Alaric didn't remember falling.
He remembered weight—pressing inward, like the world had decided to lean on his ribs and not let go.
When his eyes opened, the forest was moving.
Not walking.
Retreating.
Trees slid past in broken lines. Shadows stretched and snapped. Someone had him slung over a shoulder, rough fabric scraping against his cheek with every step.
"Still breathing," a voice said. Female. Flat. "Barely."
Seris.
Alaric tried to speak. Pain cut the attempt short. His chest burned where Kael's blade had opened him—burned deeper than flesh.
"Don't move," Seris added. "You'll bleed more."
He stopped trying.
They broke through the treeline into a ravine choked with stone and dead roots. Marek was already there, kneeling, hands glowing faintly as he pressed sigils into the ground. Rowen stood guard, eyes wide, knuckles white around his useless spear.
Seris dropped Alaric onto a bed of moss.
The pain hit all at once.
Alaric gasped, body arching. The mark beneath his ribs flared—bright enough that it bled through skin for a second, casting thin light across his chest.
Marek hissed. "That's not normal regeneration."
"I know," Seris said. She crouched, eyes narrowing—not at the wound, but at how it reacted. "It's responding."
"To what?" Rowen asked.
Seris didn't answer.
Alaric clenched his teeth as the burning shifted—pulled—dragging pain inward instead of letting it spill out. His wound closed slowly, unevenly, like something was stitching him from the inside with hands that didn't fully understand bodies.
It stopped.
He lay there, shaking, soaked in sweat.
"Kael Voss," Marek said quietly. "A named hunter retreats once every seven years. Sometimes less."
Seris stood, wiping blood from her blade. "Then we just made a very bad impression."
Alaric forced himself up onto one elbow. "He said I was an anomaly."
Seris met his eyes. For the first time, there was no command in her expression. Only assessment.
"You are," she said. "That's why he didn't finish it."
Rowen's voice cracked. "Finish what?"
Seris looked away, scanning the treeline. "The confirmation."
The air shifted again.
Not pressure this time.
Presence.
Marek stiffened first. His fingers twitched near his grimoire. "We're not alone."
From the shadows of the ravine, figures emerged—five of them. Cloaked, masked, moving in disciplined spacing. Their steps were silent, synchronized.
Not hunters.
Soldiers.
At their center walked a woman with long dark hair bound tight, armor layered and worn smooth by use. She didn't rush. Didn't hide.
Her eyes went straight to Alaric.
He felt it instantly—the pull inside his chest tightening, aligning, reacting.
She stopped a few steps away.
"So," she said, voice calm, edged with iron. "You're the one breaking formations."
Seris's hand went to her blade. "State your name."
The woman's gaze never left Alaric. "Later."
She took in his posture. His breathing. The way his wound had sealed but not healed.
A faint smile touched her mouth.
"You're leaking," she said. "Not blood. Something worse."
Alaric swallowed. "Who are you?"
She turned then, just enough for the light to catch the insignia etched into her shoulder—an angular symbol split down the center.
"Captain Ilyra Kane," she said. "Third Vanguard."
Marek went pale.
Seris cursed under her breath.
Ilyra's eyes sharpened. "We tracked the disturbance from three miles out. Caller activation. Named hunter interference."
Her gaze snapped back to Alaric.
"And you," she finished softly, "are standing at the center of all of it."
Her soldiers shifted, hands moving—not to weapons, but to anchors fixed at their belts. Heavy. Grounding.
Alaric felt the pull inside him strain against them.
Ilyra noticed.
Her smile vanished.
"Interesting," she said. "You don't just take."
She drew her blade.
"You pull."
The ravine tightened, stone groaning as forces aligned.
Seris stepped in front of Alaric without hesitation.
Rowen raised his broken spear.
Marek whispered something old and dangerous.
And far above, beyond sight, something adjusted its attention again.
Not curiosity this time.
Preparation.