Therun looked down the frozen hole in the ground, the stench moss and blood still hung heavy, and the horizon was already paling with the promise of dawn…he had little time left. The villagers would wake soon, and once they stirred, all chance of concealment would be lost.

  He drew a long breath, steadying his pulse, then reached for the small black box at his belt. Its surface shimmered faintly, alive with inner runes that pulsed in and out of sight. With a whispered incantation, he released its bindings. The box opened with a dull hum, and one by one, figures emerged from the pale mist that spilled out.

  His men collapsed to the ground, gasping. Each bore the marks of battle, cracked armor, blood-matted hair, hollow eyes…they were alive, but useless now.

  “Stay down,” Therun ordered, his tone sharp as iron. “You will only slow me, and I cannot afford that.”

  None dared to answer. They knew the look in his eyes, the tension that rippled beneath his calm. He was not a man who repeated himself.

  The box snapped shut at his touch, its glow fading, two victims still trapped inside.

  He turned his attention to the earth, already moving with precision. From beneath his cloak, he drew a small talon-shaped pendant bound in copper wire and etched with ancient sigils. It pulsed with a sickly green light as he whispered the words of command. The soil stirred, roots rising in slow obedience to the charm’s will. The relic was a druidic imitation, power without reverence, stolen from the old craft and bent to the needs of men like him.

  Roots and tendrils dragged stone and soil over the scarred ground, burying every sign of the tunnel’s collapse, and the ice bellow. Soon it looked as though nothing had disturbed it, but it was only a temporary measure, as soon as the ice melted the entrance would collapse. He had to move underground and enforce the sealing.

  The sun broke the line of the rooftops and a rooster called somewhere in the distance.

  Therun cursed softly…He could hear the first doors opening in the town beyond the wall, hear the clatter of buckets and the low murmur of early voices. Every second that passed tightened the noose around his throat.

  He glanced back once at his broken soldiers, kneeling shapes in the dirt, and felt no flicker of pity. They were his responsibility, but not his priority. The mission outweighed their lives, and the truth buried below could not be exposed.

  He adjusted his cloak and started toward the outer lanes, his stride measured, his thoughts cold.

  His boots struck the ground in steady rhythm, the world narrowing to the path ahead, the faint heat of the rising sun brushing his face. He felt the pulse of the buried tunnels beneath his feet, the memory of roots shifting in the dark. Somewhere along that path, his prey waited.

  He would find him.

  Therun’s eyes glistened with anticipation.

  To his surprise, he found nothing but melting ice, damp stone, and silence. A few streaks of blood marked the path, but they ended abruptly, vanishing as if swallowed by the earth itself. The truth was clear enough…his prey had been taken.

  Therun’s mind raced at the possibilities…the former soldier was not alone. Of course he was not alone, how could he have been so blind? The boy was training under a druid, and no doubt it was his master who had intervened. His breath caught at the realization, and his eyes widened…a true druid, here, in the very heart of the kingdom. Training a deserter, growing in strength while the army looked outward, their focus on distant borders.

  It was clever, devious, unlike any account the old texts spoke of druids, yet the signs were here. A hidden hand, gathering power, plotting from the shadows, could there be more than one? Therun licked his lips. So, they have changed their tactics, if they cannot break us by force, they will rot us from within.

  There was only one thing to do, and he hated it. He would have to inform Lord Kassyn of everything, even his failure. Kassyn listened in silence, sharp eyes weighing each word before he spoke, without hesitation:

  “Proceed with your mission as if nothing happened. I will take care of the rest.”

  Therun bit back his protest. The thought of his prey slipping away, aided by some hidden master, stung like salt in an open wound. But he knew better than to go against Kassyn’s word, so he obeyed.

  The days that followed were bitterly quiet. Therun tended his men, providing food and what care he could while they healed. It was no easy task, they had to stay hidden, and each run to the market carried risk. He could never be certain who watched him, which glance lingered too long, which smile hid suspicion. He had no face to pin to the druid, no name. It could be anyone.

  But he knew one thing for certain, the druid knew him, knew his face, his strength, his weaknesses and that left Therun at a disadvantage from all sides. He had to change that, create a strategy in case they would be ambushed, but for that he would need his soldiers.

  It was a quiet week before they could regroup as a team. No one bothered them in that time and Therun’s men regained some of their strength. Now, though he disliked it with every breath, he had to complete the mission as Kassyn had ordered. He felt like a lamb sent to slaughter, offered up to whatever unseen hand watched from the dark. But what could he do? Where could he run? There was no choice left but forward.

  So the plan continued. His crew spread their net in silence, luring unsuspecting villagers as they always had.

  The night was warm, though autumn had already set its hand upon Avanwall. The village square throbbed with life, lanterns swaying in the breeze, the smell of roasted meat heavy on the air. A band of fire dancers and storytellers had come from the capital, their flames spinning through the dusk like living serpents, their voices weaving old tales into the night. The villagers gathered eagerly to watch, eyes wide as sparks chased the wind. Laughter rose with the crack of mugs, the beat of drums rolled through the square, and for a time it felt as though the kingdom’s burdens were far away. News was rare in such places, but wanderers carried whispers and truths alike, and the people clung to every word.

