Ashren felt the ground vanish beneath him.

Then came cold earth, damp leaves, and the familiar touch of night air against his skin. He gasped violently as he collapsed onto his side, pain returning through his body with brutal clarity.

The forest.

He was back.

The strange chamber was gone. The door had vanished. There was no key in his hand, no voice in the darkness, no trace that the place had ever existed.

Yet something had changed.

Ashren lay beneath the stars, breathing hard. He was exhausted, battered, and barely conscious, but he was alive. As the pain slowly settled, a memory surfaced from years ago—his uncle standing before him with a wooden sword in his hands.

Don't mistake looking strong for being strong.

Ashren closed his eyes for a moment, letting the words settle somewhere deeper than thought.

“I understand now, Uncle,” he whispered.

His breathing slowed.

Then unconsciousness claimed him.

Meanwhile, the Night Hunters returned before dawn.

Night had settled deep within their encampment. Lanterns burned low beneath heavy canvas and stone, casting muted pools of light across the returning convoy. Engines cooled one by one, weapons were secured, and exhausted hunters moved through the camp with subdued voices, but something in the atmosphere felt different.

Ravenn dismounted without a word.

Before he could remove his gauntlet, a scout approached and bowed low.

“Sire… there is news.”

Ravenn stopped.

The scout swallowed.

“Your mother… Lady Serapha passed during the night.”

For a moment, the world seemed not to react.

Ravenn did not move.

“…Where?” he asked quietly.

“In her chamber.”

Ravenn turned immediately.

Elara followed him.

Lady Serapha's chamber was quiet.

She lay upon her bed with her hands folded neatly over her chest, her silver hair arranged with care. There was no blood. No violence. Nothing to suggest a struggle. Only stillness—the kind that never breaks.

As if she were merely sleeping.

Elara froze.

Then her knees gave out.

She stumbled to the bedside and clutched the edge of the mattress as tears spilled freely down her face.

“No… no, please…” she whispered. “Wake up… please…”

She pressed her forehead against the woman's hand, sobbing openly.

“I’m here… I’m here…”

Ravenn stood several steps behind her.

He did not kneel. He did not cry. He did not speak.

He simply stared at the woman who had raised him, who had raised Elara, and who had been one of the only sources of warmth in a life shaped by war.

The mage entered quietly with two guards.

“Sire—”

Ravenn raised a hand.

Silence fell immediately.

“Leave us.”

The mage hesitated. “But—”

“Now.”

There was no force in Ravenn's voice. Only authority.

One by one, the guards, mage, and hunters withdrew. The chamber doors closed softly behind them.

Only Elara and Ravenn remained.

Elara's sobs echoed quietly through the room.

Ravenn stepped closer.

“You see,” he said at last, his voice calm but heavy, “she was proud of you.”

Elara flinched.

“She told me that no matter how the world turned… you would survive it.” His voice remained steady. “She made me promise.”

Elara slowly lifted her head, her eyes red from crying.

“A promise?”

“That I would never harm you.”

Her breath caught.

Ravenn turned toward her, not looming over her and not threatening her.

“That was never my intention. Not once.”

Elara stared at him through her tears.

“I know you hate me,” Ravenn continued. The words were not defensive. They were simply factual. “I know you want to return to your kingdom. I know you want Ardanel back.”

His gaze shifted toward Lady Serapha.

“I also know this world does not allow such things easily.”

Elara clenched her fists.

“This is your fault,” she said hoarsely.

Ravenn nodded once.

“I did what a leader was expected to do.”

Her head snapped up.

“And what about what you wanted?”

Ravenn was silent for a moment.

Then he answered quietly.

“I’m done watching my people survive like vermin.”

Elara stared at him.

“I am tired of hiding like criminals in daylight. Tired of watching my people be hunted, enslaved, caged, erased.” His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I hate Enthoriea more than you do.”

That startled her.

“I want a home,” Ravenn continued. “Not power. Not conquest. A place where my people are not prey.”

He turned fully toward her.

“That is why I am announcing our engagement soon.”

Elara's breath hitched.

“No,” she whispered. “No, I won’t—”

“Do not resist. Do not try to flee.”

His eyes remained steady. There was no pleading in them, but neither was there cruelty.

“There is a power struggle among the Night Hunters. They will follow strength without purpose. They think I am strong only with my blade, not with my will.”

Silence thickened between them.

“If I lose their loyalty,” he continued, “I lose them forever.”

Elara trembled.

Ravenn took a step back.

“I am sorry for the night I attacked you,” he said. “It was necessary.”

Not justified.

Necessary.

He turned toward the door.

“I will not touch you. I will not force you.”

His hand reached the door, but he paused.

“But this engagement will happen.”

The door opened.

Ravenn stopped once more, his back still turned toward her.

“She believed in you,” he said quietly. “And she believed that one day, this world would change.”

Then he left.

The door closed behind him.

Elara remained kneeling beside Lady Serapha's bed, her tears falling silently now.

Outside, the Night Hunters waited.

And the night, heavy and unmoving, held them all.

Back in the forest

Dawn crept slowly over the forest.

