The search of Eldren ended without ceremony.
At dawn on the seventh day, the Church banners were lowered from the city gates. Patrols withdrew from alleyways and rooftops. Doors that had been kicked in were left hanging crooked on their hinges
The boy was not in the city.
In the temporary command hall erected beside the cathedral, maps were stripped from tables and replaced with new ones.
Inquisitor-Lord Kael Draven stood at the center, hands braced against the wood, eyes fixed on the sprawling green-black mass inked west of Eldren's walls.
The Shadowvein Wilds.
"Every safehouse has been searched," reported a cleric in gray robes, voice tight with fatigue. "Every apothecary, every dockside cellar, every pilgrim caravan. No sightings. No credible rumors."
Draven did not look up.
Another voice followed. "Informants confirm the same. No boy matching the description entered the city after the incident."
Silence settled over the hall.
"So," Draven said at last, "he did not flee toward safety."
His gaze traced the border line where civilization ended and the forest began.
"He fled toward silence."
A knight shifted uneasily. "My lord… the Shadowvein is unstable territory. Our patrols avoid its interior for a reason."
Draven straightened slowly.
"Which is precisely why a wounded boy would choose it." He paused for a moment.
"Or he is ignorant."
No one argued.
The map was adjusted. Pins were removed from roads and villages and driven instead along the forest's edge.
"Deploy scouts," Draven ordered. "Light teams only. No banners. No prayers loud enough to carry."
He turned, steel-gray eyes sweeping the room.
"I want perimeter sweeps first. Then inward progression. Slow. Methodical. If abyssal taint is present, I want its direction tracked, not confronted."
"And if they encounter resistance?" a knight asked.
Draven's expression did not change.
"Respond accordingly."
A pause.
A younger cleric hesitated before speaking. "If the boy truly awakened—if the taint bonded rather than consumed—should we not escalate?"
Draven's jaw tightened by a fraction.
"Not yet."
He stepped away from the table, cloak whispering across stone.
"The forest has a way of correcting mistakes," he said calmly. "If the Abyss rejects him, it will leave us a corpse. If it doesn't…"
His voice hardened.
"Then we learn what it is shaping."
Outside, horns sounded—short, muted calls.
Scouts began to move.
By noon, the first teams crossed into the Shadowvein Wilds.
And the forest, ancient and watchful, closed quietly behind them.
***
The Shadowvein Wilds did not welcome them.
The moment the scouts crossed the tree line, the air changed—cooler, heavier, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and old rot. Light filtered poorly beneath the canopy, reduced to thin shafts that broke apart long before reaching the ground. Moss clung thickly to roots and stone alike, dark and slick underfoot.
The lead scout raised a hand.
The column halted.
No birdsong followed their entry. No insects stirred. Even the wind seemed to hesitate, threading carefully between the trunks.
"Spread," he murmured.
They fanned out in practiced silence, boots placed with care, cloaks drawn close to avoid snagging on low branches. Each man kept at least one hand free—near steel, near prayer charms etched in silver and bone.
Markers were placed as they advanced: shallow cuts in bark, faint chalk sigils pressed into stone, strips of cloth tied low and hidden. The forest swallowed them quickly, as if offended by the intrusion.
One scout knelt, fingers brushing the soil.
"Tracks," he whispered. "Light. Human. Recent."
Another crouched beside him, studying the disturbed leaves. "Dragging at times. Injured."
The lead scout nodded once.
Only confirmation.
They moved deeper.
The forest thickened with every step. Roots twisted up from the ground like knotted veins. Trees grew closer together, their trunks darkened by long exposure to shadow. In places, the light dimmed so abruptly it felt like stepping through an unseen curtain.
A man near the rear stiffened.
"Did you hear that?"
No one answered.
They waited.
Nothing followed—no sound, no movement. Just the soft creak of wood settling and the distant drip of moisture from unseen heights.
The scouts resumed their advance, slower now.