  Irris and Velira worked the crowd as always, weaving their charms, their eyes quick for lonely fools with too much drink and too little sense.

  Torvil stood at the heart of it all, silent and still, his gaze cutting sharper than the torches’ light. The Shroud’s whispers had reached him, confirming what he already suspected: Therun and his men still hid in town. And this night, with its laughter and noise, was the best chance for them to draw victims without suspicion.

  He did not know their faces, but Brann had told him their general appearance, so he watched for the signs. Those who slipped from the square with smiles too easily won, those who followed beauty into darkness without question. His eyes narrowed, his pulse steady, overhead the raven Kett had given him circled in slow arcs, its view bleeding into his own. From above, the crowd was a living sea, but the bird’s keen gaze pierced what his eyes alone could not.

  It didn’t take long until he saw it: Two beautiful women slipping from the square into a narrow alley, three men stumbling eagerly after them. The trap was set, as it always was.

  Torvil moved at once, weaving through the crowd without a ripple. He flowed like oil through running water, never slowing, never faltering, eyes fixed on the darkness that had just swallowed them. He arrived a moment too late. The men were already on the ground, groaning, limbs bound by some trick of the women’s art, though they had not yet been thrown into the cage.

  Therun lifted his head at the druid’s approach, his eyes narrowing with recognition. He spat an inaudible curse, then forced a crooked grin:

  “Well, well…You must be the druid who stole away my prey. I knew you would come, truth be told, I had wanted to leave, to err on the side of caution but my master would not have it so. Alas, here we are…and now it is either us or you… and you can be damned sure we don’t plan on dying tonight.” With that, Therun began to chant the incantation for the cage. The air thickened, vibrating with an unnatural hum, and under Torvil’s watchful gaze, the unconscious men were drawn toward the artifact. Their bodies shimmered, folded in upon themselves like shadows consumed by flame, until nothing remained but the faint glow of runes upon the box’s surface.

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  The women shifted, stepping wide, circling to flank. The men forced themselves upright, shaky but grim, hands falling to weapons. A small band, weary and battered, but ready to bleed every last drop if it meant standing a chance.

  Torvil watched them, eyes steady, lips pressed to a thin line. He almost pitied them. Fools. They had never faced a druid. He could see it in the way they moved, in their shallow breath, in the way their courage clung to them like a thin cloak against the cold. They had no idea what awaited them.

  Their brief clash with Brann had kindled hope, but Brann was a newborn, raw and untested, sap in spring. He was something else entirely…old, older than he cared to admit, and the roots of his power ran deeper than any of them could fathom.

  In Duskmire, his strength had been sealed, buried beneath years of caution but that was then. He had spent the months since unbinding what had been locked, layer by layer, vein by vein. What now surged through him was enough to make even his own heart stir with unease.

  This fight would not last…it would not even truly begin. It was Brann who had given them courage, Brann’s raw defiance that painted the illusion they could stand against him. If not for that, they would have fled long ago, tails between their legs, soldiers were always told not to engage a druid without the backup of the army.

  Torvil exhaled, slow and deep, the air tasting of iron and ash. The square behind him still rang with laughter, the spectacle carrying on as though the world was not about to shift in shadow.

  Torvil’s gaze settled on Therun, calm but heavy with pity:

  “You say you wanted to run, but your masters would not allow it. How about now ?”

  Therun’s brow furrowed, uncertain: “What?”

  “I’ll spare you a gruesome fate,” Torvil said, his voice low and even. “Tell me who your master is, and what his goals are. Do that, and I’ll let you and your companions walk away.”

  A bitter laugh escaped Therun’s throat. “You can’t expect us to just give up, can you? There is more at stake here than you know.”

  Torvil shook his head slowly. “Pity…Then I suppose you’re satisfied with your choice.”

  He did not wait for a reply. In the space of a heartbeat, he moved his body a blur that split the air. He closed the distance to Revik before any of them could react, his fist driving forward like a hammer meant to shatter bone and heart.

  Veynar roared and thrust his shield between them, just barely deflecting the blow. The strike missed its mark, landing instead on Revik’s shoulder with a crack that sent the man flying back, tumbling to land at Therun’s feet.

  For an instant, they thought he had survived… Revik was already scrambling up, blood on his lips, fury in his eyes. Relief flickered across the faces of his companions, but it was too late for him and Torvil knew it.

  A faint growth pulsed on his shoulder where Torvil’s blow had landed, a seed, unseen in the moment of impact, now sprouted. In seconds it bloomed into a pale mushroom, its cap splitting wetly, roots burrowing deep. It drank greedily, not of blood, but of the water within Revik’s flesh. His skin withered, his eyes sank, his strength drained in a rushing silence. In moments he was nothing but a husk, collapsing into dust and brittle bone beneath the horrified stares of his comrades.

  Torvil’s voice cut through the stillness like a knife. “How about now? Do you want to talk? No sense in all of you becoming mushroom food.”

