The fire's glow still danced behind them, but Mo's eyes were fixed on Veyr, every sense taut. Aylen stood just behind him, her fingers near her dagger, though she sensed this wasn't a confrontation destined for blades—not yet.
Veyr's smile was disarming, as it had always been, but the gleam in his eyes held more shadows than memory. "You're looking old, Mo."
Mo didn't return the sentiment. "I thought you died at Kael Hollow."
"I did," Veyr said, shrugging. "Sort of. The Order burned, but a few of us escaped the fire. Changed names. Left our blades in the dust. But something's pulled me back in. Same thing that pulled you here, I imagine."
Aylen stepped forward, her voice low but steady. "If you're with the Requiem, what's your stake in this corruption?"
Veyr glanced at her, amused. "Smart. And sharper than most of his companions used to be. The Order didn't just fight monsters. We studied them. Catalogued the unnatural. And what you saw back there?" He gestured with a nod toward the burnt body. "That's not just a parasite. That's the first sign of something worse. A Herald."
Mo's jaw clenched. "Impossible. The Heralds were locked beyond the Ash Gate."
Veyr's smile faded. "So we thought. But something has shifted. And you know what that means. The Azure Shamshir wouldn't be awake otherwise."
They set camp a few leagues west, beside a crumbled watchtower now overtaken by moss and silence. As twilight bled into night, Veyr shared what he'd learned: isolated villages disappearing without a trace, animals fleeing lowlands en masse, and whispers of a shadowed figure walking beneath the moons.
"They call it the Pale Warden," he said, feeding a log into the fire. "And wherever it walks, life rots. It's not a Herald. It's something older. Something that remembers the world before names."
Aylen frowned. "If that's true, then we're not just chasing after a tear in the rift—we're walking into a return. A resurrection."
Mo didn't respond. He watched the flames again, the same way he'd stared into the burning body hours ago. The threads were pulling tighter. Pieces falling into place.
And that meant only one thing: something was building. A crescendo they weren't ready for.
Before dawn, a scream echoed from the south.
They moved without speaking.
A mile into the forest, they found a man pinned to a tree, eyes gouged out, mouth sewn shut with silver wire. Symbols were etched into his arms in a language none of them recognized.
Aylen turned away, but Veyr crouched and inspected the body.
"This is ritualistic," he muttered. "And recent. Very recent."
Mo looked at the bark around the corpse. Burnt edges. Arcane symbols. And one he did recognize—etched just below the heart.
"The mark of the Woken."
Aylen turned. "That's a myth."
"It was," Mo replied. "Until now."
They buried the man quickly. There was no time for rites. Veyr left an old sigil stone by the mound, a flicker of blue light flashing once before dying out.
"Old Order habit," he said. "So his spirit won't be stolen."
They continued west.
And just beyond the Vale of Terns, a shadow walked among the broken stones of an abandoned city, pausing as if listening. Its skin was pale as frost, its eyes like ink spilled across the stars. It turned its head eastward. Toward them.
And smiled.