The night had teeth.
John felt them in every gust of wind that brushed the back of his neck as if the darkness itself meant to bite down on the caravan's heels. The air thickened with dread as they abandoned the grove and pushed immediately into another hard march. The land stretched before them in rolling silver-black hills, each one casting deeper shadows.
Dorothy led in near silence; her staff pulled tight to her body. She didn't dare tap it again. Even its smallest spark felt too loud now.
Behind John, Flint prowled the flank like a restless hunting cat, scanning every ridge with dagger-honed focus. The young man's breathing was calm, but his eyes betrayed tension — wide, sharp, constantly darting.
The shadows on the north ridge had kept pace.
Always at a distance.
Always watching.
Doris walked close to John, Brian in her arms, swaddled so tightly he seemed a single shape with her. The baby slept now, exhaustion knocking him into a deep, troubled rest. Doris's face was drawn, her dark hair stuck to her cheeks with cold sweat.
John adjusted his grip on her elbow. "If you need to ride in the wagon—"
"No," Doris whispered. "Being inside a box right now feels worse."
He nodded. "Then stay beside me."
"I will," she murmured. "I'm not letting him out of my arms."
John was relieved she said "him" with such ferocity. It steadied him.
They would not break.
Not tonight.
Not while the ridge crawled with Paragon scouts.
The caravan surged across a dip in the land, descending into a shallow basin where mist clung in low, swirling patches. The horses balked, snorting anxiously. One reared, nearly snapping its harness.
"Easy!" a guard hissed, grabbing the reins. "Easy!"
The mist moved strangely — not drifting with the wind but rolling toward the caravan, tendrils creeping across the ground like white
vines.
Dorothy stopped short.
"No one breathe deeply," she whispered. "It's memory fog."
Flint froze. "Memory what now?"
"Residual resonance from the pillars," Dorothy said. "It won't hurt you, but if you inhale too much, you'll relive the strongest memory buried in your mind."
"That sounds horrible," Flint muttered.
"It is," Dorothy said simply. "So breathe shallowly."
The caravan passed through the fog like a group of ghosts traveling through ghosts. John covered Doris's face with part of his cloak, and Doris shielded Brian's small head with her arm.
Mist slid across John's boots, brushing his skin with icy lightness. For a moment he felt something — a tug — as if the fog tried to pry images loose from his mind.
He caught a flash:
A battlefield.
Steel clashing.
A scream.
His father, falling—
John clenched his teeth, forcing the memory away. He kept his breath shallow, his focus razor-sharp.
The fog receded as they climbed the other side of the basin. Dorothy exhaled shakily.
"That," she murmured, "was too close."
"Are we clear?" Gerran called softly from ahead.
"For now," Dorothy said.
But the unease in her voice sent a deeper chill through John than the fog had.
A guard near the rear called out quietly, "Ridge! Movement!"
Flint spun. "Where?"
"There!" the guard pointed.
John looked.
On the ridge, silhouetted faintly against the horizon, the Paragon scouts had descended slightly. Still too far to attack. But closer. Their shapes swayed like cloaked trees in the wind.
Then one raised an arm.
A signal.
Another answered.
"It's time," Dorothy said grimly. "They're calling their hunters."
John's stomach plummeted.
"Horses faster!" Gerran barked. "Push them!"
The caravan surged forward, wheels rattling violently, nearly bouncing on the uneven terrain. John kept an arm wrapped around Doris to steady her as the ground jolted beneath their feet.
Flint ran backward for a moment to keep eyes on the ridge. "They're moving. Definitely moving."
"How many?" John called.
"Too many."
John didn't ask again.
They crested a long rise and dove down the far side into darker terrain. The land split into a series of broken ridges and gullies, carved by ancient rivers long since vanished. It made the caravan move like a serpent, weaving left, then right, following narrow passageways.
Above, the Paragon scouts kept pace along the ridge.
"Why aren't they attacking?" a guard whispered.
Dorothy overheard. "Because they want us tired. Panicked. Broken. They want the child taken alive, not damaged."
Doris gripped Brian tighter.
John's jaw clenched so hard he felt his teeth ache.
He did not allow himself to picture what the Paragons might do with a living Voidborn infant. He did not need to. His imagination conjured horrors too quickly.
So he thought of something else instead.
Move. Protect. Fight only when cornered. Survive.
It was enough to keep him sane.
They reached the base of a narrow ravine — a cleft between two long ridges, the walls rising jagged and steep. The path was just wide enough for one wagon at a time. Gerran gestured sharply.
"We go through!"
Dorothy hesitated. "If they trap us—"
"They won't," Gerran said. "Not yet."
"We don't know that!"
"We also don't have another path," Gerran snapped.
He was right.
John could see that. The only other way forward was back across the open hilltop, where they would be exposed. The Paragons could descend effortlessly and encircle them.
The ravine was dangerous.
But it was also a choke point.
One entry.
One exit.
And one place where John could kill anything that tried to block their passage.
He nodded to Gerran. "I'll guard the rear."
"No," Doris said immediately. "You stay near us."
John looked at her — really looked. Her eyes were bright with fear, yes, but also with a sharp, fierce clarity.
She didn't want him behind them because if the Paragons reached the rear, John would be alone.
He would die alone.
He placed a hand on her cheek. "I won't go far. Just enough to make sure they can't rush us."
Doris clenched her jaw, then gave a tiny nod.
"All right," she whispered. "But don't disappear."
John drew his sword.
"I won't."
The caravan entered the ravine.