One of them traced a finger along a tree trunk and drew back sharply. Black sap oozed sluggishly from the mark, thicker than it should have been, clinging to the bark as if reluctant to fall.
"This place is wrong," someone muttered.
The lead scout didn't disagree.
"Stay sharp," he said quietly. "If the boy's alive, he's not alone out here."
They pressed on, unaware that the forest had already taken note of them.
And was adjusting. The scouts did not rush.
They followed the trail the way they had been trained to—patient, cautious, relentless. Broken twigs. Flattened moss. The faint scuff of a boot heel where someone had stumbled and caught themselves. Blood, old and newer, diluted by rain and time but not yet erased.
"Still bleeding," one of them murmured.
"Not badly," another replied. "He's moving smarter now."
That unsettled them more than the blood.
They advanced in staggered formation, never more than two moving at once. When one paused to read the ground, the others watched the trees. When they crossed narrow ravines or root-choked clearings, prayers were whispered under breath—old ones, warding ones.
The forest pressed closer the farther they went.
Distance swallowed sound. Visibility shortened. Paths that should have opened instead curved inward, forcing them to adjust their bearings again and again. Compass needles twitched, never settling for long.
Still, the trail held.
Hours passed.
By late afternoon, the lead scout raised a clenched fist.
They stopped.
"Something's changed," he said quietly.
Not the tracks. Those were still there—fainter, but continuous.
It was the feeling.
Pressure. Like standing near a storm without seeing the clouds.
"We're close," another scout said.
They adjusted their formation again. Wider spacing. Slower pace. Weapons loosened in their sheaths.
***
Miles away—deep within the forest—the System stirred.
Crimson text surfaced unbidden at the edge of Hael's vision, sharper than it had ever been before.
[Threat proximity detected.]
The words held steady.
Then changed.
[Multiple hostile entities identified.]
[Estimated distance: 10.4 km]
Hael hadn't called for the interface.
That alone sent a cold ripple through his chest.
The number ticked once.
[10.3 km]
No direction given. No recommendation offered.
Hael slowed to a stop.
The forest around him was quiet—too quiet for the warning that still hovered at the edge of his vision. He leaned a hand against a tree, steadying his breath, eyes unfocused as his thoughts turned inward.
Hostile entities.
Plural.
His jaw tightened.
Beasts were common in the Shadowvein. Hexhounds. Twisted things that hunted by scent and instinct. He had learned their patterns. Learned how they moved, how close they needed to be before danger truly mattered.
Ten kilometers was too far for that.
And the System had never warned him about animals at that distance.
His gaze drifted through the trees, searching shadows that behaved normally—thankfully, reassuringly normal.
Not beasts, then.
People?
The thought settled heavily in his chest.
His fingers curled slowly.
The System did not say who they were.
It did not need to.
Hostile meant intent.
And intent, unlike instinct, did not fade on its own.
Hael dismissed the interface with a thought, but the number lingered in his mind, clear and cold.
Ten kilometers.
Far enough to prepare.
Too close to ignore.
He straightened, senses sharpening, and turned slightly—subtly—adjusting his path deeper into the forest's uneven folds.
If they were beasts, he would smell them long before they reached him.
If they were men…
Hael exhaled slowly through his nose.
Then he would know soon enough.
The forest swallowed Hael's footsteps as he moved.
Not quickly. Not carelessly. Just enough to keep distance between himself and whatever was closing in. The shadows followed him naturally now, parting when he needed them to, settling when he passed.
Minutes stretched.
Then the System surfaced again.
Uninvited.
[Threat proximity update.]
The text hovered, steady as ever.
[10.1 km]
Hael didn't stop walking. The number shifted once more.
[9.9 km]
He clenched his jaw.
They were moving with purpose.
Whatever they were, they had his trail—and they were closing the gap.
Hael slipped between two leaning trunks and vanished into thicker shadow, his path curving subtly away from where he'd been headed before.
Behind him, unseen and unheard, the forest adjusted.
And the distance continued to fall.