"Yoohoo."
The voice drifted through the trees, light and almost cheerful, carrying across the clearing like a song. Silas emerged from the treeline, his blonde hair catching the pale light of the moons, his smile wide and easy. He stopped in front of Rowan's cottage, hands on his hips, surveying the darkened windows, the closed door, the barn off to the side. "Big bad villain out here. Come out, come out wherever you are, children."
Inside the cottage, Axle and James stayed perfectly still.
They stood to the side of the window, pressed against the wall, watching Silas's movements through a sliver of space between the wooden frame and the curtain. Their breathing was shallow, controlled, each inhale measured to avoid making a sound. The floorboards creaked once beneath Axle's weight, and he shifted, redistributing his mass to silence it.
Was this the villain who had given Lyrielle such a hard time? The man who had fought a legendary healer to a standstill, who had driven her to exhaustion, who had left her bleeding on a broken table while Rowan dug through her insides?
Why was he here? Wasn't Rowan supposed to be handling him?
Silas took a step closer to the cottage, his boots crunching on the gravel path. "I know you guys are inside." He tilted his head, as if listening to something only he could hear. "I can hear your noises. I can hear your breathing."
James's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. The leather grip was slick with sweat, and his knuckles were white. Beside him, Axle moved silently to the wall, lifting a spear from its hooks—a simple weapon, wooden shaft, steel tip, but balanced and deadly in trained hands.
This was the danger James had feared. The thing he had been running toward when he followed Axle into the woods. And now it was here, standing outside their door, calling their names.
Axle raised a hand, palm flat, and gestured toward the back of the cottage. The message was clear: follow me. back door. now.
James nodded. He moved first, silent as a shadow, his feet finding the spaces between the creaking boards. He reached the back door, eased it open—a sliver, then wider, just enough for his body to slip through. The night air rushed in, cool and damp, carrying the smell of the forest and the distant smoke from the mountain.
He stepped outside. Axle followed.
They made it three paces before Silas appeared in front of them.
He wasn't running. He wasn't even moving quickly. He was simply there, blocking their path, his smile still in place, his eyes bright with amusement. "Gotcha."
James froze. Axle froze. The space between them and the woods was gone—closed, sealed, taken.
Silas looked them over, his gaze lingering on James's face, on Axle's spear, on the way they stood too close together, too ready to fight. "Now... which one of you is the vessel?" He paused, as if expecting an answer. "Wait—only two of you?" His smile faltered, just slightly. "Where are the rest?"
Axle moved.
He raised his spear and drove it into the ground, channeling a gust of wind through the shaft. The earth erupted—a massive cloud of dust and debris, thick and blinding, filling the space between them and Silas like a wall. He grabbed James's arm and ran, pulling him into the trees, into the dark, into the cover of the forest.
Behind them, Silas stood in the cloud, unhurried, unbothered. He waved a hand in front of his face, clearing the air, then sighed. "Come on. Stop running and just let me do my job."
He struck Nithfang into the earth. The blade sank deep, the green veins pulsing once, twice. He rubbed his palms together—a slow, deliberate motion—and then spread his arms wide, as if embracing the night.
"Echoeye."
He closed his eyes.
The world around him changed. Sound became sight. The rustle of leaves, the scamper of small animals, the distant crash of branches—each noise sent out ripples, echoes that returned to him painted in light. He saw the forest not as trees and shadow, but as a web of vibrations, each one a thread leading back to its source. He widened his range, reaching out, searching.
And then he found them.
Two figures, running. Their footsteps thudding against the earth. Their breathing ragged. Their hearts pounding. He could see them, almost, their shapes forming in his mind like images on water.
"There we go." He pulled Nithfang from the ground and moved.
Axle and James ran through the woods, their feet pounding against the soft earth, their breath coming in ragged gasps. Branches whipped past their faces, leaves slapping at their cheeks, roots threatening to trip them with every stride. The forest blurred around them—brown and green and shadow, all blending together into a tunnel of escape.
"He's going to catch up with us," Axle said, his voice tight.
"Not if we pick up our pace." James pushed harder, his legs burning, his lungs screaming.
"It doesn't matter how fast we run." Axle dodged a low-hanging branch, ducking beneath it without breaking stride. "He wasn't fazed by the smokescreen. Not even a little."
James gritted his teeth. "Stop talking and keep running."
They leaped over a fallen log, landed hard, and kept moving. Behind them, the forest was silent—no footsteps, no crashing, no sign of pursuit. That was worse. That meant he wasn't chasing them. That meant he was waiting.
"We're going to have to split up," Axle said. "Distract him. Divide his attention."
James didn't answer. He just ran.
Axle let out a deep sigh, the sound swallowed by the wind. "James."
Still no answer.
And then Silas was there.
He appeared in front of them as if he had always been there, his hand shooting out, catching James across the chest. The impact sent James tumbling sideways, rolling across the forest floor, leaves and dirt clinging to his clothes, his sword skidding from his grip. He came to a stop against a tree, gasping, and scrambled to his feet.
Axle stopped. He looked at James, then at Silas, then back at James. The distance between them was too far. The time was too short.
"Split up." Axle turned and ran in the opposite direction.
James had no choice. He gritted his teeth, pushed off the tree, and ran the other way.
Silas watched them go, his head tilting first one way, then the other. "Can you kids please stop that?" He moved—a blur of motion, too fast to track—and then his hand was around James's neck, lifting him off the ground, his feet dangling, his toes barely brushing the forest floor.
James gasped. His hands flew to Silas's wrist, his fingers clawing at the iron grip. He tried to swing his sword, but Silas caught his arm mid-arc, twisted it, and tightened his hold on James's throat.
"Now." Silas pulled James closer, studying his face, his eyes, the way his aura moved beneath his skin. "Are you my vessel?"
He tilted his head, assessing. "You have good working pathways. Far too open for a noobie player. You must be good."
James couldn't breathe. His vision was darkening at the edges, spots swimming across his sight. He punched, slashed, kicked—anything to break free. Silas didn't budge. He was iron, stone, something immovable. James's mind was going blank, the world narrowing to the pressure on his throat, the burn in his lungs, the slow, creeping loss of consciousness.
He had to stay awake. Any means.
In the spur of the moment, he forced words through his throat. "Tell... me... what... you're... looking for."
Silas's brow furrowed. "What was that?" He pulled James closer, turning his ear toward the boy's mouth.
James's voice was a rasp, barely audible. "I may... be... able... to help."
Silas's grip loosened. Just slightly. Just enough.
And then Axle flew from the trees.
His spear was aimed at Silas's chest, the tip glowing with concentrated wind. He had gathered the air around it, spun it into a funnel, compressed it into a point. He struck—not Silas, but the space beside him, the blast of wind exploding outward, catching Silas in the side, staggering him.
Silas's grip on James's neck slackened.
James moved. He folded his body around Silas's arm, channeled aura through his limbs, and twisted. The leverage broke Silas's hold. James rolled away, hit the ground, and came up gasping, his hand finding his sword, his eyes finding Axle.
"You good?" Axle asked, spear ready.
James's voice was raw. "Run."
Before they could take a step, Silas straightened. He didn't shout. He didn't lunge. He simply... released something. An aura wave, thick and heavy, pressing down on them like the weight of the sky. James's legs locked. His arms wouldn't move. His chest couldn't expand. Beside him, Axle stood frozen, his spear half-raised, his face pale.
Silas looked at them—really looked—and his smile returned, wider than before.
"I'm done playing with you. Any of you move, you die." He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. "Now. You will give me what I need."