The clearing still stank of burnt resin and charred flesh.

Smoke curled upward from the shattered bodies of the Hunters, mingling with the drifting embers that clung to the boughs of the Glimmerwood. The moss had blackened where Sira’s power had flared too brightly, its luminous strands scorched into ash.

And the Ashborn still stood at the treeline. No longer kneeling. No longer silent. Their ember-eyes burned faintly, following every movement with patient expectation.

Sira sat apart from the others, her staff leaning against her shoulder, the shard heavy in her lap. She felt as though the moss beneath her might give way at any moment, swallowing her whole.

The Fractured Trio

Lakvenor paced at the edge of the clearing, storm-staff spinning idly in one hand, sparks hissing with every turn. His jaw was set hard, his voice sharp.

“We can’t keep dragging her along like this,” he snapped, not bothering to lower his tone. “Every time that shard pulses, it pulls her deeper. She’s not in control, Rael — it’s controlling her.”

Rael sat opposite him, sharpening his blade with deliberate care. His movements were slow, calm, the scrape of steel against stone a steady rhythm in the tension. His gaze never left the weapon, but his words were measured.

“She is part of this, Lakvenor. More than either of us. You saw how the shard answered her.”

Lakvenor barked a bitter laugh. “Answering and consuming are not the same thing, brother.” He jabbed his staff into the ground, lightning crackling faintly at its tip. “Tell me: when she burned half the clearing, did she look like herself? Or did she look like something else wearing her face?”

The words cut, sharper than steel.

Sira flinched, clutching the shard tighter against her chest. She wanted to speak, to deny it — but the memory of the roots writhing like serpents, of power surging through her veins until she thought she might break apart, froze her tongue.

Rael finally lifted his eyes, calm but unyielding. “Enough.”

Lakvenor met his gaze, the air between them crackling like storm before rain. “One day, Rael, your loyalty will blind you. And then we will all burn for it.”

Sira’s Quiet

Sira rose before Rael could answer. Her hands trembled as she slipped the shard back into its wrapping of cloth and leather. Its glow dimmed, but she could still feel its warmth against her skin, like a heartbeat pressed to her own.

“I don’t need you to speak for me,” she said, her voice barely steady. She looked at Lakvenor, his storm-lit eyes hard, and forced the words out. “You’re right. I don’t understand what this power means. I don’t know if it’s mine… or if it’s something inside me waiting to take me apart.”

Her throat tightened, but she pushed on. “But walking away from it won’t stop it. Pretending won’t stop it. The only way forward is through.”

Lakvenor’s jaw clenched. He said nothing.

Rael stood then, sliding his blade into its sheath. His voice was firm, final. “Then through we go.”

Departure

They broke camp in silence. The fire was doused, the ashes scattered. The Ashborn did not move as they packed, but their eyes followed every motion, burning dimly in the gloom.

As they stepped from the clearing, Sira dared one last glance back. The kneeling had ended, but the waiting had not. She shivered.

The Glimmerwood path narrowed, winding between colossal trees whose bark shimmered with faint bioluminescence. Shadows twisted in the undergrowth, not hostile, but watchful. Every sound seemed louder here — the crunch of boots on moss, the whisper of cloth, the faint hum of the shard at her side.

Lakvenor led with storm-staff in hand, its faint sparks warding off the dark. Rael kept close to Sira, every step measured, every glance protective.

For hours, they walked in silence, until at last the forest opened onto a precipice of stone. Before them stretched the Aether Straits: a fractured bridge of floating rock and crystal, arcing into the clouds. Beyond its broken spans lay the faint shimmer of another realm, its green light rippling like swampwater under moon.

The Mire of Mandral.

The Warning of Ash

As they stood at the cliff’s edge, the wind tugging at their cloaks, a sound drifted from behind them — a whisper, faint but clear.

Sira turned.

The Ashborn had followed. Silent, ember-eyed, their bodies half-shadow in the forest’s gloom. They had not attacked. Not spoken. Not knelt again.

But they had followed.

A chill crawled up her spine. She clutched the shard tighter, her heart hammering.

“They’re waiting,” she whispered.

Rael stepped forward, standing between her and the forms in the trees. His hand rested on his sword, but he did not draw it.

“Then let them wait,” he said. His voice was steady, but his eyes were hard.

Lakvenor muttered, “Storms take us, brother — you invite ghosts like companions.”

The Ashborn did not move. Did not blink. Only watched, ember eyes burning like coals as the trio stepped onto the first floating stone of the Straits.

And Sira could not shake the thought: they would follow.

Always.