Squeezing through the narrowest section, they moved single file. Stone scraped the wagon sides. The horses snorted anxiously, their hooves clopping hollowly in the tight corridor.
John stayed back by twenty paces, Flint beside him, two guards behind them.
Above, the sky appeared as only a slim jagged strip between the towering stone walls. John could hear the echo of their footsteps reverberating unnaturally through the ravine — bouncing, distorting.
He hated it.
Halfway through, the walls narrowed even more, forcing everyone into near silence.
Then John heard it.
A soft whistle.
High.
Sharp.
Far above.
"Arrows!" John roared.
The first shaft clattered against stone near his head. Flint tackled one of the guards, pushing him against the wall as an arrow sliced
through the space he'd been standing in.
Shapes appeared on the ridge above.
Silhouettes against the faint predawn light.
Paragons.
They had descended from the north ridge and circled ahead.
They had predicted the ravine.
"They're above us!" Flint shouted.
John's heart thundered. "Move! Get through! Go!"
The caravan lurched into chaotic motion. Horses screamed. Wagons jolted forward, wheels cracking against stone walls. People ducked as more arrows rained down, bouncing off the rock or skittering into the ravine.
John's vision narrowed — not metaphorically. Literally. The ravine felt like a throat closing around them.
"John!" Doris cried ahead.
John sprinted toward the sound of her voice. Flint and the guards followed, keeping their heads low as more arrows fell like deadly rain.
Above them, a voice called down in a language John did not know.
It was not a shout.
It was almost… ritualistic.
Dorothy responded instantly.
"Eyes down!" she shouted. "Do not look at them!"
John ducked behind a jutting rock as a soft, violet shimmer began dancing along the ravine walls.
Paragon magic.
"We have to get out!" John yelled.
"I know!" Dorothy shouted back, voice hoarse. "Gerran—push them through! Now!"
The caravan surged. The ravine angled upward, widening just enough that the wagons could pick up speed.
John ran beside Doris's wagon as they reached the incline. He could hear the Paragons above trying to reposition.
"Faster!" he urged.
Gerran cracked the reins of the lead horse. The animal surged forward, dragging the line with it.
Arrows stopped falling.
A worse sign.
Flint's breath hitched. "Why'd they stop shooting?"
Dorothy's voice answered from up the path, trembling with dread.
"Because they're about to try something else."
The ravine opened abruptly into a wide plateau overlooking miles of rolling plains. Pale light crested the horizon — the first weak promise of dawn.
John's breath tore from his chest as he and the others spilled into the open. The wagons fanned out, horses nearly collapsing in relief.
But relief was short-lived.
Because on the ridge above, silhouetted against the growing dawn light, the Paragons stood in a crescent shape.
At least fifteen of them.
Cloaked.
Still.
Silent as gravestones.
One stepped forward.
John recognized nothing about the figure — not face, not posture, not clothing — but he felt recognition anyway.
A sinking sensation in the marrow of his bones.
This one was stronger.
Much stronger.
Dorothy hurled herself between the Paragons and the caravan, staff raised. "No magic from anyone!" she shouted back. "Their attention is razor-sharp right now. Any spell, any spark, they will pounce on it."
The lead Paragon raised a hand toward the sky.
Space warped.
A ripple in the air, subtle but unmistakable, like heat rising from stone.
"No…" Doris whispered, clutching Brian close. "Not that."
John stepped forward instinctively. "What are they doing?"
Dorothy didn't look back. "Calling. Listening. Searching."
John licked dry lips. "For Brian."
"Yes."
The Paragon's hand rotated slowly.
John felt nothing at first.
Then a faint, nauseating tug — like something brushing the air between him and Brian.
A resonance echo.
"Dorothy?" John said. "What's happening?"
Dorothy thrust her staff downward, slamming its butt into the ground.
A pulse erupted — soft, barely visible, but powerful enough that John felt it as a pop in his ears.
The Paragon on the ridge flinched.
Only a fraction.
But enough to break the resonance pull.
Dorothy's staff glowed faintly. "Their hunter is searching. That pulse will confuse them briefly. Run."
John's heart slammed against his ribs. "Run where?"
"South!" Dorothy barked. "Toward the river valley!"
Flint cursed. "That's marshland!"
"Yes," Dorothy snapped. "And marshland hides footprints. Hides resonance. Hides—everything! Go!"
Gerran didn't question her.
He cracked his reins, and the entire caravan surged southeast, wheels bouncing over uneven terrain.
The Paragons did not descend the ridge.
They simply watched.
And waited.
Their silence made John's skin crawl worse than the arrows.
When the ridge finally disappeared behind a rising hill, Doris exhaled a trembling breath.
"John…" she whispered. "We can't keep running forever."
"I know," John said, voice steadying despite the tremor in his hands. "But we can run today. And tomorrow. And every day until Brian is safe."
She clutched the baby tighter. "They won't stop."
"No," John said. "But neither will I."
The caravan thundered down the hill toward the distant valley, the first true sunlight finally breaking across the horizon.
Behind them, the Paragons stood motionless atop the ridge.
Silent.
Patient.
Learning the rhythm of the caravan.
Whether they struck the next day or the next week didn't matter.
They would strike.
John knew it with absolute certainty.
He tightened his grip on his sword, breath sharp with cold air and burning dread.
"They're hunting us," he whispered.
Flint, running beside him, shot him a grim look. "Yeah. And they're really good at it."
John gazed at Brian.
Small.
Warm.
The center of the storm.
And he vowed silently:
They will not take you. Not while even a spark of life remains in me.