. Thea was at his heels holding a second torch, despite clearly trembling.
They advanced a dozen yards from the camp, Zara and Sela flanking close, Nima and Farrah guarding the rear. The flickering torchlight carved moving tunnels of visibility between the boles of trees. Shadows danced, mimicking beasts on all sides.
Another low whimper drew Connor's attention down a slope to their right. At the base of an enormous cedar, partly illuminated by a shaft of moonlight, a wolf lay on its side. Even from a distance Connor could tell something was wrong. The creature's fur, once gray, was patchy and singed. Its body convulsed in a spasm, hind legs scrabbling weakly at the carpet of decaying pine needles. A dark shaft protruded from its flank—a broken spear? No, too thin…
"An old trap," Zara murmured, nodding toward the object. Connor now saw it was a shattered fragment of a crossbow bolt, likely left from some past encounter. The wolf must have broken it off, but part remained lodged, and the wound around it looked infected, black veins spreading under the skin. Even as they watched, the wolf snapped its jaws weakly and let out another keening whine.
It was alone, presumably left to die by its pack or too hurt to follow them. Connor felt a squeeze around his heart at the sight. The wolf's eyes opened a slit, catching the moonlight—and for an instant, he swore they glowed faintly, a luminescent greenish sheen that flickered. Those eyes fixed on the approaching humans, full of fear and pain.
"We should put it out of its misery," Farrah whispered behind them. "Poor thing." She raised her spear, brows drawn.
"Wait," Connor whispered. He stepped forward before anyone could stop him, lowering his torch so as not to frighten the animal more. The wolf growled, a feeble warning, but couldn't even lift its head. Connor's throat tightened. It looked so much like a normal wolf despite the odd glow of its eyes… and yet he could feel the distortion around it. This creature was infused with the star's poison, its natural aura marred by a pulsing erratic energy. If the infection or corruption didn't kill it, it would likely turn feral and vicious like the others. But right now, it was simply a suffering creature.
He knelt slowly, ignoring Zara's soft curse and Sela's tensed posture as he left the protective circle of their stances. "Easy," Connor murmured gently to the wolf, his voice barely above a breath. He extended his empty hand toward its head, palm outward in a gesture of peace. The wolf's ears twitched; its growl faded into a whining pant.
A hundred thoughts fluttered in Connor's mind. This was reckless. It was a wild beast—more so, a twisted one. Yet he felt no fear, only a profound pity. Agency versus responsibility. The phrase from some half-remembered philosophical debate came to him. He had the power to harm or to help—here was a chance, a choice.
He glanced over his shoulder. Sela's face was a mask of concern, her lips parted as if to call him back. The others looked on in tense silence, trusting him to do what he thought best, or at least not wanting to agitate the situation by interfering.
Connor swallowed and turned back to the wolf. The logical thing would indeed be a swift merciful end. But another idea had sparked in him—a possible use of the knowledge they'd gleaned from the Falling Star research. Only a fragment of it, but maybe enough.
He reached into the pocket of his coat and drew out a small piece of chalky white stone—chalk from the ruins they passed earlier. Quickly, before his courage failed, he began to draw a sigil on the flat surface of a nearby stump, just an arm's length from the wolf. His hand trembled as he sketched the lines: a circle, then a seven-pointed star within it, each point bisected by a careful stroke. The Echo rune. Or at least a rough, small-scale version of the amplification sigil they had barely begun to decode.
Behind him, Thea sucked in a breath. She recognized it—she had helped him pore over those notes late into the night, after all. "Connor… are you sure?" she whispered.
He wasn't sure. Not at all. But he had to try. "If it works," he murmured, "it might cleanse whatever's afflicting it." Or kill it faster, a cynical voice in his head noted. He shook that thought away. He had to believe in the possibility of grace here. He finished the final chalk mark.
"I'll need a bit of light here," he said softly. The torches weren't bright enough for what he needed. Connor steadied his breathing. He extended one finger over the drawn rune and summoned a micro-spark of aether, just as he'd practiced. A tiny orb of white-blue light blossomed at his fingertip—glowing like a miniature star. It illuminated the sigil clearly. The wolf flinched at the sudden glow, but Connor kept murmuring softly to calm it as he brought the spark down and infused it into the chalk lines.
The effect was immediate. The chalk markings began to glimmer, the seven-point star shining brightly. Connor felt a surge of energy pulsing from the rune—a harmonic vibration that resonated in his fingertips. He realized he was essentially poking a tiny hole into the ambient aether flows, funneling extra power into this spot. The amplification rune drank in the surrounding magic (and in this forest, there was plenty to drink) and magnified it tenfold.
Connor directed his open palm toward the wolf's wound. With his other hand, he traced a simple healing sigil in the air—an oval shape for mend, a line for purge. It was basic field-medicine magic one of Asterholt's medics had taught him for headaches and minor burns. Through the lens of amplified aether, however, it might—
The healing sigil glowed a soft green in the air before him. Connor poured his intention into it: Heal, cleanse, soothe. The energy from the chalk rune surged through him, tingling up his arms. He grit his teeth, focusing it carefully into the green symbol and onward into the wolf's body.
The wolf jerked as if struck by an invisible wave. It let out a startled yelp; its hindlegs kicked and then went stiff. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Connor feared the worst—that he'd simply shocked the poor creature to death. But then the sickly black veins around the wound began to recede. The festering dark tissue where the bolt had lodged sizzled and smoked as if burned by holy fire. A pungent smell of rot filled the air.
Connor's eyes watered at the stench, but he maintained concentration. The wolf howled again, but this time the sound gradually lost its unnatural echo and became a normal canine whine. The luminescence in its eyes flickered and dimmed, turning a more natural amber.
