Blackwood Forest was not meant to be entered after dusk.
Everyone in Eldra knew that. Even children.
Yet Alaric Vane stepped beneath its twisted canopy as the last light bled out of the sky.
Rowen Hale walked beside him, gripping his spear too tightly. "Say it again," he muttered. "Say why we're doing this."
Alaric didn't look at him. "Because it already noticed me."
That was the truth. And both of them felt it.
The forest smelled wrong—like damp iron and old bark. No insects. No wind. Their footsteps sounded louder than they should have, as if the trees were listening for rhythm.
They hadn't gone far when they found the first sign.
A carcass.
Whatever the beast had been, it no longer had a name. Its bones were folded inward, as if something had tried to pack it into itself. No blood. No bite marks. Just a hollowed shell, eyes still open in silent terror.
Rowen backed away. "This isn't killing," he whispered. "It's… emptying."
Alaric crouched near the corpse. The mark beneath his ribs pulsed once—soft, almost curious.
He pulled his hand back immediately.
"I didn't do this," he said, more sharply than intended.
Rowen nodded too fast. "I know. I know."
But the forest didn't care what they knew.
A sound crawled through the trees—not a roar, not a growl. More like wet breath dragged through a broken throat. Branches bent. Shadows shifted in ways light couldn't justify.
Then it stepped forward.
The creature looked unfinished.
Its body resembled a stag—if a stag had been peeled open and reassembled by something that didn't understand symmetry. Its antlers were fractured rings, floating slightly apart from its skull. Where its chest should have been, there was a hollow cavity, swirling with dim gray mist.
Rowen raised his spear, hands shaking. "Alaric… run."
But Alaric couldn't move.
Not because he was frozen.
Because the creature was staring only at him.
The hollow in its chest pulsed in response to the mark beneath Alaric's skin. A low resonance filled the air, like two broken notes trying to align.
And far, far away—beyond forest, beyond sky—something felt it.
Not the monster.
The connection.
So it has begun, a presence thought, ancient and patient.
A misplaced soul… finding its echo.
The creature lunged.
Rowen screamed and thrust his spear, the tip scraping against nothing solid. The weapon passed through the beast's misty chest—and cracked in half.
Alaric moved without thinking.
He didn't cast a spell.
He didn't shout.
He reached inward.
For the first time in his life, the pull inside his chest answered willingly.
The mark burned—not hot, not cold—but heavy.
The creature shrieked as if something was being torn from it. The mist collapsed inward, spiraling violently. In seconds, the beast crumpled into ash, scattering across the forest floor.
Silence returned.
Alaric dropped to one knee, breathing hard. His hands trembled—not with exhaustion, but with disbelief.
Rowen stared at him. "What… what did you do?"
Alaric shook his head slowly. "I don't know."
But someone else did.
High above Eldra, within a place no map recorded, a figure seated upon a throne of bound souls opened its eyes for the first time in decades.
A faint smile formed.
He can take without killing, the figure mused.
Yes… he will do nicely.
Back in Blackwood, footsteps approached—measured, calm, unafraid.
Three figures emerged from the trees.
At their front walked Seris Crowe, a woman in traveler's armor, eyes sharp with too much experience. Beside her was Marek Dorne, carrying a chained grimoire that whispered softly. The last figure, hooded and silent, watched Alaric as if memorizing his existence.
Seris spoke first. "You shouldn't be alive."
Alaric met her gaze. "Neither should that thing."
She smiled thinly. "Exactly why we're here."
She glanced at the ash on the ground… then at Alaric's chest.
"The Exchange has started again," she said quietly.
Alaric felt the forest lean in.
And somewhere unseen, the world's balance cracked a little more.