The ground exploded where Alaric had been standing a second ago.
He rolled, dirt and splinters tearing into his shoulder as something massive slammed down behind him. Trees snapped like dry bone. The air screamed.
"MOVE!" Seris Crowe shouted.
Alaric didn't wait to understand. He ran.
Blackwood was no longer silent—it was hunting. Shapes tore through the undergrowth on all sides, fast and heavy. Not beasts. Not fully human either. Their limbs bent wrong, joints rotating too far, eyes glowing with a dull, borrowed light.
Rowen stumbled ahead, clutching his broken spear like it might still matter.
One of the things leapt.
Alaric spun on instinct. The pull inside his chest yanked hard—too hard. The mark flared, and the creature jerked mid-air as if caught by an invisible hook. Its momentum collapsed inward. It hit the ground and didn't move.
Alaric didn't stop to check if it was dead.
More were coming.
"Left!" Marek Dorne barked, slamming his chained grimoire shut. Runes burst into existence around him, forming a crude barrier just as something smashed into it. The impact cracked the magic like glass.
Seris drew twin blades, moving with brutal precision. She didn't waste strikes. Throat. Spine. Joint. Each kill was fast, practiced, ugly.
"These aren't scouts," she snapped. "They're collectors."
That word hit Alaric harder than the blows around him.
Collectors.
The forest split open ahead.
They burst into a clearing—and froze.
The ground was carved with sigils. Dozens of them. Old. Deep. Still active. At the center stood a figure wrapped in layered black armor, unmoving, head slightly tilted as if listening to something only it could hear.
It raised one hand.
Everything stopped.
Not time.
Weight.
Alaric's knees slammed into the dirt. His breath vanished. The mark beneath his ribs burned like it was being pressed from the inside.
The figure spoke—voice flat, emotionless.
"Target confirmed."
Seris tried to move. Failed. Marek's runes flickered and died. Rowen choked, fingers clawing at the ground.
The armored figure took one step forward.
Alaric forced himself up.
Not fully.
Enough.
The pull inside him screamed. He grabbed it—not carefully, not cleanly—and ripped.
The air between them shattered.
The sigils detonated. Light and shadow tore upward, throwing everyone back. Alaric hit the ground hard, vision blurring, ears ringing.
When he looked up—
The figure was gone.
The clearing burned. Trees smoldered. The forest recoiled as if wounded.
Seris dragged herself to her feet, blood running down her temple. She stared at Alaric—not with suspicion now, but something sharper.
"They've marked you," she said.
Alaric wiped blood from his mouth. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
"I didn't ask for this."
She met his eyes. "Doesn't matter."
Far above, unseen, a presence observed the destruction left behind.
Not surprised.
Not angry.
Interested.
Still unstable, it thought.
Good.
Alaric stood amid the smoke and ruin, chest aching, soul pulling in directions he couldn't name.
The hunt had begun.
And there would be no safe distance ever again.