Maz watched the first rays of dawn filter through the trees, casting long shadows across the battered camp. The night had passed without incident—no bandits teleporting in out of nowhere and no forest predators testing their defenses. But the uneasy quiet only made her more restless.

  She rolled her shoulders, working out the stiffness from sleeping upright against a crate. The former prisoners had organized into small groups, taking inventory of supplies and establishing a makeshift watch rotation. Some still wore the hollow-eyed look of those who'd spent too long in cages, but having tasks had given them purpose.

  Her gaze drifted to the stranger—still unconscious where they'd left him, the phase wolf maintaining its vigilant guard. The beast had allowed them to place a blanket over its master but growled whenever anyone approached too closely.

  "Any change?" Maz asked, approaching Carl who sat cross-legged several yards from the unconscious rescuer, scribbling notes on a scrap of parchment.

  The small folk adjusted his oversized glasses, which kept slipping down his nose. "Nothing substantial in terms of consciousness, but his suit—it's fascinating!" Carl's voice quickened with excitement. "Look there, at the shoulder seam where it was torn. It's knitting itself back together!"

  Maz squinted, noticing the fine, almost imperceptible movement across the dark material. "Self-mending enchantment?"

  "I've heard about them, of course," Carl continued, words tumbling out faster. "Dwarven artificers in the eastern mountains supposedly developed a limited version for their elite guards, and there are legends about the royal family's heirlooms having similar properties, but I've never actually observed one in action!" He scrambled to his feet, nearly dropping his makeshift notes. "The energy distribution is remarkable—it's not drawing from any visible rune structure, and there's no mana signature I can detect. It's almost as if—"

  "Carl," Maz interrupted gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Deep breath."

  The small folk paused mid-sentence, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Sorry. I get carried away sometimes."

  Maz smiled, genuinely amused by his enthusiasm despite their dire situation. "Your knowledge might be exactly what we need to understand our friend here. But right now, we need to focus on immediate concerns." She glanced around the camp. "Could you find Dulric? He was a blacksmith before being captured. Between the two of you, I'd like to see if we can repair some of this camp before nightfall. Reinforce the walls, maybe salvage some of the damaged structures."

  Carl nodded eagerly, tucking his notes into one of the many pockets of his patched vest. "I spotted some tools in the bandits' storehouse. Dulric and I could definitely make some improvements to our defenses."

  "Perfect." Maz watched him scurry off, his initial nervousness replaced by purposeful energy.

  With that handled, she made her way toward Edda, the village head who'd been organizing their meager supplies. The older woman had a quiet authority that had naturally drawn others to follow her lead, even in captivity.

  "How are we looking?" Maz asked, joining Edda beside several open crates.

  Edda's weathered face remained impassive, but her eyes revealed her concern. "Not dire, but far from comfortable. We have dried meat, some grain, and enough water for perhaps three days if we're careful." She gestured to the unconscious bandits they'd bound and placed under guard. "Between our people and our... "guests", supplies won't last long."

  Mazoga frowned. The forest surrounding them wasn’t just dangerous—it was the Hollow Vale, the one spoken of in hushed tavern stories and childhood warnings. Even seasoned hunters feared its depths. Yet staying put with dwindling resources wasn't sustainable either.

  "We'll need to make decisions soon," Edda said quietly. "About our next steps."

  Maz turned away from Edda and scanned the camp, spotting Kesh crouched by the eastern wall, examining arrows from the bandits' supply. The feline beastkin's ears twitched as she approached, acknowledging her presence before his eyes ever left his task.

  "Those any good?" she asked, nodding toward the arrows in his nimble hands.

  Kesh tested the tip of one against his thumb, his amber eyes narrowing. "Crude, but serviceable. Better than nothing." He set the arrow aside and looked up at her, his feline features betraying little emotion. "Something on your mind?"

  Maz shifted her weight, crossing her arms. "I'm weighing our options. If this really is the Hollow Vale... then hunting’s off the table."

  The hunter gave a low, humorless chuckle. "It was never on the table."

  He gestured toward the dense treeline beyond the camp walls. "That’s not just forest out there. That’s the Hollow Vale. Apex predators. Man-eating plants. Monsters that evolve mid-fight. Even high-level hunters avoid this place unless they’ve got a death wish."

  His tail flicked once, betraying his tension. "I’m good—but not that good. If things get desperate, I’ll try my luck. But we’d better hope it doesn’t come to that."

