The moon hung low above the Emerald Veil, pale and watchful, its glow turning the treetops silver. Beneath it, the caravan prepared to move. Elven wardens stood sentinel at the outskirts of Velarion, their expressions unreadable. Their parting gifts—bundles of moon-dried herbs, glassy runes woven with soft magic, and quiet nods—carried weight beyond politeness. It was a gesture of both warning and farewell.
Riven adjusted the spiritthread cloak draped across his shoulders. It felt lighter than silk, yet it moved like water over his skin. When he pulsed mana through it, it shimmered faintly—a soft haze of light, like morning mist curling off dew. During the day, it dulled to almost nothing, a second skin that hid its power. But at night, under mana's touch, it breathed.
He turned slightly as soft steps approached. Sylas the Windpiercer, now without his blades, offered a final look—not of challenge, but of caution.
"You walk with something older at your back now," Sylas said. "Keep your blade close, but keep your mind closer. The forest forgets nothing. Nor do those who hunt in it."
Riven nodded, his voice low. "I'm not the one who needs reminding."
Sylas didn't press further. He only touched his chest in farewell and vanished into the foliage like wind across a still lake.
The caravan departed in silence. Even the horses were quieter than usual, as though sensing the weight of the woods. Leaves overhead whispered but never rustled. The deeper they traveled into the Emerald Veil, the darker the world seemed to become—not with shadow, but with presence. Every root felt coiled. Every branch looked like it could watch.
It didn't take long for the change to become unnerving. The trees grew closer together, bending in unnatural shapes. The wind stopped entirely. The air itself, rich with mana, no longer moved. It wasn't peace—it was stillness. Not empty, but observant.
They passed through what had once been a village.
Thatch-roofed homes, now drowned in ivy. Empty wells filled with brackish water. Doors broken. Walls clawed. Strange markings scorched into stone—symbols Riven recognized from the bestiary he'd read in Velarion. Beastkin script.
He leaned close, brushing vines from a stone.
"The Claws of the Dread King pass here. Flee, or be torn."
Riven stood slowly. His jaw tightened.
They were not alone.
That night, tension lingered like smoke.
The guards had doubled the perimeter. Geller, usually the loudest voice at the campfire, sat still, his eyes hollow. The old merchant had lost his boastful edge. He fidgeted, muttering half-thoughts and glancing at shadows.
The fire crackled.
Riven sat alone, cross-legged, the spiritthread cloak pulled tight around him. He let his breathing fall into rhythm. In. Out. Deep and even. The cloak responded to his stillness, drawing in ambient mana. The world fell away.
And something else took its place.
He stood, not in the forest—but in a broken hall beneath a starless sky. The stone beneath him pulsed. Before him loomed a throne—vast and ancient. Silver. Shattered into three jagged pieces. Blood stained its base.
From the darkness, a voice came.
His voice.
But not. Older. Harder. Cold as the steel buried in graves.
"Crownbearers do not die in battle. They die when they doubt."
The vision shattered like glass.
Riven gasped, breath ragged, heart pounding in his chest. The world returned—trees, firelight, night.
He clenched a fist.
What was that throne? And why did it feel so… familiar?
He was being watched. Not by the trees.
By fate.
A scream tore through the night.
Riven surged to his feet, cloak already glowing faintly with mana.
Steel flashed in the dark. A guard collapsed, blood pouring from a wound to his throat.
Riven sprinted toward the sound.
Geller lay on the ground nearby, clutching his gut, where a dagger had sunk deep. His breath came in hisses.
Riven looked up just in time to see a figure vanish into the woods. Fast. Silent. Too clean for a beast. Too agile for a man.
"Beastkin," he growled.
The camp was chaos. Guards shouted, scrambling to form ranks.
Riven stood tall.
"They're scouting," he said, voice sharp as iron. "Testing our numbers. Just like last time… but bigger."
One of the younger guards stepped forward, panic in his eyes. "We—we should go back. We can't fight this."
"You run," Riven said coldly, stepping toward him, "you die. You hesitate, you die. We move at dawn. And when they come—we cut them down."
His voice left no room for argument.
A heavy silence fell.
Even the trees seemed to listen.
Later that night, one of the injured guards—an older man, face scarred from previous battles—leaned against a tree.
"I've seen this before," he murmured to no one in particular. "Ten years back. A raid near the southern borders. Beastkin swarmed like locusts. Not wild. Organized. Smart. One led them…"
Riven turned.
"Who?"
The man hesitated. Then:
"Krogmar. The Hundred-Clawed. They said he only comes to slaughter kings."
Riven didn't respond. But something in his gut twisted. He looked down at his hands—clean now, but stained with battle not long past.
He had fought monsters. He had crushed them. But this…
This was war.
Dawn broke.
The forest did not warm. It watched.
Riven walked the perimeter once more, boots crunching softly against frost-kissed leaves. He paused.
Dozens. No… hundreds.
Clawed footprints littered the edge of the trees. Pressed into the earth. Fresh.
He narrowed his eyes.
They had been surrounded.
And just beyond the tree line, unseen by all…
Krogmar watched.
And smiled.