They were guiding the brothers.

  Robert and Henry, for their part, eased into the rhythm of it. Their shoulders lost a fraction of their stiffness. Their words became looser. Laughs came easier. And in that comfort, small details slipped through.

  They spoke of Rose Hills—their land, their harvest, the worsening roads. The horrors—beasts and monsters, though, remained a topic untouched. Avoided, even.

  Vyk, who had dismounted, leaned silently against the cart. He was listening, measuring. Watching how they responded. Where their eyes strayed. What they didn’t say.

  Mira drifted toward my horse, silent as a whisper, unnoticed by the brothers. She reached up and tapped my knee lightly, a subtle signal. Dismount.

  I glanced at Rylas, then at Ewin—who was idly spinning an arrow between his fingers, his expression unreadable. He flicked his eyes to me once and went back to feigning boredom.

  I slid off my horse, handing the reins to Rylas, who took them without a word. The others knew what to do. Their chatter, their movements, all remained natural—just enough to make our quiet departure less noticeable.

  Mira led the way, moving away from the road, away from the brothers, guiding me into the rolling grasslands. A few dozen yards were enough. Enough to slip beyond their hearing without alerting them that we had done so.

  Mira hummed, her gaze settling on the pouch now resting once more against Robert’s neck. “I felt the druidic mana on it,” she murmured.

  I nodded, gazing toward the sky, a faint smile curling my lips. “I noticed.”

  A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips. “It was more than that, wasn’t it?”

  She shifted slightly, leaning into me, her warmth barely noticeable beneath the cool breeze. Her long elven ears twitched—an elegant, unconscious movement. Her presence, so effortless, so graceful, was like a single bloom in an untouched meadow.

  “A charm to mesmerize…” she mused, her voice as smooth as flowing water. “Spiced with Old Magic.”

  I turned to her, my smile deepening. A moment of genuine surprise flickered through me—but she had already caught it.

  “What?” she giggled. “Didn’t think I’d notice?”

  I chuckled, her teal-colored hair brushing my fingertips as the wind rolled in. "Forgive me, my lady, but I never had such thoughts."

  She laughed again, softer this time.

  The dark sky stretched endlessly above us, stars cold and distant, the moon—a promise of fullness to come, peeking through drifting clouds. The grass, silvered by night, bent and swayed under the breath of the wind. Mira’s hair lifted with it, strands catching the light like woven silk.

  She didn’t belong to this world.

  Not because she was elven. Not because she had lived. But because she seemed so… untouched by time.

  I exhaled slowly. “Old Magic… I guess that’s what kept the beasts and monsters away.” I paused, tilting my head slightly. “Things just got more complicated.”

  Mira hummed, turning the thought over. “Yeah… paired with an arcane tracking circle.”

  I looked at her with a smirk. “That explains the thing circling above us.”

  She turned toward the sky, her eyes glowing softly—a sign of mana enhancement. Her pupils dilated, adjusting to the darkness in ways that normal sight never could.

  “I can’t see anything anomalous,” she murmured. “Even with mana enhancements. But…” She paused, her voice turning quieter. “I sense something. The same signature as the pouch.”

  I followed her gaze upward.

  At first, I saw nothing but the blackened sky, streaked with drifting clouds. But then, I saw it.

  A dot.

  A stain of pitch-black against the night. A shadow darker than the void itself, suspended impossibly high. Miles above. Where nothing living should be.

  My vision wasn’t enough.

  Not yet.

  Mira and I stood in companionable silence, the cool wind weaving through the grass, rustling past us like a whisper. After a moment, she offered me a final smile, her touch lingering—light, fleeting, yet deliberate.

  Then, without a word, she turned and walked back toward the others, where laughter and easy conversation flowed, tankards passing between hands, a small fire between them.

  I had been so absorbed that I lost track of time.

  I watched her go, her teal hair cascading down her back, catching the moonlight of the crescent moon as it swayed with her steps. Then she slipped seamlessly into their conversation, a tankard passing into her hands.

  I remained still and turned my eyes back to the sky.

  And then, I changed them.

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  I willed the transformation into being.

  Not my body. Not my face. Only my eyes.

  A slow breath. Eyes closed. The shift was painless, but I felt it—the rewiring, the new connections being made.

  I opened my eyes.

  And the world was not the same.

  The stars no longer merely glowed—they blazed, celestial embers burning with an intensity beyond mortal comprehension. They pulsed and twisted, each a knot of swirling energy, their light stretching into faint, unseen threads that wove across the sky like strands of a cosmic web.

