The air in front of us shimmered.
At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me—fatigue, blood loss, exhaustion piling on top of fear. The forest ahead looked the same as it had for hours: endless trees, thick shadows, roots curling across the ground like sleeping serpents.
Then the space itself rippled.
Like water disturbed by an unseen hand, the air bent and folded inward. A transparent wall peeled apart from the center, light refracting across its surface in faint waves. The forest beyond it was suddenly… different.
An opening.
A path.
My breath caught in my throat.
"A… shield?" I muttered without realizing it.
My heart hammered as I stared, frozen in place. This wasn't like Charlie's fire or the monsters we had seen. This was hidden so perfectly that we had walked past it without ever knowing.
Beside me, Charlie stiffened.
For just a moment—only a moment—I saw it on his face too.
Rokar stepped forward without hesitation.
He stepped forward as if this were the most natural thing in the world, his broad frame passing straight through the opening without resistance. Vaela followed close behind him, glancing back once.
"Skra-come," she said simply.
I swallowed.
With Charlie's support, I limped forward. The moment I crossed the threshold, a strange sensation washed over me—like passing through a thin layer of cool mist. The air felt denser on the other side, quieter somehow, as if the forest's hostility had been muted.
The opening sealed behind us.
The transparent shield folded back into nothingness, leaving only solid air where the entrance had been. I turned sharply, my heart skipping.
It was gone.
No trace. No ripple. Nothing.
We were inside.
My gaze lifted slowly—and I froze.
A massive wooden fence stretched endlessly in both directions, towering above us. Thick logs had been driven deep into the ground, sharpened at the top, bound together with iron and rope. It wasn't crude—it was deliberate. Reinforced. Built to keep things out or in.
The gate ahead was just as imposing, made of heavy wood reinforced with metal bands. Two guards stood watch on either side, spears in hand, bodies relaxed but eyes alert. They wore the same animal-hide clothing as Rokar and Vaela, their expressions hard and unreadable.
The moment they saw us, their brows furrowed.
Their gazes locked onto me and Charlie—lingering far longer than comfortable.
One of them frowned and stepped forward slightly, his grip tightening on his spear.
"Skra-who?" he demanded, eyes flicking between us.
Rokar answered without slowing.
"Skra-guests. Elder Thryssa call."
The guard's expression twisted with confusion.
Guests?
His eyes swept over my bandaged leg, my bloodstained clothes, then Charlie's injuries. Outsiders. Wounded. Humans who clearly didn't belong.
The second guard snorted softly, clearly skeptical.
After a brief pause, he reached out and pushed against the gate.
"Go," he said gruffly.
The massive doors creaked open.
We stepped inside.
The village unfolded before us—and my breath left me in a quiet gasp.
Wooden houses lined wide dirt paths, built from thick logs and reinforced beams. Some stood on the ground, sturdy and simple. Others were elevated high among the trees, platforms and rope ladders leading up to homes built into massive trunks.
Life was everywhere.
Barbarians moved about openly—men carrying tools and weapons, women preparing food or weaving hides, children running barefoot across the paths, laughing as they chased one another. Smoke curled from cooking fires. The air smelled of wood, earth, and something faintly sweet.
This wasn't a camp.
It was a home.
Every step we took drew attention.
Conversations quieted. Heads turned. Eyes followed us with open curiosity—and suspicion. I heard whispers ripple through the crowd, children tugging at sleeves, adults pausing mid-task.
Who are they? Why are outsiders here? Why are they wounded?
I kept my gaze low, suddenly aware of every limp, every stain of blood.
After what felt like half an hour, Rokar stopped before a slightly larger wooden structure.
"Skra-clinic," he said. "Skra-fix wounds here."
Relief washed through me.
He stepped forward and knocked on the door.
Silence. A few seconds passed. Then the door cracked open. An old man peered out.
He looked fragile—thin frame, hunched shoulders, skin weathered and lined. His clothes were similar to Rokar's, but looser, worn thin with age. Sharp eyes flicked over Rokar—
The door slammed shut in our faces.
The sound echoed sharply through the narrow clearing, abrupt and final.
I blinked, unsure if I had just imagined it.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Rokar's jaw tightened. A vein pulsed visibly at his temple, his fingers curling slowly into a fist as restrained fury rolled off him in waves.
"Skra-damn geezer," he growled under his breath, the words thick with irritation.
I flinched slightly at the venom in his tone.
Vaela, on the other hand, merely exhaled—a long, weary sigh that carried far more familiarity with this situation than surprise. She stepped forward calmly, placing herself between us and the closed door, her movements smooth and unhurried.
"Skra-allow," she said calmly, knocking again.
Rokar shot her a sideways glare, clearly offended, but he didn't stop her.
The door opened again—much wider this time.
The old man's expression transformed the instant he saw her.
"Ahhh—Vaela," he crooned. "Skra-what old man do for you?"
Rokar bristled instantly.
His jaw clenched, veins standing out along his neck as he snapped,
"Skra-you damn old pervert."