  He patted the bow beside him. "So what's the plan? Please don’t say 'hope the trees start dropping bread.'"

  Maz glanced toward their unconscious rescuer, still guarded by the watchful phase wolf. "We wait until the stranger wakes up. If anyone knows a way out, it’s him."

  "And if he doesn't?" Kesh asked, ears flattening slightly.

  "Then we're no worse off than we are now." Maz rubbed the back of her neck, feeling the tension knotted there.

  Kesh's whiskers twitched as he considered her words. "What do you make of him? This armored warrior who appeared from nowhere."

  Maz frowned, watching the slow rise and fall of the stranger's chest. "Honestly? I don't know. Probably a high-level adventurer or bounty hunter, but I've never heard of anyone matching his description." She paused. "And I know most of the major players in the region."

  "Shouldn't we be more wary?" Kesh asked, his voice dropping lower. "He's a stranger. Powerful enough to take down that void-wielder, but we know nothing about his motivations."

  "We are wary," Maz replied, meeting his gaze directly. "But right now, he's the only one who got here some way besides being teleported in by Rellan . That makes him our best chance at finding a way out."

  Kesh nodded slowly, his tail swishing thoughtfully against the dirt. "You should speak with the other bandits." He gestured toward the bound men under guard at the far end of the camp. "Maybe they know a way out. Something their leader kept to himself."

  Maz considered this, her tusks pressing against her lower lip as she thought. "Not a bad idea. I'll see what they know—or what they're willing to share." She started to turn, then paused. "Keep those arrows close, just in case."

  The hunter nodded grimly, returning to his inspection of the crude weapons. "Always do."

  Maz rolled her shoulders and headed toward the area where they'd secured the bandits. The two lumberjack brothers, Tor and Brenn, stood guard—Tor with his massive arms crossed over his chest, looking like he was just waiting for an excuse to use the axe propped against the wall beside him, while the leaner Brenn whittled at a small piece of wood, his eyes never leaving the prisoners.

  "How are our 'guests' behaving?" Maz asked, approaching the brothers.

  Tor grunted. "Like caged rats. Lots of whispers, not much else."

  Brenn looked up from his carving, brushing wood shavings from his apron. "They stopped threatening us once Tor here suggested we might start rationing food by removing unnecessary mouths." His voice was calmer than his brother's, but no less firm.

  "Any trouble?" Maz asked, studying the bound men. Most avoided her gaze, staring at the ground or whispering among themselves.

  "Nothing we couldn't handle," Tor said, flexing his thick fingers. "Though that one—" he nodded toward a lean man with a scar across his jaw, "—keeps saying their leader will return and make us pay."

  Maz recognized the scarred bandit as the one she'd interrogated earlier. "I think I'll have another chat with our friend."

  She approached the prisoners, stopping directly in front of the scarred man. His eyes narrowed as she crouched to his level.

  "Remember me?" she asked, her tusks visible as she offered a predatory smile.

  The bandit spat near her boot. "Hard to forget. What do you want now?"

  "Information," Maz said simply. "I want to know how to get out of this forest."

  The bandit's face split into a mocking grin. "You think there's a way out? The only escape is Rellan. And when he returns—"

  "Rellan won't be returning," Maz cut him off, her voice flat.

  The bandit laughed, a harsh sound that drew the attention of his companions. "You're more deluded than I thought. Rellan can't be stopped. He'll appear out of thin air and—"

  "Rellan is dead," Maz said, baring her tusks in a terrifying grin. "Your leader took a magic bolt through his head. I watched him die."

  The bandit's laugh faltered, his eyes searching her face for any sign of deception. Finding none, his expression shifted, fear replacing arrogance.

  "You're lying," he whispered, but the conviction had drained from his voice.

  "Am I?" Maz leaned closer. "The man in the strange armor killed him. Blew a hole clean through him after their little duel."

  The other bandits had gone completely silent, all eyes fixed on their exchange. The scarred man swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.

  "If what you're saying is true," he said, his voice barely audible, "then we're all dead anyway."

  Maz narrowed her eyes. "Explain."

  "Rellan was the only safe way in or out," the bandit said, slumping against his bindings. "The only other option is through the forest, and that's..." he shook his head. "That's a death sentence."

  "People travel through forests all the time," Maz countered.

  The bandit's laugh was hollow. "Not this one. This is the Hollow Vale. When someone really annoyed Rellan, he'd send them walking into the forest. None ever came back." His eyes met hers, all defiance gone. "Without Rellan's power, we're as good as dead. All of us."

