The crisp air hit ProlixalParagon’s lungs like a balm as he stepped out of the narrow cave mouth and into the soft glow of late afternoon. He blinked against the brightness, his silver fur catching threads of sunlight through the leaves. The heavy, mineral tang of the dungeon’s depths faded quickly, replaced by the cool, damp scent of loam and growing things. It was the scent of deep forest — old bark, leaf mold, and distant water.

  And yet… something felt wrong.

  This wasn’t the place they’d entered.

  They’d descended into the ruin of an ancient, crumbling village days past — its broken foundations half-swallowed by the earth, streets sunken beneath centuries of moss and vine. A cracked well, the remains of old stone walls, and the toppled arch of what might have once been a temple had marked the entrance. But here, as ProlixalParagon let his gaze sweep the clearing, there was no sign of those familiar ruins.

  Only dense trees, thick ferns, and a small clearing scattered with sun-bleached stones. The hills rolled away gently beyond the treeline, dappled in the gold and green of late day. The canopy overhead broke in places to reveal slashes of cloudless sky. Birds called somewhere distant.

  Kaelthari had already moved ahead, her bardiche resting across broad shoulders. The faint chiming of the delicate chains and trinkets between her horns cut through the hush like tiny bells. Her molten-gold gaze narrowed.

  “This isn’t our way back,” she muttered, voice low.

  Marx followed close behind, his crutch striking the packed earth with a steady thunk. He spat into the grass, his single hazel eye narrowing. “We didn’t pass through here. Not on the way in, not on any map.”

  Arelis knelt beside a weathered stone, running his fingers along the faint lines of lichen clinging to it. “Soil’s different here. Trees too. No sign of those old marker oaks near the ruins.” His voice was tight. “We’re further east. Or… somewhere else entirely.”

  Ralyria stepped forward, her pale form catching slants of light between the leaves. The faint hum of her mana core rose and fell like a heartbeat. She turned in a slow circle, her expression unreadable, and then shook her head. “No resonance,” she murmured, voice halting. “The old wards… they’re gone.”

  ProlixalParagon’s ears twitched. He felt it too — the absence of that lingering magic, the subtle, almost imperceptible pressure that clung to ancient places, like a weight against the bones. Here, the air felt clean. Too clean.

  And then — movement.

  The faintest stir of leaves. A figure stepped from the treeline on the far side of the clearing, cloak of deep earthen gray blending near-perfectly with the shadows. More followed, silent and deliberate. Figures robed in dark cloth, faces shadowed beneath hoods, bearing no insignia save for pale threadwork sigils woven into their hems — unfamiliar, jagged, and oddly unsettling.

  Kaelthari’s stance shifted at once. The bardiche came down from her shoulder, held ready.

  Marx scowled. “More damned trouble.”

  ProlixalParagon’s fingers closed around the hilt of his dagger. The fur along his spine prickled.

  Pillowhorror drifted a step forward, her odd, jittering gait unnerving even in daylight. The multiple joints of her fingers flexed as she raised one hand, and a low, gravel-rough growl escaped her maw. “Voidwatchers,” she rasped, the word tasting foul.

  The tallest of the figures stepped ahead of the others and pushed back his hood. His face was gaunt, sharp-featured, and marked with pale, curling tattoos that glimmered faintly in the light filtering through the branches. His eyes, unnaturally bright, swept over the group with a cold, measured weight.

  “You trespass,” the man intoned, voice calm and sonorous. “These woods are under Vigil. None pass untested.”

  ProlixalParagon narrowed his eyes, stepping up beside Kaelthari. “We’re travelers,” he called. “No quarrel with yours. We’re moving on.”

  The man’s gaze flicked past him, settling on Pillowhorror with a faint, unpleasant curl of his lip. “Not all among you walk in ignorance,” he said, voice smooth as wet stone. “Some carry shadows where none should linger.”

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  Pillowhorror’s grin stretched wide, teeth catching light. “I know a lot of shadows, little priest,” she hissed. “But none of them bow to you.”

  A sharp gesture from the lead figure, and weapons gleamed from beneath the cloaks — short spears, narrow blades, twisted warding charms.

  Kaelthari’s bardiche came up. Ralyria took a step forward, spear leveled. Marx let out a grim chuckle. “Guess we ain’t talking this out.”

  ProlixalParagon drew his dagger.

  “Fine,” he muttered. “We’ve bled in darker places than this.”

  The wind stirred, carrying the earthy scent of moss and old leaves.

  The circle of figures tightened.

  And the clearing, for a breath, was nothing but the sound of leaves shifting and hearts pounding.

  A single leaf tumbled through the air, twisting lazily as though the forest itself held its breath.

