The night shrieked around them.
Siora ran with fire in her veins, leading the children back the way they came. Behind them, the forest pulsed with torchlight and murmurs of madness. The children followed, stumbling, breath ragged, eyes wide with fear.
Then—a figure stepped out from the trees.
A villager. His smile was stretched unnaturally wide, unmoving. A long, rusted blade gleamed in his hand.
He lunged.
"Thalen!" Siora shouted.
Thalen barely ducked in time, the blade hissing past his cheek. Aylea screamed, clutching Lyra's arm.
More villagers emerged from the mist, their eyes empty, their torches casting halos of dead light. They moved like puppets—silent and smiling, drifting closer and closer. The children were surrounded, breaths coming in terrified gasps.
Then—a howl.
Low. Guttural. Impossible.
From the forest behind, shadows surged. The black wolves. The same ones that had hunted them. And behind them, the twisted, malformed figures—the "weird men"—emerged with crackling snarls and shattered teeth.
Chaos exploded.
The wolves leapt onto the villagers, tearing into their flesh. The twisted men tore through them with claws and shrieks, their movements inhuman. Blood sprayed across tree trunks. Screams were swallowed by snarls.
Siora grabbed the children, dragging them behind a massive stone.
"Don't look," she whispered, shielding them with her cloak. "Cover your ears."
But Lyra looked. She couldn't not.
It was carnage.
Villagers convulsed on the ground, throats torn, limbs twisted. The wolves howled with something more than rage—something almost sacred. As if this wasn't vengeance. It was ritual.
And then—silence.
Every villager was dead.
Their broken bodies lay in heaps under the silver light of the moon, blood soaking into the earth.
And in the middle of it all… stood a figure.
Tall. Cloaked in dark leathers, his silhouette rippled with raw strength. His face was hidden by the shadow of a hood, but his presence was overwhelming. He began to walk toward them—slow, deliberate.
Siora stood, pushing the children behind her.
Her voice dropped into ancient cadence. She began chanting a mantra in Sanskrit, low and powerful, a protective invocation that shimmered around them like invisible fire.
The figure stopped. Watching. Unmoving.
Then—more movement.
From behind the trees, the surviving guards appeared, bruised but alive. They rushed to the children's side, forming a protective circle, weapons drawn.
"Protect Lady Siora and the children!" one barked.
Then—another presence.
From the mist ahead, a second figure stepped forward.
He was massive—a man, yes, but more than that. Towering, scarred, with shoulders like stone and hair braided with bone and copper. His eyes glowed faintly in the dark, silver like moonlit steel. Just looking into them made the children tremble. Not out of fear—but awe.
The guards charged—
—but their weapons did nothing.
Blades bounced off air. Spears halted inches from his chest. The towering man didn't even flinch. He stepped forward calmly, each movement filled with terrible grace.
Siora suddenly raised a hand.
"Stop," she ordered.
The guards froze.
…She stepped forward slowly.
Their eyes met.
He tilted his head, studying her—and then in a blur of motion, wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a tight embrace. Siora gasped, rigid with instinct—but then recognition softened her face.
"…Daran," she whispered.
And then—she let herself be held.
Once, long ago, she had held him beneath the same stars. Before war. Before exile.
Before she had taken the children and walked away from this path—thinking she could protect them better in the world of nobles and stone walls.
Her fingers trembled, just for a moment, against the scars on his back. Then she breathed, steady again, and stepped back.
Behind them, the warriors emerged like mist given form—tall and solemn, cloaked in fur and feathers, their skin painted with ancient runes that shimmered faintly. They moved not like rescuers, but as if reclaiming something precious.
One by one, they lifted the children gently. With reverence.
Thalen blinked in stunned silence. Aylea clung to her carrier, watching Siora with wide eyes. Lyra was placed on the back of a warrior whose eyes, though hardened by countless winters, softened when they met hers.
And still—she didn't look away.
The march began—fast and fluid, the forest parting before them like it had been waiting. The children swayed with the movement, too exhausted to speak.
But as they vanished into the trees, Lyra turned.
She looked back.
The village behind them was nothing but shadows and fire. Twisted timber. Black smoke curling toward a blood-red moon.
She didn't feel sorrow. Only silence.
Not vengeance. Not fear. Just a stillness, coiled tight and wordless in her chest.
A silence she carried with her now—like the pull of a tide, dragging her deeper into something she couldn't yet name.