A thin, pale light filtered through the canopy, chasing away the deepest shadows of night. The sounds of darkness had retreated; there were no more distant growls or scraping claws, only birdsong and the whisper of wind moving through the leaves.

Ashren stirred.

Pain greeted him immediately, but it was different now. Duller. Contained.

He groaned softly and forced his eyes open.

The forest canopy swayed above him, sunlight filtering through the branches like shattered glass. His body felt heavy, bruised, and stiff, but he was alive.

“…Elara,” he rasped.

Memory returned in fragments—the fight, the night, the door, the darkness.

Ashren tried to sit up.

He succeeded.

The simple movement shocked him.

He looked down at himself. His wounds were still there, marked by angry shades of purple and red, but they had closed enough to stop bleeding. His breathing was steadier. His head no longer spun violently.

“…I feel…” He swallowed. “…better?”

Not healed.

But no longer dying.

Ashren clenched his jaw and pushed himself to his feet. He swayed immediately and caught himself against a tree, breathing hard.

“She’s still out there,” he whispered. “I don’t have time.”

He scanned the forest, trying to reconstruct the direction in which the Night Hunters had gone. Nothing looked familiar anymore. The darkness had hidden too much, and the tracks were impossible to distinguish after everything that had happened.

“How am I supposed to find them?”

He looked around again.

“No… I lost them.”

Frustration tightened his chest.

“I need help.”

But how?

Then he remembered Sir Veylan.

Ardent Cross.

Ashren straightened as much as his battered body allowed.

If anyone could help him find where the Night Hunters had gone, it was Veylan.

Running was impossible.

Walking would have to be enough.

Hours later

By the time Ashren reached the outskirts of Ardent Cross, the sun had fully risen.

His boots dragged against the road. His clothes were torn, bloodstained, and caked with dirt. Every step sent a dull ache through his bones, but he refused to stop.

Sir Veylan…

If anyone knew where the Night Hunters might go, it was him.

The gates of Ardent Cross loomed ahead.

“Halt!”

Two guards stepped forward, spears lowered.

“State your identity or show your permit!”

Ashren lifted his head with effort.

“I need to see Sir Veylan,” he said hoarsely. “Now.”

The guards frowned.

“And who are you supposed to—”

One of them froze.

His expression changed as recognition settled in.

“…Wait.”

It was the same guard who had stopped Ashren the night before.

The man stared at him, taking in the torn clothes, bloodstained body, and exhausted face.

“…It’s you.”

Ashren barely managed to remain standing.

“She’s been taken,” he said. “I need him.”

The guard hesitated only a moment before turning sharply toward the others.

“Open the gate.”

“But—”

“I’ll take responsibility.”

The gates parted.

Ashren staggered forward.

Sir Veylan was already approaching, alerted by the commotion.

The knight froze when he saw him.

“…By the gods.”

Ashren forced himself to stand straighter.

“Sir,” he said, his voice shaking but clear. “I found them.”

Veylan's eyes sharpened instantly.

“They took her.”

“I followed.”

“I fought.”

Veylan stepped closer, studying the injuries covering Ashren's body.

“You should not be standing.”

“I don’t have time to lie down,” Ashren replied. “I need to know where they’d go next.”

Veylan opened his mouth to answer.

Ashren swayed.

Veylan caught him just as his legs gave out.

“Enough,” Veylan ordered sharply. “Get him inside. Now.”

Ashren's vision blurred.

“…Please,” he murmured. “Help me get her back.”

“You’re not dying today,” Veylan said firmly. “And we will talk.”

Darkness claimed Ashren.

Later

Ashren woke to the scent of herbs and clean linen.

Not the biting chill of the forest. Not damp earth or blood-soaked leaves.

For a moment, he didn't move.

He listened to the soft footsteps around the room, the low voices beyond the curtains, and the steady rhythm of his own breathing.

Alive.

He slowly opened his eyes.

White light filtered through cloth curtains above him. His body felt heavy, bruised, and sore, but no longer shattered. The pain was still there, lingering deep within his bones, yet it no longer crushed his thoughts.

“…This doesn’t hurt as much,” he murmured.

A medic stood beside the bed, older and calm-eyed, holding a small vial.

“You’re finally awake,” the man said, relief slipping into his voice. “We were beginning to think you’d decided to sleep through your recovery.”

Ashren swallowed.

“How bad was it?” he asked quietly.

The medic snorted.

“Broken ribs. A fractured shoulder. Severe exhaustion. Blood loss.”

He paused, studying Ashren more closely.

“Any one of those should have kept you bedridden for weeks.”

Ashren frowned.

“…Should have?”

The medic hesitated, then leaned closer.

“You healed faster than expected,” he admitted. “Not magically. Not instantly. But… efficiently.”

Ashren stared at the ceiling.

He could feel it now.

The pain no longer owned him.

His breathing was deeper. His thoughts were clear. His body felt responsive, almost as though it remembered how to recover.

“I was left in the forest,” Ashren said quietly. “At night.”

The medic's eyes widened slightly.

“…Then you’re fortunate to be alive.”

Ashren didn't answer.

He already knew that.

The medic straightened and made a final note.

“You slept for two full days,” he said.

Ashren went still.

Two days.

He closed his eyes once.

Then I’m already behind.