  Then one of the cloaked figures lunged.

  Kaelthari moved first, her bardiche slicing through the air in a brutal arc that caught the attacker cleanly across the chest. The strike split fabric and bone with a wet crunch, hurling the man backward into the undergrowth. The tinkling of her horn-chains sounded like funeral chimes.

  “Seven left,” Marx grunted, his crutch discarded as he drew both carving knives, his bulk surprisingly fast as he surged toward the next nearest foe.

  A pair of Voidwatchers broke off toward Ralyria. She met them in a blur of polished steel and cold efficiency. The first spear thrust was sidestepped, her own weapon pivoting to slam the butt of her spear into the assailant’s knee. Bone cracked audibly. Before the other could react, Ralyria’s spear reversed, the tip punching cleanly through his throat. A faint hum from her mana core marked the moment as his body slumped.

  Arelis drew a long dagger from his belt, notched with old runes. One of the Voidwatchers charged him — the man’s blade a narrow curve of warded iron. Arelis ducked beneath the first swing and drove his dagger up beneath the attacker’s ribs, twisting it free before the body hit the earth.

  ProlixalParagon darted into the fray, low and fast. His dagger caught the wrist of an advancing foe, the blade slicing tendons and forcing the man to drop his weapon. A knee to the stomach doubled the figure over, and ProlixalParagon’s off-hand dagger found the hollow beneath the jaw, ending him cleanly.

  Pillowhorror moved with eerie, impossible grace. She ducked low, her warped frame slipping between two attackers. Her cleaver swung in a wide, jagged arc — severing a hand, then burying itself in the shoulder of another. The cleaver’s edge hissed against bone as she tore it free, the metallic tang of blood sharp in the air.

  Four down.

  Another Voidwatcher came for Kaelthari, staff crackling with pale magic. She met the blow with the flat of her bardiche, deflecting it with raw strength. Her horns dipped low as she drove forward, shoulder-checking the foe back a step, then burying her weapon deep into the man’s gut. She tore the blade free with a spray of dark blood.

  Marx ducked a thrown dagger and countered with a brutal sweep of his blade, the edge catching the attacker across the temple and dropping him like a felled tree.

  Two left.

  Ralyria and ProlixalParagon moved together as one. A coordinated assault — spear and dagger, sidestep and lunge. The first foe was driven back by Ralyria’s relentless thrusts, his defenses faltering. ProlixalParagon slid in low, hamstringing him with a flick of his blade. The Voidwatcher fell, and Ralyria’s spear pinned him to the ground.

  The last figure — the leader — made a sharp gesture, some sigil traced in the air, the lines glowing a sickly pale.

  But Pillowhorror was already moving.

  She launched herself at him with a feral snarl, cleaver raised. The spell flared, and for a heartbeat the world seemed to waver — a pressure behind the eyes, a pulling sensation at the edges of vision. The air shimmered.

  Kaelthari hurled a throwing axe.

  It struck the man’s shoulder, breaking his focus. The spell sputtered out like a snuffed flame.

  Pillowhorror landed atop him, cleaver falling, the sickening sound of metal meeting flesh drowned out only by her delighted, warbling hiss.

  And then there was silence.

  The clearing reeked of blood and magic. The dead lay strewn amidst broken ferns and trampled moss. A few birds stirred in the distant canopy, and the wind resumed its restless whisper through the trees.

  ProlixalParagon straightened, breath ragged, his fur matted with sweat and blood. “Everyone sound?”

  Kaelthari rolled her shoulders, blood spattered across her scales. “Still breathing.”

  Marx leaned on a tree, grinning through the ache. “Messy, but we’ve had worse.”

  Ralyria merely nodded, cleaning her spear with slow, methodical precision.

  Arelis knelt by one of the bodies, examining a small talisman pulled from a sash. His brow furrowed. “These aren’t just forest zealots. Look at this—” He held it up, a pale disk etched with symbols none of them recognized but which made ProlixalParagon’s stomach twist.

  Pillowhorror tilted her head, lipless grin widening. “Told you,” she rasped. “Voidwatchers. Old blood. Old vows. Not for you, little tinkerer. Not for your kind.”

  Kaelthari growled, kicking aside a fallen staff. “Why now? Why here?”

  “Because something’s moving,” ProlixalParagon muttered, eyes scanning the darkening treeline. “And we’re walking straight into its teeth.”

  He wiped his dagger clean on a cloak and pointed toward the far slope.

  “Come on. We move. No lingering.”

  No one argued.

  The forest felt heavier now. As if more eyes watched from unseen places.

  And somewhere in the dark between trees, something waited.