For a moment, the air felt ready to explode.
The old man stared at Rokar.
One second passed.
Then another.
His face remained completely blank—no anger, no surprise, not even irritation. Just an empty, assessing gaze that made Rokar's grip tighten further, like he was a heartbeat away from driving his fist through the man's skull.
Then, without a word—
The old man turned away from Rokar entirely. As if he didn't exist. His expression softened the instant his eyes returned to Vaela, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.
"Skra-speak, darling," he said smoothly.
Rokar's face flushed deep red, fury and humiliation mixing together. His fists shook at his sides, teeth grinding so hard I could almost hear them scrape.
Vaela didn't even glance at him. She simply lifted her hand and pointed toward me… then to Charlie.
"Skra-treat," she said. "Skra-guests. Elder Thryssa say important."
The old man finally looked at us. His gaze lingered—long, assessing, curious.
"…Skra-who?" he asked.
"Skra-not know," Vaela admitted. "But Elder Thryssa say so."
He looked me over slowly—from my blood-soaked leg to my pale face—then to Charlie standing beside me, tense and guarded. His eyes lingered for a second longer than was comfortable, sharp and curious, like he was dissecting us without touching a blade.
"Hrrm…" he muttered.
I shifted uncomfortably, pain throbbing in my leg, suddenly very aware of how strange we must look here—outsiders, wounded, dragged in by the same people who had nearly killed us hours ago.
The old man clicked his tongue once, then sighed theatrically.
"If Vaela ask, how I skra-refuse."
The old man jerked his thumb toward the doorway behind him.
"Skra-only three inside," he said flatly. "No big muscle idiot."
Rokar stiffened instantly.
Veins bulged along his neck as his jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth.
"Skra-what?" he snarled. "Who want enter your trash clinic?"
His fists tightened, knuckles whitening, muscles swelling beneath tattooed skin as barely restrained rage rippled through him.
The old man turned slowly. He stared at Rokar.
One second.
Two.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Just complete indifference.
Then, without another word, he turned his back and walked inside, the wooden door creaking softly as it swung inward.
Rokar stood there, trembling.
"Skra-kill old geezer one day," he muttered under his breath, voice thick with fury.
I stared at him, stunned.
A few hours ago, this was the same man who had laughed while stabbing me—who had hunted me like prey in the forest.
Now he stood outside a shabby wooden clinic, ignored like an inconvenience, fuming because an old man had insulted him.
The contrast felt unreal.
Dangerous.
And strangely… human.
I swallowed, my grip tightening around the edge of my sleeve as pain throbbed through my leg again.
Is this really the same man who tried to kill me earlier?
Inside the clinic—
The moment I crossed the threshold, a strange mix of scents hit me—dried herbs, crushed leaves, old wood, and something faintly sweet that lingered in the air. The room was dim, lit by small lanterns hanging from wooden beams, their light flickering softly against the walls.
The space was divided cleanly into two sections.
One for men.
One for women.
The women's side stood out immediately.
It was orderly and calm—almost soothing. Neatly arranged shelves held bundles of herbs tied with twine. Soft fabrics were draped along the walls, their colors muted but warm. Small charms hung from the beams, gently swaying. Even the wooden furniture looked polished, cared for, as if someone had taken time to make this space comfortable.
Then my eyes drifted to the other side.
The men's section.
Bare wooden walls. Uneven benches.
A single rough bed with a thin, worn mat stretched across it. No decorations. No care. No effort to make it welcoming.
It looked… forgotten. Like it existed only because it had to.
I swallowed.
The contrast was so stark it almost felt intentional.
I couldn't help but think—
Does he really care this little about the men?
Behind me, Charlie paused for half a second as well. I could feel his hesitation without even looking at him.
This wasn't a clinic.
It was a reflection of its owner.
"Vaela, darling, skra-sit here," the old man said, pulling out a chair.
She sat.
"Skra-like some drink?"
"No, Elder. Skra-treat them."
He waved dismissively. "Skra-sit there," he told to Charlie and me. "I skra-treat later."
Then he turned back to Vaela.
"Skra-no, darling. You skra-rarely come."
"…Skra-water fine."
"Nonsense! Skra-bring grape juice—my skra-hand special brew!"
He left.
I limped forward slowly, each step sending a dull pulse of pain up my leg. Charlie stayed close, one hand firm at my side, steadying me when my knee nearly buckled.
"Easy, Young Master," he murmured quietly.
Together, we reached the wooden bed. The surface was hard and cold as I lowered myself onto it, a hiss slipping past my lips before I could stop it. Charlie adjusted my position carefully, making sure I didn't strain my injured leg or arm any further.
Once I was seated, he remained standing beside me—silent, watchful.
The room settled into an uneasy stillness.
Outside, faint sounds of the village drifted through the walls—distant voices, footsteps, the laughter of children—but inside the clinic, time felt slower. Heavier.
I sat there, breathing shallowly, surrounded by strangers who had nearly killed me hours ago, in a village hidden deep within the most dangerous forest I had ever known.