  Therun’s eyes blazed with rage. His hand darted into his pouch and came out clenched around a pinch of ash. With a sharp breath, he blew it over the dead man’s shoulder, over the vile fungus.

  The mushroom shriveled, disintegrating at once. A surge of energy burst outward, the air cracking with a sudden blast of wind…the same trick Brann had spoken of. But no power, no ash, could return what was already taken.

  Revik was gone.

  Therun’s face twisted with rage.

  “Kill this bastard! Don’t let Revik’s death be in vain!”

  At once they descended on him. Daggers hissed through the air, Velira’s scarf lashed like a serpent, and Veynar’s scythe gleamed under the pale torchlight. Torvil slipped between them with ease, his movements fluid, ancient reflexes carrying him past every strike. He was the forest’s shadow, and no blade could touch him.

  But he had not accounted for Therun’s cunning.

  The scarred man needed only a single clean blow, one moment to break the tide and soon it came. Torvil vaulted back to avoid Velira’s scarf, his foot twisting on the stone just enough to leave him open. Therun lunged, seizing the druid’s arm with iron grip, driving him hard into the ground. His fist came down with brutal force, smashing into Torvil’s chest, straight into the heart.

  “There you go, old man,” Therun spat as he jumped back. “Try using your tricks now.”

  Torvil staggered to his feet, breath ragged, strength draining as if something inside him had been chained. He knew it at once, part of his power was sealed. Another power Brann had informed him about, one he had hoped not to experience on his body. But this was not over. Not yet.

  He struck back, forcing himself toward Therun, but Veynar’s shield slammed in the way with a crash. A dagger flashed next, thrown by Irris. It grazed his arm, and the limb fell limp at his side, useless.

  Torvil grit his teeth and surged forward again, but Velira’s scarf whipped around his leg, yanking him off balance. He crashed down, the stones hard against his ribs, and Therun was on him again. Another blow landed, precise, cruel, pressing deep into his gut, sealing more of the old strength he carried.

  Veynar’s scythe came last, a slash across Torvil’s side that burned as though it carried weight itself. His body grew heavier, his movements dulled. The earth clung to him, dragging him down.

  Was he was losing?

  Torvil shook that thought as he lay half-kneeling, chest heaving, his body refusing to answer him. He knew it as surely as he knew his own name, he was incapacitated. Yet the question gnawed bitter in his mind. How?

  He had gathered all the information. He had mapped their powers, studied their tricks, prepared for every strike. He should not have been the one falling here.

  How are they turning this fight against me?

  Therun gave no time for thought. He lunged at Torvil with all his might, intent on ending it. But the old druid still had one trick left. With a guttural whisper he summoned forth a creature, a thing caught between mantis and monkey, its jagged limbs twitching, its eyes gleaming with unnatural hunger.

  The beast met Therun’s blow head-on. The strike landed, but as it did, ash spread across the creature’s body, from Therun’s fist. In an instant, the air detonated, a violent blast of wind erupting outward and Torvil was flung onto his back, exposed, vulnerable.

  Daggers fell from above like fangs from the dark. They struck true, pinning his body with venomous precision. His muscles stiffened, his whole body paralyzed.

  Checkmate.

  Therun pressed forward, planting a knee on the druid’s chest, grinding down with cruel weight. His lips curled into a sneer.

  “So, you think yourself unstoppable? But you are far from your forest, little druid and we prepared for you. Now tell me what I want to know. What is your purpose here in Avanwall?”

  Torvil met his eyes, unflinching, voice cold as winter roots.

  “My purpose is to add all you scum to the green, to weave you into the earth and make the ultimate paradise.”

  Therun’s eye twitched: “More of your propaganda”… He drew his knife without a second thought and pressed it to the old man’s throat:

  “May the gods have mercy on you,” he muttered, driving the blade home. He watched the light fade from Torvil’s gaze, the body slacken beneath him.

  He rose moments later, bloodied knife in hand. “Let’s find his apprentice and finish this—”

  But the words froze in his mouth.

  Torvil stood, whole and unbroken, stronger than before. Not a scar marred his flesh, not a cut or bruise, his presence swelled, filling the alley like a storm.

  Therun staggered back, eyes wide. “What… what is this?”

  The druid’s answer came like the groan of roots splitting stone.

  “This is the true power of a druid.”

  And then the fight played out again. Blows traded, knives sunk, strikes landed…always ending the same, always with Torvil rising, again and again.

  But it was not real.

  Their bodies remained still, locked in place, while the battle raged only in their minds. The mushroom spores clung invisible to their skin, breathed in with every gasp of struggle, burrowed into their thoughts. The spores wove illusions, replaying the same doomed fight, trapping them in an endless cycle of defeat, just as Torvil had expected.

  He had known Therun would use the ash. He had known it would destroy the summoned mushroom, and that the blast of wind it created would carry his true weapon …the spores, spreading them over every enemy in reach. It was just like he said, in truth this battle hadn’t even begun.

  Now all that remained was simple. Drag their stiffened bodies to the base of the Brotherhood. They would have more than enough time to interrogate them there.