The forest changed as the distance closed.
Not abruptly. Not in ways that would alarm an untrained eye. But Hael felt it in the way the ground sloped, subtly guiding his steps downhill. In how the trees grew closer together, their trunks thicker, their roots more exposed. Paths that had once offered space now funneled inward.
He stood and moved again, slow and deliberate.
Each step was chosen.
A shallow stream cut across his path—too narrow to hide sound, too shallow to mask a trail. He crossed it anyway, careful to step on stone rather than silt, then followed its edge for a short distance before veering off.
The letters remained.
[Estimated distance: 7.6 km]
They were still coming.
Hael paused beneath a leaning pine and crouched, fingers brushing the soil. Damp. Soft. Tracks would hold here. Bad ground to linger.
He shifted direction again, angling toward higher terrain where roots broke the earth and shadows pooled thickly beneath rock and bark.
The forest resisted.
Underbrush snagged at his clothes. Branches reached where they hadn't before. Once, his boot slipped on moss and he caught himself only by instinct, shadows tightening briefly around his ankle before he forced them away.
Not yet.
The numbers ticked down.
[7.1 km]
He exhaled slowly, controlling the urge to move faster. Panic wasted energy. Noise wasted distance.
He listened instead.
Not for voices—there were none yet—but for absence. The places where sound should have been and wasn't. The quiet pockets that meant something else had already passed through.
Those pockets were multiplying.
Hael climbed a low ridge and stopped at its crest.
From here, the forest dropped away into a shallow basin choked with fallen logs and old growth. Beyond it, the land rose again, steeper this time, rockier. Fewer paths. Fewer shadows that moved easily.
A bad place to be caught.
A worse place to fight.
The letters adjusted again.
[Estimated distance: 6.4 km]
Hael stayed still. He has cast all hesitations aside.
This was no longer a question of if. Only where.
He studied the basin carefully, memorizing lines of sight, shadow depth, the way the light thinned unevenly toward the far slope. He marked trees he could reach in two steps. Rocks that could break a charge. Places the ground dipped enough to vanish briefly.
Options. Limited, but real.
His hand drifted to the dagger, thumb resting against the worn grip.
He didn't draw it.
Not yet.
[5.9 km]
They were close enough now that mistakes would matter.
Hael eased back from the ridge and slipped into deeper shadow, letting the forest swallow his outline. By now he was somewhat capable of hiding his presence in darkness. Maybe it was because his skills had affinity with shadows.
He slowed his breathing until it matched the stillness around him.
Waiting wasn't fear.
Waiting was preparation.
Somewhere behind him, men were advancing with measured steps, confident in their numbers, their training, their faith.
They believed they were closing in.
They didn't yet realize the space between hunter and hunted was no longer widening.
It was collapsing.
Hael was moving again when the letters updated.
Not gradually this time.
They flashed once—sharp, immediate.
[Multiple hostile presences detected.]
[Estimated distance: 5.8 km]
Hael stopped mid-step.
That wasn't right.
They had been closing steadily before—measured, cautious. This was too much distance lost in too little time. No beast moved like that without frenzy. No scout advanced blindly in Shadowvein.
His jaw tightened.
The forest around him remained unchanged. Light filtered through the canopy in the same fractured pattern. Leaves stirred where the wind touched them. Nothing looked disturbed.
But something had shifted.
The letters pulsed again.
[Notice: Coordinated tracking behavior identified.]
[Pattern match: Ecclesiastical Scout Doctrine.]
A method developed by the Church for hunting heretics beyond settled lands. It emphasized patience, rotation, and denial of escape over speed. Once invoked, targets were not pursued—they were contained.
This confirmed his doubts. It was the Church.
Hael let out a slow breath, the air tasting faintly of damp stone and moss. He had known this would come. Still, seeing it confirmed tightened something cold around his chest.
Coordinated tracking meant spacing. Leapfrogging scouts. Sign readers rotating forward while others erased their own trail. It meant patience. Discipline.
It meant they weren't chasing blindly anymore.
The numbers changed again.
[Estimated distance: 5.1 km]
Too fast.
Hael shifted direction immediately, angling upslope where exposed roots and broken stone would fracture his trail. He moved carefully, placing his feet where the ground was hard, where shadows broke lines of sight instead of pooling invitingly.
The forest resisted him now—not overtly, but subtly. Paths narrowed. The terrain grew uneven. Places that had once offered easy passage now demanded attention.
Behind him, the distance continued to fall.
[4.6 km]
They were tightening the line.
Not rushing.
Not panicking.
Cutting off options.
Hael paused beneath a bent oak and pressed his back against the trunk, breathing shallowly. His fingers brushed the dagger at his side—not drawing it, just acknowledging its presence.
He counted heartbeats.
Five.
Ten.
Then moved again.
The basin lay ahead, choked with fallen logs and old growth. Beyond it, the land rose sharply into rock and thin soil. A funnel. A place where movement would slow.
He recognized the danger immediately.
And so, likely, did they.
[4.1 km]
Hael slipped into deeper shadow, letting the forest take him in. He did not run. He did not waste strength.
If they wanted him cornered, then he would choose where.
Somewhere behind him, men advanced with measured steps and quiet confidence, faith steady in their chests, convinced they were drawing the net closed.
They didn't yet realize how narrow that space had become.