Dawn broke over Hearthollow, pale and cold, as Caelen and Elira stepped onto the road.
The village was behind them, its cottages fading into the mist—but its pain stayed with Caelen, a quiet ache among the others. His pack was heavy, stuffed with supplies, but the scar was heavier, its pulse a drumbeat urging him east.
Elira walked beside him, her cloak tight against the chill, her dagger at her hip. Her pain was a storm, but her steps were sure, her fire undimmed.
The forest loomed ahead, its shadows thick with secrets.
Caelen felt the world's grief—sharper now—as if leaving Hearthollow had opened a door. The distant pain he'd sensed days ago—the burning city, the dying forest—was closer, its edges brushing his senses.
He didn't tell Elira. Not yet. She had enough to carry.
"You're quiet," she said, her voice cutting through the morning's hush. "Regretting this already?"
He managed a smile, though it felt brittle. "Just listening. The world's loud today."
She glanced at him, her eyes sharp. "Louder than usual?"
He nodded, reluctant. "It's… closer. Whatever's waking, it's moving. Fast."
Her hand tightened on her dagger, but her voice was steady. "Then we move faster."
They walked in silence, the path winding through oak and pine, the air thick with the scent of moss and earth. Caelen's curse hummed, picking up traces of pain—animals fleeing, trees trembling, a faint echo of the Hollow's hunger.
He gripped the dagger's hilt, its runes cool under his fingers, and prayed they'd reach the temple before the shadows caught up.
---
By noon, the forest thinned, opening to a ridge overlooking a valley.
The Thornfields lay beyond—a scarred land of ash and ruin—but Caelen's eyes caught something closer: a flicker of movement, too deliberate for a beast.
He froze, grabbing Elira's arm. "We're not alone," he whispered.
Her gaze snapped to the trees, her body tense. "Hollows?"
He shook his head, the curse probing the air. "No. People. But they're not friendly."
Before he could say more, an arrow whistled past, embedding in a tree.
Voices shouted—harsh, guttural—and figures emerged, cloaked in gray, their blades gleaming. Caelen's heart raced, the scar burning hot.
These weren't bandits.
They were hunters.
And he and Elira were the prey.
"Run!" he shouted, pulling her toward the valley.
The forest closed around them, branches snapping, but the hunters were fast—their intent a cold spike in his curse.
Elira's breath was ragged, her fire flaring, and Caelen knew they couldn't outrun this.
Not yet.
The temple was far. The evil was near. And the road had just become a battlefield.
But as he ran, Elira's hand in his, Caelen felt a spark.
Not pain—but purpose.
Whatever chased them.
Whatever waited.
He'd face it.
For her. For Aerthalin. For the kindness he refused to let die.