I raised my hand to signal for silence. Alaric came up behind me, his jaw was a hard line. “This forest swallows patrols whole,” he muttered. Bran padded closer to his heels, growling low.
Gideon tried to lighten the mood. “Don’t worry, Princess. If we’re cursed, at least it’s scenic.”
Wyn didn’t smile. Her knuckles whitened around her satchel. Tyren hummed softly, a shaky tune to fill the oppressive quiet.
Then everything exploded.
Shadows moved like water as creatures poured from the underbrush, sleek and wrong, like the forest had birthed nightmares.
Vorrhounds.
They emerged from the fog like phantoms, their bodies shifting in and out of focus. The edges were forever blurring, a ghost of form that writhed like mist but moved with the deliberate grace of something alive. Taller than wolves, thinner than panthers, their limbs moved with a boneless, slithering grace. Their hides were the color of coal, pulsing faintly with veins of red light like magma under cracked earth.
Their heads were narrow, eyeless, but glowing slits burned across their skulls like open wounds, and from the gaps in their ribcages, you could glimpse something writhing, like shadows alive inside them.
Worst of all were the sounds. They didn’t bark. They whispered. A thousand voices rasped from their open jaws, some of them human, some of them not. Fragments of sentences.Names. Begging. Laughter. Screams from forgotten battles and lullabies sung in broken tones. Each word was a needle. Each whispers a memory.
Vorrhounds weren’t beasts. But leftovers from something much older and crueler that had bled into Wildervale and never left.
The fog split, and one launched straight at Wyn.
I moved without thinking, throwing my body between her and the beast. My sword flashed in the dim light, meeting the Vorrhound mid-air with a jarring crash of bone and steel. We both hit the ground hard, rolling in the mud and leaves. Its claws raked across my shoulder, the heat sharp and hot. I growled, planting my boot against its ribs and kicking it away. My blade slashed across its throat, and black smoke hissed from the wound instead of blood.
Another howl tore through the mist. Tyren screamed and fought.
He raised his blade in time to parry the snap of one Vorrhound’s jaws, its teeth clamping down on steel. He grunted, twisting and stabbing the creature through the side, smoke pouring from the wound. Another Vorrhound tackled him from behind. Tyren let out a roar, shoving the dying beast off and swinging again. He struck a third time, cutting deep into a flank, but he was tiring.
A third beast came.
It slammed him against a tree, claws raking across his chest. He bellowed in pain and tried to swing again, but the Vorrhound lunged low, jaws locking around his thigh and dragging him down.
A strangled shriek ripped from his throat, a sound filled with the desperate terror of a creature cornered and in agony.
The other Vorrhound returned and sank its teeth into his shoulder. Flesh tore. Blood sprayed across the moss in thickropes. Tyren stabbed wildly, blade glancing off bone, but there were too many. One clawed into his stomach and ripped. He choked, breath gurgling with blood.
His last sound wasn’t a scream; it was a gasp.
Then he went still.
“Form up!” Alaric roared. He and Bran surged forward. Bran tore into a Vorrhound’s back leg with a snarl, dragging it down as Alaric’s sword pierced straight into the hollow beneath its ribs. It howled, a burst of shrieking voices that sounded like a family screaming.
Jasira yanked Wyn behind a tree, hurling a dagger with fierce precision. It struck a Vorrhound in the eye-slit. It shrieked and writhed, smoke pouring from its maw. Another lunged at her. She rolled aside, her second blade sweeping low and biting into its hindquarters. Gore and smoke sprayed across the roots.
Wyn turned, breath ragged, in time to see another Vorrhound stalking Jasira. She leapt in front of her friend, dagger in hand, trembling. The creature lunged. She screamed and stabbed, meeting its hide, sliding off, but cutting enough to halt its momentum. Jasira rose and shoved the beast back with her shoulder.
The Vorrhound hissed, circling again.
Gideon roared as he charged, blood streaking down one arm, his blade raised. “Back off, you smoky bastard!” He slammed the blade into its spine. The Vorrhound convulsed, black limbs thrashing. “This is why I’m more of a cat person!”
Another Vorrhound broke from the trees and slammed into Alaric, who blocked the strike with his shield. Bran lunged up, tearing into its side, dragging the beast down. Alaric skewered it through its mouth, silencing its many voices at once.
I wheeled back into the fray, blade flashing. One Vorrhound lunged, and my sword caught it mid-throat, splitting it open in a gout of smoke and heat. Another lunged from behind. I pivoted,slashing deep through its shoulder and kicking it away. A third beast dove low, trying to flank me. I dodged, swept my blade across its belly, and watched it crumple.
I was breathing hard, blood coated my armor, but I didn’t stop. Not while they were near her. Not while Wynessa was still in danger.
Then, claws ripped across my back.
I staggered, my sword knocked free. I collapsed beneath the weight of another Vorrhound. Its breath reeked of rot and sulfur. It pinned me down, its maw opening wide over my face.