  The sky itself was no longer empty. It breathed. It moved. It was a living tapestry, laced with ribbons of arcane residue, shifting and undulating like silvered smoke in an endless void. Faint trails of mana drifted between the stars, currents of power unseen by normal eyes.

  Below, the world pulsed.

  The landscape was the same—yet utterly changed.

  The grass no longer bent passively beneath the wind. It shimmered. It sang. Each blade pulsed with an unseen current, veins of mana threading through the land like the lifeblood of something vast, ancient, and watchful. Where once I saw only dirt and stone, I now saw layers upon layers of energy, shifting in colours beyond human perception—hues that whispered of something more, something infinite.

  The trees, distant but standing vigilant, were stitched with spectral outlines, their roots glowing with latent power, drinking from unseen wells beneath the surface. The wind itself carried ghostly remnants of magic, echoes of spells long faded, drifting like embers carried on an eternal current.

  Everything was alive. Everything was connected.

  And the thing above us?

  It was no longer a speck.

  Now, I saw it fully.

  A raven.

  Suspended against the heavens, blacker than the night itself. Motionless. Unmoving.

  It did not beat its wings. It did not drift with the wind. It simply hung there, as if perched on an invisible thread woven between the stars.

  And then—

  It noticed me.

  Its head jerked sharply, twisting too fast, too precise. Our eyes met.

  For a fraction of a second, something ancient and knowing stared back at me.

  Then it burst into mist.

  A soundless implosion of black vapor, tendrils curling into the wind like dying embers. It did not dissolve. It did not fade.

  It simply ceased to be.

  The sky, once occupied, was now empty.

  I exhaled, lowering my gaze to the rolling grasslands and undoing my transformation.

  The night remained unchanged, the wind still whispering through the open fields. The others were laughing, talking, unaware.

  Only Mira, seated near Selene, paused. Her gaze flickered toward me—just for a moment.

  I exhaled, slow and steady, before turning back toward the group. They sat around a small fire, embers flickering in the dim light. Their conversation faded as they noticed my approach, their attention shifting to me.

  "We’re stopping here for the night," I said, my voice even. "Make camp."

  There was no argument. The decision was expected.

  The clearing we chose was a patch of flattened grass, far enough from the road to remain unnoticed, but close enough to allow for a swift departure if needed. The fire, small and controlled, crackled softly at the centre of the group, its glow casting shifting shadows against the worn faces of my companions.

  We carried no tents—only bedrolls. Practical. Efficient. Easy to pack up at a moment’s notice. Each of us had done this a hundred times before—there was no need for words. Selene unrolled hers near Mira, who had already settled against a tree. Lyrik, ever the opportunist, claimed a spot closest to the fire, while Vyk and Rylas, ever disciplined, chose positions on the outer edges, their backs partially turned to the camp, instinctively guarding the perimeter.

  Ewin muttered something about "shitty accommodations" as he kicked out his bedroll, but I caught the faintest smirk on his lips.

  The brothers, Robert and Henry, had it better—or at least, more sheltered.

  They carried a small tent, barely enough for the two of them, its fabric worn but serviceable. Robert worked in silence, driving stakes into the dirt, while Henry grumbled about the uneven ground. The dynamic between them was clear—Robert was the practical one, used to work. Henry, though not lazy, carried the complaints of someone who had never fully embraced hardship.

  I took first watch.

  So did Robert.

  It was an unspoken thing. He didn’t ask, and I didn’t offer. We simply remained awake.

  The fire burned low, its embers pulsing like the slowed heartbeat of the night. Beyond it, the land stretched in silent waves of silvered grass, the Hollowed Valley distant but ever-present.

  Robert sat near the fire, legs crossed, his rusted sword resting across his lap. He wasn’t looking at me, but I knew he was aware of my presence.

  "You don’t sleep much, do you?" he said after a long silence.

  I glanced at him, expression unreadable. "Neither do you."

  A low chuckle. "Guess not." He prodded the fire with a stick, sending a few stray sparks into the night. "Henry sleeps like a log. Always has. Me?" He exhaled through his nose. "Never trusted the night much. Too many things like to hide in it."

  I hummed in quiet agreement.

  The wind shifted, rustling the grass. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled—faint, far, yet something about it felt wrong. The kind of sound that made men listen too long to the dark.

  Robert noticed it too.

  His grip on his rusted sword tightened ever so slightly.

  "Lot of strange things happening these days," he muttered. "Monsters where there shouldn’t be. People disappearing. Whole places just… gone."

  He wasn’t just talking. He was fishing.

