SOREIA
The forest died a long time ago.
Gray trunks rise on either side of the path like grave markers—petrified, stripped of bark and branches, frozen in whatever moment of catastrophe turned living wood to stone. Nothing grows here. Nothing moves. Even the wind seems reluctant to push through the skeletal remains of what was once green and breathing.
I don’t like this place.
Kaster moved ahead an hour ago, scouting the terrain while I maintained pace along the trail. We’ve been traveling east for two days now, following a route that keeps us out of open ground without forcing us through territory he hasn’t already cleared. The arrangement works. He hunts. I rest. We don’t talk about what happens after.
There is no after. There’s only the next attack and the one following that.
The path narrows ahead, funneling between rock outcroppings that force single-file passage. Beyond them, the dead forest gives way to a ravine—I see the gap in the tree line where the ground drops away. The terrain feels wrong. Designed. Like a throat waiting to swallow whatever wanders in.
I slow my steps.
The scouts are different. Smaller. Faster. Built for pursuit and reconnaissance rather than confrontation. These last two days, we’ve only encountered small packs—testing formations Kaster eliminated before I could reach for my power.
My reserves have rebuilt. Not fully, but enough. The constant ache behind my eyes has faded to a dull pressure. I can access my bloodline without bleeding out through my nose.
For now.
The path tightens further. Stone walls rise on either side, funneling me toward that gap in the tree line. Ancient watermarks stripe the rock—this ravine was carved by floods that stopped flowing generations ago. Now, it’s dry. Still.
I stop walking.
The silence is wrong.
Not the absence of sound—I’ve grown used to that. This is different. Heavier. The kind of quiet that has weight, that presses against the eardrums like a held breath.
The kind of quiet that means I’m being watched.
They come from above.
The first hunter drops from the rim of the ravine, landing twenty feet ahead of me with an impact that cracks stone. Larger than the scouts. Much larger. Armored plating covers its shoulders and spine, natural protection that glints dull gray in the filtered light. Its eyes find me with predatory intelligence.
Not hungry. Calculating.
A second lands behind me, blocking the path I came from. A third and fourth take positions along the rim, silhouettes against the gray sky.
Herding formation. I recognize it too late.
They drove me here. Every twist in the path, every narrowing of the terrain—I thought I was choosing my route. I was being funneled.
My magic flares in my veins, reaching for the surface. The pressure behind my eyes intensifies.
“Fuck.”
The word echoes off the ravine walls, bouncing back distorted. The hunters don’t react. They hold position, patient, blocking every exit.
I count four visible. There will be more. These creatures work in coordinated packs—they don’t commit half their numbers to an ambush.
The ravine floor stretches ahead of me: approximately fifteen feet wide, sheer stone walls rising thirty feet on either side. No room to dodge. No cover. The floor is littered with bones, weapons, the scattered possessions of people who died here before me.
Some of the bones are fresh.
The lead hunter takes a step forward. Testing. Watching how I respond.
I don’t run. Running in a ravine with no exits gets you caught faster.