"It's working," Thea gasped softly. Indeed, the corruption was literally smoking out—thin tendrils of shadowy vapor wafted from the wound and dissipated into the night. The wolf's panting eased, and it laid its head back, chest rising and falling rapidly.
A swell of triumph and relief rose in Connor's chest. He dared a small smile. However, his relief was short-lived. The excess energy he had drawn was not so easily controlled. Even as the healing sigil dimmed, Connor felt the amplification rune beneath him continuing to hum, pulling more power. The chalk lines glowed brighter, cracks spidering out from the stump where raw aether flooded in.
He had opened a tap and now the magic overflowed without direction. "Close it off," Sela hissed urgently behind him, sensing the danger. Connor moved to wipe the chalk away with his sleeve, but too late. The built-up energy discharged in a sudden burst—a shockwave of pure aether that rippled out from the stump in a ring of pale light.
It was not a violent blast, more like an expanding bubble of force. But it carried sound with it—a resonant boom that rattled the branches overhead and echoed through the night like an explosion. Birds erupted from treetops in droves, screeching. The forest answered with a cacophony of disturbed life.
And then, from multiple directions around the glade, came the answering howls. Not one, not two, but a dozen at least, overlapping in a haunting, furious chorus. The echo-wolf pack had heard the disturbance, and now they converged. Red pairs of eyes appeared in the darkness between tree trunks, reflections of the campfire glinting off them. Low snarls emanated as the wolves approached. Their forms flickered in and out of view, as if each beast were trailed by a ghostly double that lagged a fraction of a second behind—a literal echo of their body, making it hard to judge exactly where to strike.
Sela was instantly at Connor's side, hauling him back. "Fall back to camp! Defensive line, now!" she ordered, her voice crisp despite the obvious fear flashing across her face. She understood what those red eyes meant. Connor stumbled to his feet, the sudden drain of the magical discharge leaving him lightheaded. He felt Thea grab his arm, guiding him as they retreated up the slope toward their fire.
Zara and the guards closed ranks, forming a half-circle in front of Connor and Thea. The first wolf lunged from the shadows—a lithe shape of mottled gray fur and glowing crimson eyes. Zara's arrow flew true and struck it in the shoulder, but the creature barely faltered. It seemed to split into two mirroring forms for an instant—the arrow stuck in one image while the other kept moving—then rejoined as it snapped at Farrah's spear. Farrah thrust hard, catching the wolf in the mouth with the butt of her spear, knocking it aside.
Another wolf charged from the left, letting out that disorienting howl. Connor felt the sound in his chest, and for a second it was as if the very trees around them were warping, the shadows lengthening unnaturally. His vision swam. Focus! he chastised himself, shaking off the magical vertigo.
Nima braced and slashed her sword at the second wolf, scoring a line across its flank. It yelped, but two more wolves took its place, emerging from the gloom. Now the pack fully encircled the little blaze of their campfire. Dark furred shapes slunk low, fangs bared, growling in a discordant echoing chorus that set Connor's teeth on edge. He realized he could not be sure if there were six wolves or twelve—their echo-images and the confusion of low light made it impossible to tell.
One of the wolves, larger than the rest, with a crooked antler-like protrusion growing from its shoulder, stepped forward as if considering the humans. Its lips pulled back, saliva dripping from maw. Connor, standing just behind Sela, locked eyes with it. For a bizarre moment, he felt something like recognition pass between them—its gaze flicked to the healed wolf still lying by the stump, then back to him. The beast's eyes narrowed, the hackles on its back rising.
Was it anger? Confusion? Did it see him as the one who interfered, who took one of theirs from the brink of whatever transformation the star's magic promised? Perhaps he would never know. With a snarl, the antler-shouldered wolf bounded straight at him, seeming to vanish and reappear an arm's length closer mid-leap, its afterimage snapping at empty air behind it.
Sela intercepted it with a cry, her saber arcing upward. Steel met flesh with a wet impact—she cleaved across its chest, but the wolf's momentum barreled into her and knocked her back. The captain hit the ground with a clatter of armor, her sword tumbling from her grasp. The wolf, injured and enraged, scrambled up and pounced toward Sela's prone form.
Connor's heart spasmed in terror. "No!" he shouted, thrusting out his hand. An instinctive blast of telekinetic force, unshaped by finesse this time, slammed into the side of the beast. The wolf was sent rolling off course, away from Sela, but Connor felt a stab of pain in his skull—his earlier exertions leaving him brittle for another surge. He grit his teeth, fighting the darkness nibbling at the edge of his vision. Not now… he couldn't collapse now.
The wolves pressed the attack. The circle of defenders tightened. Zara had drawn her longsword, standing protectively over Sela as the captain regained her footing with Farrah's help. Thea was behind Connor, a dagger in her trembling hand, eyes wide with fear as she tried to keep watch on their rear.
One wolf snapped at Nima's leg and caught a piece of her leather greave, wrenching her down to one knee. Nima stabbed desperately at it, and the point went through one of its phantasmal echoes, striking dirt. The wolf's true body lunged for her throat. Farrah let out a roar and interposed her spear, jabbing the creature's side and drawing its wrath away from Nima.
Zara and Sela fought back to back now, blades weaving a lethal dance to keep the pack at bay. Another arrow from Zara took a smaller wolf in the eye; it yowled and fell, its illusory duplicate flickering out like a spent ember.
"We need to break out, or they'll wear us down!" Zara yelled between breaths. Already she bled from a scratch on her cheek and Farrah was limping from where a wolf had raked her thigh.
Sela nodded, grim determination on her face. "On my mark, push to the west—toward that outcrop." She indicated a slight thinning of trees to their right. If they could reach the rocky outcrop visible in the moonlight, they might fend off the wolves from a higher ground or at least keep them to one side.