The moonlight followed Dahlia like a silent guardian as she stepped away from the small clearing where the wounded adventurers rested. Their murmured thanks still echoed in her mind — fragile, hopeful sounds that almost made her turn back.

  Almost.

  But something inside her refused to stay.

  Her journey had only just begun.

  She adjusted the strap of her bag and glanced down at it instinctively. The map of Malachor lay safely tucked inside, yet even through leather and cloth she could feel it — a faint warmth, a pulse, like a sleeping heartbeat.

  Earlier, when she had unfolded it, the ink had shimmered softly under the moonlight. The lines had seemed to shift when she wasn’t looking directly at them. And every time her eyes lingered too long on one specific region — deep within the forest — the parchment tugged at her senses.

  Not physically.

  But unmistakably.

  Like a thread wrapped gently around her ribs, pulling her forward.

  “Hallow,” she murmured softly.

  Above her, the silver-feathered eagle cut through the night air in wide, effortless circles. His wings barely made a sound. Moonlight traced along his feathers, giving him an almost ethereal glow.

  He was no ordinary bird. She felt that in her bones.

  And somehow… she felt chosen by him as much as she had chosen him.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she said quietly.

  Hallow gave a low, reassuring trill.

  The forest welcomed her at first.

  Leaves whispered gently overhead. The scent of pine and damp earth filled her lungs. Fireflies blinked lazily between branches, drifting like fallen stars.

  But the deeper she walked, the more the forest changed.

  The breeze thinned.

  The fireflies vanished.

  The scent of earth turned stale.

  Dahlia slowed her steps.

  Her boots crunched softly against twigs that seemed too brittle, too dry. The trees grew taller, their branches clawing toward the sky in crooked shapes. The canopy thickened, swallowing the moonlight until only thin shards of silver reached the ground.

  Then—

  Silence.

  Not natural silence.

  Not the calm hush of nighttime wildlife.

  This was sudden.

  Total.

  No insects.

  No leaves.

  No distant animal calls.

  Even her own breathing sounded intrusive.

  Dahlia stopped.

  A cold sensation crept slowly up her spine.

  “Hallow… do you sense it?” she whispered.

  The eagle’s flight pattern shifted immediately. He circled lower now, wings tense, head darting from side to side.

  He sensed it too.

  That was all the confirmation she needed.

  Her fingers tightened around her staff.

  The wood felt warm.

  Steady.

  Then—

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  A whisper.

  So faint she almost thought it was imagination.

  A breath brushing her ear.

  She froze.

  The sound returned.

  Longer this time.

  Layered.

  “Rising Mage…”

  Her heart slammed hard against her ribs.

  She spun around.

  Nothing.

  Only trees.

  Only shadows.

  “Who’s there?” she called, forcing strength into her voice.

  The forest answered with silence.

  Then the whisper came again — clearer.

  Closer.

  “Do you think you can survive here?”

  Her mouth went dry.

  The voice did not come from one direction. It seemed to seep from everywhere — between tree trunks, beneath roots, from the spaces between her own thoughts.

  “Show yourself!” she demanded, though her grip trembled slightly.

  That was when she noticed the shadows.

  They were moving.

  At first it was subtle — just a stretch too long, a bend too unnatural.

  Then unmistakable.

  The darkness at the base of the trees began to crawl.

  It slid across the forest floor like spilled ink, pooling around her boots. It climbed upward along bark, swallowing texture and color.

  Her staff flickered faintly.

  The light pushed outward in a weak pulse.

  The shadows recoiled—

  Then surged forward again.

  The temperature dropped sharply. Her breath fogged in front of her face.

  From the pooling blackness, something began to rise.

  A shape first.

  Tall.

  Broad-shouldered.

  Metal scraping against stone.

  The first figure stepped fully into view — a knight.

  Its armor was ancient and fractured, plates hanging loose as though held together by nothing but memory. Cracks ran across the metal, and inside the hollow helmet burned two red points of light.

  There was no body within.

  Only darkness.

  Its sword dragged along the ground, metal shrieking softly as sparks spat from the blade’s edge.

  Dahlia stumbled back a step.

  Another shape formed.

  Low.

  Four-legged.

  A wolf emerged, its body composed entirely of shifting smoke. Its eyes glowed the same violent red. Black mist dripped from its jaws, sizzling wherever it touched the earth.

  A third.