  I leaned back against a rock, watching the fire’s slow burn. "Strange times," I agreed, offering nothing more.

  He studied me for a long moment before looking away.

  The watch continued. The night stretched on.

  Robert shifted, gripping his sword loosely, the firelight casting half his face in shadow. Then, with no warning, he spoke.

  "You ever hear the stories?"

  I gave him a sidelong glance. "Which ones?"

  He smiled, but it wasn’t a friendly one. "The kind that make people sleep with their doors barred."

  He hadn’t spoken in a while. But when he did, his voice carried a weight that made the night feel colder.

  “Y’ever heard of the Night Caller?”

  I said nothing.

  He nodded, as if he hadn’t expected an answer. “Not surprised. Ain’t the kind of tale that gets written down. Only passed along, whispered when the sun’s gone and the wind starts acting strange.”

  The wind stirred, curling through the grass around us.

  He took a slow breath, eyes flicking toward the valley. “It was before my time. Before even my father’s time. But my granddad—he remembered it well.”

  His fingers tapped against his knee, slow and steady.

  "It happened in a village long gone now. Wasn't too different from Rose Hills—small, quiet, the kind of place where everybody knew everybody. Where you’d wake up and see the same faces every morning, where things didn’t change much, and folk liked it that way."

  He exhaled. "Until the calling started."

  The fire cracked, sending a brief flicker of light dancing across Robert’s face. His expression didn’t change, but there was something in his eyes—something that had been passed down, not through memory, but through fear.

  "It began with the children."

  He rubbed his hands together, his movements slow, deliberate.

  "One by one, they started waking up at odd hours. Not crying, not screaming—just sitting up in their beds, staring at the walls, listening to something only they could hear."

  His voice was quiet now, like a man trying not to wake something that might still be listening.

  “At first, folk didn’t think much of it. Kids wake up in the night. Maybe it was a shared dream, maybe it was the wind. But then, they started speaking.”

  The breath of the night pressed closer.

  “Not to their parents. Not to each other. Just… to the air. Muttering under their breath, voices hushed, like they were answering someone only they could hear."

  His fingers curled against his knee, knuckles white.

  "They asked questions. The same ones. Over and over."

  He swallowed.

  "‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Why are you out there?’

  ‘Where are you hiding?’”

  The fire popped.

  "And always, the same pause before they whispered their last question—like they were waiting for an answer."

  He exhaled, slow and steady.

  "‘When will I see you again?’"

  A gust of wind curled through the grass, setting the flames flickering.

  Robert continued, voice gruffer now. "Folk tried to brush it off, but after a week, the children started leaving their beds."

  His jaw tensed. "Every night, just before dawn, they’d get up. Walk to their doors, try to unlock them."

  His fingers drummed against his knee; his breath slow.

  "Most of the parents caught on. Started locking doors from the outside. But some didn’t wake up in time."

  A pause.

  "And those children walked straight into the woods."

  The fire was small now, barely more than embers, but it cast enough light for me to see the set of his jaw, the way his fingers curled into a fist.

  "Some of ‘em were found wandering just outside the village come morning, dazed, confused, not a mark on ‘em. But others…"

  He inhaled sharply through his nose.

  "Others didn’t come back at all."

  I waited, for him to continue.

  His voice was lower now, rougher. "Folk started keeping watch. It wasn’t the woods that took ‘em. Wasn’t wolves or bandits. They never found footprints, never found bodies. Just… gone."

  His fingers tightened.

  "Then one night, a father woke up to the sound of his boy crying."

  His voice went hoarse for a moment, as if the words themselves scraped his throat raw.

  "He found him standing at the window, tears running down his face. When he asked him what was wrong, the boy said—"

  Robert’s eyes flickered, his voice dropping to a whisper.

  "‘They’re getting closer.’"

  The flames guttered low, barely more than dying embers now.

  "The father didn’t sleep after that. None of ‘em did. But watching didn’t help."

  Robert exhaled through his nose. "By the end of the month, half the village was gone. The rest left. Just packed up and left their homes to rot. And that was the end of it."

  Silence.

  A long, heavy silence.

  Finally, I spoke. “And the Night Caller?”

  His gaze flicked toward me, sharp beneath the dim glow of the embers. "Ain’t no one ever seen it. Ain’t no one wants to."

  He shifted, stretching out his legs. "But if you ask me? It’s still out there. Waiting. Looking for more folk to answer when it calls.”

  His voice was gruff, but I could hear it—the smallest tremor beneath the words.

  I turned my head slightly, eyes drifting toward the Hollowed Valley.

  The hills sat still. Silent.