  Maz stood, dread curling in her gut. She’d heard stories of the Hollow Vale all her life, but she’d never imagined she’d end up trapped inside it. She nodded to the brothers and walked a short distance away..."What do you make of that?" she asked when they were out of earshot of the prisoners.

  Tor scoffed. "Trying to scare us. Bandits lie."

  Brenn shook his head slowly. "I don’t think so, brother. Remember those old stories travelers used to tell? About the forest where monsters evolve faster, where hunters vanish without a trace?"

  He glanced toward the treeline. "I always thought they were just ghost stories. But this... this feels like it."

  Tor’s bravado wavered. "The Hollow Vale?"

  Maz nodded grimly. "That’s what it is."

  "So what do we do?" Tor asked, more subdued now. "Wait for the stranger to wake up and hope he knows another way out?"

  Maz exhaled slowly. "We prepare. If he has answers, great. If not, we find our own." Maz continued through the camp, mentally cataloging tasks that needed attention. Food, defenses, morale—all critical concerns that would determine their survival in the coming days. As she passed the stranger's sleeping form, a flicker of movement caught her eye.

  Tanna, the beastkin animal handler from the caravan, was crouched several yards away, her canine ears perked forward in intense concentration. The woman's gaze was fixed on the phase wolf, who remained vigilant beside its unconscious master. Tanna's tail swished slowly back and forth, betraying her fascination despite her otherwise still posture.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Maz changed course, approaching the beast tamer with measured steps. "Something interesting about our four-legged friend?" she asked, keeping her voice low to avoid disturbing either the wolf or its master.

  Tanna startled slightly, her ears flicking back before returning to their alert position. "Mazoga," she acknowledged with a nod. "I've been observing her since dawn." Her dark eyes never left the wolf as she spoke. "Do you understand what we're looking at?"

  Maz glanced between Tanna and the wolf. "A phase wolf. Dangerous predator, loyal to him," she gestured toward the unconscious stranger.

  Tanna shook her head slowly, a look of reverence crossing her features. "Not just any phase wolf. This is a pup—barely out of adolescence based on her bone structure and muscle development."

  "A pup?" Maz's forehead creased as she examined the creature with fresh curiosity. "Why does that matter?" Maz questioned

  "That's what makes this so extraordinary," Tanna whispered, her tail swishing faster with excitement. "Wolf pups this age are never alone—they stay with their pack until nearly full-grown. And they certainly don't evolve this young."

  "Evolve?" Maz asked, crossing her arms.

  Tanna nodded emphatically. "The phase abilities, the enhanced physical traits—those come from evolution triggered by monster cores. A wolf pup would need to consume either multiple cores or an exceptionally powerful one to achieve this level of transformation."

  Maz considered this, watching how the wolf's fur seemed to shimmer with violet energy when it shifted position. "And that's unusual?"

  "Unheard of," Tanna corrected, her voice hushed with awe. "Wolf pups simply don't have the base stats to fight creatures that would yield cores powerful enough for this kind of evolution. They're too weak, too small." Her gaze shifted to the unconscious stranger. "Someone must have fed her the cores. And not just any cores—exceptionally powerful ones."

  Maz followed Tanna's gaze to the armored figure. "You think he did this?"

  Tanna nodded slowly, her expression a complex mixture of reverence and unease. "To bond with a beast like this, to guide its evolution so deliberately..." She swallowed visibly. "I've only heard stories of the ancient beast masters who could accomplish such feats."

  "Is that concern I hear in your voice?" Maz asked, noting the subtle flattening of Tanna's ears.

  "Respect," Tanna corrected, though her posture remained tense. "And yes, perhaps a healthy dose of caution. The power needed to hunt creatures with cores strong enough to cause this evolution..." She shook her head. "Whoever he is, he's not just some wandering adventurer."

  Maz studied the stranger with renewed interest. Just who had they stumbled upon? And more importantly—would his presence be their salvation or lead to even greater danger?

  ________________________________________________________________________________

  Maz continued her patrol and found Marron sitting alone at the edge of the camp, his back against a wooden crate as he scribbled notes in a small leather-bound journal. Despite days of captivity, the merchant had maintained a certain dignity—his clothes were worn but carefully arranged, and he'd somehow managed to keep his salt-and-pepper beard neatly trimmed. As she approached, he closed the journal and tucked it inside his vest.

