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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: The Forest Listens
"Five days," Ethan muttered, dragging his boots through the damp soil. "Five days of walking, and what do we have to show for it? Trees. More trees. And moss. And..oh, look,more trees."
The merchant's son tugged at the fine silk scarf around his neck, refusing to acknowledge the sweat that had long since darkened its edges. "The famed Shadow Forest," he went on, voice pitched to mockery, "and it's the same miserable view every"
The lead guardian lifted a hand, palm raised.
The column halted as one.
A hush fell over the trail, thick and unnatural. The air seemed to congeal, every leaf frozen, every insect silenced. Even the wind that had whispered through the branches moments ago died, as though the forest itself was holding its breath.
Then...snap.
A twig broke somewhere ahead.
The roar that followed rolled like thunder through the trees, deep enough to rattle teeth in their jaws. Birds scattered in panicked flight. From the undergrowth surged a striped beast the size of a warhorse, its shoulders knotted with muscle, its fangs long as daggers. Golden eyes locked onto Ethan with a hunger that was almost human.
"Uh..wait..'' Ethan stammered, his feet refusing to obey as the creature lunged.
It leapt, all corded power and bone-crushing weight, jaws yawning wide.
A flicker of steel.
The sound was barely more than a whisper, lost in the rush of air.
The roar ended in silence. The beast collapsed to the earth in two halves, blood steaming in the cool air, its body twitching once before going still.
Ethan blinked.
Where the monster had been stood the Crimson Prince, his katana already sliding into its lacquered sheath with a click of finality. His crimson-trimmed robe was immaculate, untouched by gore. His expression was calm, almost bored, as though swatting aside death was no more troublesome than brushing away a fly.
"Keep your voice down," the prince said, tone light, almost courteous. "The forest listens."
Ethan's throat worked around a hard swallow. "R-right."
The guardians shifted uneasily, eyes darting into the trees where shadows pooled thick between the roots. The column moved on, boots crunching softly, their pace quicker now, every step carrying the scent of unease.
Behind them, the stench of fresh blood lingered in the clearing, and though the undergrowth swallowed the carcass, the silence did not lift. It was as if the forest itself had taken notice—and was listening still.
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The forest's undergrowth had thickened, every step a battle against damp ferns and hanging vines that clung like skeletal hands. Shafts of pale light bled through the canopy, illuminating drifting motes of dust and pollen that swirled with each breath of wind. Their small expedition pressed on in loose formation, steel flashing now and again as blades hacked stubborn branches aside.
Jason walked near the rear, silent as ever, though his gaze cut sharper than it seemed. Every so often, his hand brushed the inner fold of his robe where the Pride Core rested — cool, yet alive, its faint pulse threading through his palm. It beat like a buried heart, steady and patient, and with each passing hour the rhythm grew stronger, almost insistent, as if pointing the way.
When the group halted to drink, Jason crouched, fingers tugging at a strap on his boot. From his sleeve slid a thin stick of incense, so small it seemed no more than a splinter of wood. He set it against the roots, the ember at its tip glowing a muted orange. The breeze carried the scent outward — sharp, bitter, barely noticeable to men, but to the beasts of the forest it was a challenge written in fire.
The column moved on.
The first growl came minutes later, low and rumbling, crawling through the branches like thunder beneath the earth. Another answered, closer. Then a dozen more rising, overlapping, until the air itself trembled.
"Stampede!" someone cried.
The Shadow Forest answered in violence. Trees shuddered as branches snapped and the ground quaked beneath pounding paws. Roars filled the air, a tide of predators crashing toward them in numbers too great to count.
"Shields!" the lead guardian barked, steel shrieking free of scabbards. The formation tightened, blades and spears braced, voices lost beneath the deafening chorus of beasts.
Jason stepped back with measured calm, his expression unreadable as chaos surged around him. To the others it looked like retreat, a man yielding space for the front-liners. In truth, it was the opposite.
The shadows embraced him, swallowing his form as he slipped behind the frenzy of steel and fangs. One heartbeat he was there, the next he was gone, moving silent and unseen through the green-black depths of the forest.
The Pride Core pulsed harder now, each beat a drum within his chest, tugging him eastward. Roots clawed at his boots, vines whipped against his robe, but he pressed on, weaving through thickets with unerring purpose.
At last, the forest parted. He emerged into a clearing half-devoured by time.
Before him loomed a ruin of stone, its facade shattered, its bones strangled by ivy and moss. Reliefs carved into weathered walls stared down with hollow eyes, their faces long eroded, their meaning lost to the ages. Fallen columns jutted like broken teeth, the air thick with dust and the silence of things forgotten.
From beneath his robe, the Pride Core glowed faintly, its pulse quickening in answer to something that lay beyond those crumbling gates.
Jason's breath steadied. The ruins did not repel him — they welcomed him. Each heartbeat echoed against stone as though the earth itself remembered.
He stepped forward, the weight of the past pressing down with every stride. Somewhere inside, beneath collapsed halls and dust-laden vaults, Leylin slumbered.
And the Pride Core had brought him home.
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