  A fourth.

  More followed.

  Some vaguely human.

  Others twisted beyond recognition — limbs too long, faces melted into suggestion, silhouettes that flickered and bent as if struggling to maintain form.

  They encircled her.

  Slowly.

  Deliberately.

  The whispers multiplied.

  Dozens now.

  Overlapping.

  Laughing.

  Hissing.

  “Rising Mage…”

  “You cannot escape…”

  “Your power is not enough…”

  Her knees threatened to buckle.

  Illusions, she thought desperately. They have to be illusions.

  But when the knight took another dragging step forward, the ground beneath its blade sparked.

  When the wolf inhaled, she felt the pull of cold air.

  They were real enough.

  Hallow shrieked and dove without hesitation. His talons flashed in the moonlight as he slashed across the smoky wolf’s head.

  The creature dissolved into mist instantly.

  Relief surged—

  Too soon.

  The mist recoiled, swirled, condensed.

  The wolf reformed seconds later, larger. Its snarl deeper. Its red eyes brighter.

  “They regenerate…” she breathed.

  The knight lunged.

  Dahlia barely twisted aside as the blade sliced through the air where she’d stood. The force of it split a sapling cleanly in two.

  Her pulse roared in her ears.

  Run.

  The instinct screamed inside her.

  Run like before.

  Run and don’t look back.

  But another voice rose within her — quieter, steadier.

  If you run now, you will always run.

  Her hands steadied.

  She planted her staff firmly against the ground.

  “No…” she whispered.

  The whispers grew louder in response, mocking.

  “No… I won’t run. Not again.”

  The wolf lunged.

  She reacted instinctively, thrusting her staff forward.

  Light flickered weakly from its tip — not enough.

  The wolf’s smoky jaws snapped inches from her face before she stumbled backward.

  Her heart pounded so violently she thought it might shatter her ribs.

  If I fall here…

  The thought settled heavily.

  If I fall here, then this is where my story ends.

  The idea was terrifying.

  But also clarifying.

  Her fear did not vanish.

  But it sharpened.

  She raised the staff high, forcing her voice to rise above the hissing chorus.

  “By my will—light, come forth!”

  For a split second—

  Nothing.

  The whispers swelled triumphantly.

  Then the staff ignited.

  Not a flicker.

  Not a spark.

  A blaze.

  Radiant gold-white light erupted from its tip, bursting outward in a sphere that swallowed the clearing. The shadows shrieked — not in mockery this time, but in genuine agony.

  The knight staggered backward, armor cracking further.

  The wolf’s body thinned, unraveling at the edges.

  The twisted forms recoiled violently, limbs distorting as the light burned through them.

  Dahlia felt the magic surge through her arms, up her spine, into her chest. It was wild and overwhelming — almost too much to contain.

  She screamed as much from the power as from defiance.

  The light expanded.

  Brighter.

  Hotter.

  The whispers fractured into panicked fragments—

  Then—

  Everything collapsed.

  The light vanished.

  The forest vanished.

  The ground vanished.

  There was no transition.

  No fade.

  Just absence.

  True blackness swallowed her.

  Not night.

  Not shadow.

  Void.

  She couldn’t see her hands.

  Couldn’t feel the ground beneath her feet.

  Couldn’t hear Hallow.

  Even her own breathing sounded distant, muffled, as though underwater.

  The whispers were gone.

  Silence reigned.

  But this silence was worse.

  Heavier.

  Intentional.

  Dahlia turned slowly, though there was no direction in the dark.

  “What is this…?” she whispered.

  Her voice did not echo.

  It was consumed instantly.

  Then—

  A sound.

  Slow.

  Measured.

  Dragging.

  Footsteps.

  Each one heavy enough that she felt the vibration through nothingness.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  Something far larger than the knight.

  Far older than the wolves.

  The air — if there was air — seemed to tighten.

  Her staff gave off a faint pulse.

  Not bright.

  Not strong.

  Almost… uncertain.

  The footsteps stopped.

  Directly in front of her.

  She could not see it.

  But she felt it.

  Watching.

  Evaluating.

  The silence stretched unbearably long.

  Then—

  A breath.

  Deep.

  Ancient.

  And the faintest whisper, not mocking now — but curious.

  “Interesting…”

  Dahlia’s heart skipped.

  Whatever stood before her—

  Was not like the others.

  And it was not done with her yet.