  "Keeping inventory?" Maz asked, nodding toward his hidden journal.

  Marron's lips curved into a thin smile. "Old habits. I find comfort in numbers and lists, especially when everything else is chaos." He gestured to the empty space beside him. "Care to join me? I suspect this isn't a social call."

  Maz settled beside him, stretching her legs out in front of her. "You've got good instincts for a merchant."

  "Survival requires it in my line of work." He adjusted his position, wincing slightly. "What can I help you with, Mazoga?"

  "I want to know more about your caravan—what happened, and about your companions." She kept her voice casual, but her eyes were sharp. "Carl and Tanna. I've spoken with them briefly, but I'd like your perspective."

  Marron's expression darkened. "We were a company of fifteen when we set out from Eastridge. Trading expedition—rare woods, spices, some enchanted trinkets." He paused, his fingers absently tracing patterns on his knee. "The attack came at dawn, three days into our journey. One moment we were breaking camp, the next..." He shook his head. "That teleporting bastard and his men appeared out of nowhere. Half my people were dead before they could even reach for weapons."

  "And the others?" Maz prompted gently.

  "Some fought. Some ran." His voice grew hollow. "Made no difference in the end. Those who weren't killed were captured. Carl, Tanna, and I were the only ones from our caravan brought here."

  Maz nodded, giving him a moment before pressing further. "Tell me about them. Carl seems handy with tools, but jumpy."

  Marron's expression softened slightly. "Carl's a brilliant lad. Best tinker I've ever hired—can fix anything with moving parts and has a knack for enchanted mechanisms. Not much of a fighter, though. First sign of trouble and he's looking for somewhere to hide." He chuckled softly. "But give that boy a broken wagon wheel and some scraps, and he'll have you rolling again before sundown."

  "And Tanna?"

  "Ah, Tanna." Marron's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Quiet one, but invaluable. She has a way with beasts that borders on the mystical. Keeps the caravan animals calm during storms, spots predators before anyone else, and can tame the most stubborn mule with just a few whispered words."

  "Combat skills?" Maz asked directly.

  Marron shrugged. "She carries a short staff and knows how to use it, but she's no warrior. Her strength is in prevention—sensing danger before it arrives, guiding us around predator territories. She saved us more than once by redirecting our path when beasts were nearby."

  Maz nodded, filing this information away. "You three have worked together long?"

  "Three seasons now." Marron's gaze drifted toward where Carl was excitedly examining a bandit's crossbow under Dulric's supervision. "They're good people. Loyal. Resourceful." He turned back to Maz, his expression suddenly serious. "Which is why I need to ask—what are our chances here, truly? This is the Hollow Vale, isn’t it? People say it eats caravans whole.""

  Maz considered her response carefully. "That’s what they say. Now we get to find out if the stories were exaggerated—or not enough. But we have shelter. We’ve got skilled people. And we're still breathing." She nodded to herself. "I've survived worse odds."

  "Have you?" Marron asked, his merchant's eyes studying her with careful assessment.

  Maz met his gaze steadily. "Yes. And I intend to survive this too—along with everyone else here."

  Maz rose to her feet, offering Marron a hand up. "I should check on the others. Keep those merchant instincts sharp—we might need them."

  As she turned to leave, a voice called out across the camp. "Food's ready! Come get it while it's hot!"

  Maz's stomach growled in response, reminding her that she'd been running on adrenaline and little else since their escape. She followed the flow of people toward the center of camp where Bran, the village miller, had set up a makeshift kitchen using the bandits' supplies.

  What caught her attention wasn't the food—though the smell of something savory made her mouth water—but the four small figures darting between the adults with wooden bowls. The village children, whom she'd expected to be huddled together in fear, were instead helping distribute the meal. Little Jem passed a steaming bowl to Dulric with exaggerated care, while Lina followed behind with wooden spoons. Fenn and Tavi worked in tandem, carrying a pot that seemed too heavy for either alone.

  "Never would've expected this," Maz muttered to herself, watching as Jem carefully counted out portions. The boy's tongue stuck out slightly in concentration as he made sure everyone received an equal share.

  Maz approached the makeshift serving line, accepting a bowl from Lina, whose freckled face broke into a tentative smile.

  "How are you holding up, Bran?" Maz asked the miller, who stirred a large pot of what looked like stew. "Sorry you got stuck with babysitting duty on top of cooking."

  Bran laughed, his flour-dusted face crinkling around the eyes. "Babysitting? These four are the best kitchen crew I've had in years." He ruffled Tavi's hair as the child darted past with another bowl. "They keep me entertained with stories while we work. Did you know there's apparently a dragon that lives in the tallest tree in the forest? According to Jem, it's friendly but shy."

  Maz glanced at the children, something warm and unexpected blooming in her chest. Their resilience amazed her—adapting to each new situation with a flexibility adults often lost. While the rest of them had been strategizing and worrying, these kids had found a way to be useful, to create some sense of normalcy in the chaos.

  Maz watched the children work with quiet efficiency. Despite everything they'd endured, they moved with purpose, finding stability in simple tasks. She set her empty bowl aside and approached the makeshift kitchen area where the four had gathered around Bran.

  "Mind if I borrow your helpers for a moment?" she asked the miller.

  Bran waved his ladle. "They've earned a break. Go on, you four."

  Maz led the children to a quiet corner of the camp, settling on a fallen log. She patted the space beside her, and after a moment's hesitation, they clustered around her—Jem and Fenn on the log, Lina and Tavi cross-legged on the ground.

  "You've been working hard," Maz said, keeping her voice gentle despite its natural gruffness. "How are you all holding up?"

  Lina glanced toward the treeline, her voice quiet. "Is this really the Hollow Vale?"

  Jem nodded solemnly. "My gran said no one who enters ever comes back."

  Tavi huffed. "She also said the trees whisper at night."

  Fenn muttered, "They do whisper. I heard it last night."

  Maz’s lips twitched despite herself. Creepy stories or not, the fear in their voices was real—and justified.

  The children exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them before Jem spoke up.

  "We're okay," he said, his small shoulders straightening. "We're helping."

  "I can see that," Maz nodded. "But it's alright if you're scared too."

  Lina looked up, her honey-blonde braids framing a solemn face. "Are we going home soon?"

  The question hung in the air, heavy with hope and fear. Maz chose her words carefully.

  "We're working on it. It might take some time, but we have good people here."

  Fenn, his wild red curls bouncing as he fidgeted, pointed toward stranger still form. "Is he going to help us? Tavi says he has magic armor."

  "I didn't say magic," Tavi corrected, frowning. "I said it's different. Like nothing in the village."

  Maz followed their gaze. "He's... unusual. But yes, I think he'll help when he wakes up."

  "He killed the bad man," Jem said matter-of-factly. "The one who could disappear."

  Maz studied their faces, searching for signs of trauma, but found only the remarkable resilience of youth. "Did you see that happen?"

  Four heads shook in unison.

  "Carl told us," Fenn explained. "He said the stranger fought like a hero from the old stories." Maz couldn't help but smile at that. "Yes, he did," she acknowledged. Looking at them with a serious expression, she added, "If you ever need to talk to someone, come find me. It's okay to be brave in this situation, but it's also alright to feel scared." The children regarded her with nods of understanding. She returned their smiles and said, "Well, don't let me hold you up. I'm sure Bran could use your assistance a bit longer." They beamed at her and waved as they made their way back to the improvised kitchen.

  _______________________________________________________________________________

  Maz watched as the sun dipped low behind the treeline, casting long shadows across the camp. The freed prisoners had settled into a tentative routine—checking supplies, reinforcing defenses, tending to wounds. But beneath the practical tasks, Maz sensed an undercurrent of fear. She'd seen it before: in villagers facing their first monster attack, in new recruits before their first real battle. Fear could spread like wildfire if left unchecked.

  Her gaze settled on the small campfire where Ironha sat alone, her slender elven frame hunched forward as she stared into the flames. The healer's hands moved methodically, sorting through a small collection of herbs and bandages salvaged from the bandits' supplies. Even from a distance, Maz could see the slight tremor in those delicate fingers.

  She approached, deliberately making her footsteps heavy enough to announce her presence. Ironha’s pointed ears twitched slightly, but she didn’t look up until Maz settled beside her on the rough-hewn log.

  "How are you holding up?" Maz asked, keeping her voice casual as she extended her hands toward the fire's warmth.

  Ironha's iridescent skin caught the firelight, the faint patterns along her forearms shimmering. "I'm... managing," she replied softly. "Everyone's wounds have been tended to, though I wish I had more supplies."

  Maz nodded. "You did good work. That healing spell you used on the blacksmith's shoulder—impressive stuff."

  A faint smile touched Ironha's lips. "Thank you. Though it's nothing extraordinary by elven standards."

  "How powerful a healer are you, exactly?" Maz asked directly. "When we venture into the forest, we might need those skills desperately."

  Ironha's hands stilled, her luminous eyes lifting to meet Maz's gaze. "I'm... not what you'd call powerful," she admitted, voice barely audible above the fire's crackle. "In my village, I was still considered an apprentice. I can mend cuts, reduce fever, accelerate natural healing to some degree. But severe trauma, poison, magical wounds..." She shook her head. "Those are beyond my current abilities."

  Maz raised a brow. "So you know what we’re walking into."

  Ironha nodded. "We studied the Hollow Vale in my enclave. Every generation has stories—of rangers lost without a trace, of plants that mimic wounded travelers, of beasts that evolve mid-hunt. It’s considered a cursed zone. No one enters without expecting casualties."

  Maz leaned back slightly. "So why stay?"

  Ironha’s gaze dropped to the fire. "Because leaving these people behind would be worse than staying."

  Maz watched her for a moment, then gave a single approving grunt. "Good answer."

  Ironha gave a faint smile. "I'll do what I can with the herbs we found. Maybe I can make something that buys us time if someone’s injured."

  "That’s all any of us can do," Maz said. "We hold the line and we keep moving—until we find a way out."

  ________________________________________________________________________________

  Later that night, Maz settled onto her makeshift bed: a thin blanket spread over a pile of straw in one of the former guard quarters. The bandits, for all their cruelty, had at least kept decent sleeping arrangements for themselves. She removed her leather bracers and placed them beside her weapon, close enough to grab in an instant if needed.

  The camp had finally grown quiet. Tor and Brenn stood watch at opposite ends, their silhouettes occasionally visible against the moonlight. Everyone else had retreated to whatever corner of comfort they could find, exhaustion finally overcoming fear.

  As Maz stretched out her aching muscles, the events of the past days crashed over her like a wave. She stared at the rough-hewn ceiling beams, listening to the distant sounds of the forest beyond their walls.

  "Maz, what have you gotten yourself into this time?" she whispered, a habit from years of solo adventuring.

  Her thoughts drifted back to that morning in the village, just five days ago. She'd only planned to stay one night—restock supplies, maybe enjoy a hot meal and a real bed before continuing north toward the mountain passes. The village had been peaceful. Unremarkable. Just another dot on her map.

  She remembered haggling with the blacksmith over the price of a whetstone when the first screams erupted from the southern edge of the settlement. Without thinking, she'd grabbed her weapon and rushed toward the chaos.

  The memory came in flashes: villagers running in panic, homes already ablaze, bandits appearing out of thin air with weapons drawn. She'd shouted for people to take shelter in the meeting hall while she engaged the first wave of attackers.

  For a while, she'd held her ground. Three bandits lay dead at her feet, another two wounded and retreating. She remembered the fleeting thought that they might actually repel the attack.

  Then Rellan had appeared.

  Even now, the memory made her muscles tense. One moment she was advancing, the next she was defending against attacks from impossible angles. He'd flicker out of existence, reappear behind her, strike, and vanish again before she could counter.

  "Fight me properly, you coward!" she'd shouted, blood streaming from a gash above her eye.

  His laugh still echoed in her mind. "Why would I?" he'd asked, voice cool and cultured. "This is so much more efficient."

  The last thing she remembered before waking in a cage was the strange sensation of the world twisting around her as he teleported directly in front of her, hand extended toward her face, crackling with void energy.

  Maz sighed, rubbing the phantom pain in her wrists where the shackles had cut deep. She could have run that day. Should have, perhaps. But she'd seen the fear in the villagers' eyes, heard the children crying. She couldn't have lived with herself if she'd abandoned them.

  Now, here she was—responsible not just for herself, but for all these people. The blacksmith, the healer, the merchant and his odd companions, the villagers, the children—all looking to her for leadership. For hope.

  Her thoughts turned to the armored stranger. She'd seen the impossible way he fought Rellan, matching the void-caster’s speed and precision with power she couldn’t begin to understand. And that wolf of his—a phase wolf pup evolved far beyond what should be possible.

  And for the first time in a long while, she let herself believe someone else might carry the weight.

  With that thought warming her like a small flame against the night's chill, Maz closed her eyes and allowed exhaustion to finally claim her.

  Chapter 11 drops Tuesday.