The communication crystal went dark. Its pulse faded until it was just a cold, dead stone in the gloom of the forest. Virkam stood still, feeling the faint, freezing mist settle on his skin. A slow, sharp smile touched his lips. Ruthless. Truly ruthless, he thought, letting the word settle in his mind. Empress Armada’s command was a delicious little thing to carry out.

  He moved with the weightless grace of a predator, hitting the trunk of a gnarled oak and reaching the high branches in two effortless bounds. High above the forest floor, he pulled a small leather pouch from his belt. He peeked inside at the dark red dust, his eyes glinting. With a sinister grin, he began to empty the contents. A crimson cloud drifted down, clumping together as it mixed with the heavy, persistent rain. He leaped from branch to branch, from tree to tree, a morbid sower spreading seeds of death into the damp air.

  He paused for a heartbeat on a slick branch, watching the red haze settle over the wet foliage like a layer of bloody wolf spit. Satisfied with the coverage, he pushed off, moving silently through the canopy toward the center of the camp. He found a thick cluster of shadows in a neighboring tree, positioned perfectly to watch Antheros’s treehouse. He tucked his body into the crook of the wood, his eyes fixed on the target.

  For twenty minutes, the only sound was the rhythmic drumming of water against the leaves. Virkam’s brow furrowed, a flicker of impatience crossing his face as he tapped his fingers against the bark. He had expected a quicker response. Then, a low, guttural howl sliced through the downpour. His grin returned, wider than before. He knew that sound. They had come for their prey.

  Too bad the rain is too loud, he thought, but the smile never left his face. This will be a beautiful massacre.

  The first of Valerian's traps sprang. A heavy thud echoed as the ground gave way, swallowing the lead pack. The Death Singers were met with a forest of sharpened wooden spikes. Within a minute, the pack was a silent heap of corpses at the bottom of a gaping pit. But before Virkam could enjoy the sight, a much larger tide of black fur and red eyes flooded from the trees. He frowned, a flicker of genuine respect in his gaze. He hadn't realized Valerian had set traps on such a massive scale.

  The advancing pack halted, their movements eerily in sync. They stared into the pit. Then, a new sound—louder and more terrifying—echoed through the trees. A "guuuuuggeeee" that seemed to laugh at the fallen. The king has come, Virkam thought. A single bead of cold sweat broke out on his brow.

  The pack split in two, a strategic move to bypass the trap. Virkam felt his heart hammer with a mix of excitement and unease. It was at that moment that he saw Antheros. She scrambled down from her treehouse, a blur of motion, clutching something wrapped in cloth.

  Virkam watched from his perch, eyes narrowing with intrigue as she rushed to the massive tree at the centre of the camp. She reached out and pressed her palm against a gnarled knot in the bark. Suddenly, the roots groaned and shifted, weaving back to reveal a dark hollow. Virkam’s breath hitched—a hidden formation. He hadn't expected the exiles to have such sophisticated, living defenses.

  She rushed into the small, hidden cave in the roots and crawled inside. She emerged few minutes later, her face set in a grim, fighting mask. She touched the knot again, enabling the formation; the roots knit back together instantly, sealing the entrance as if it had never existed. She pulled a vial from her belt and poured a pungent, earthy liquid over the wood, masking the scent of the interior just as she had practiced.

  She didn't make a sound. Instead, she stood perfectly still for a heartbeat, her jaw locking as she drew a sharp, deliberate breath of the freezing mist. Her eyes narrowed into sharp slits, fixed on the distant chaos with a cold, silent determination. Virkam's plan snapped back into focus. The Empress's orders were clear: eliminate the boy. Seeing Antheros's actions, he knew his chance was now. He followed her from the shadows as she headed toward the outer camp, his priority crystal clear.

  Once he was certain she was fully engaged, he dropped to the forest floor near the massive tree where he had seen Antheros disappear. He began to circle the base, his eyes narrowed as he searched for the cave entrance. He felt the texture of the bark and pushed against the thick, mossy roots, but there was nothing. No gap, no hollow. It was as if the tree had swallowed the child whole. His breath hitched in frustration as he circled a third time.

  Where is it? he hissed internally.

  Before he could search further, a low growl vibrated from the shadows behind him. Six pairs of glowing red eyes stared back from the blackness, pinning him against the solid wood of the tree.

  "Shit," he muttered, his jaw tightening. "Just when I thought I had a clear path."

  They lunged—a coordinated blur of black fur and gnashing teeth. Virkam was faster. He moved with a speed that defied the eye, a ghostly ripple in the air. When the world righted itself, the pack was snarling at empty air, and Virkam was standing yards away with a taunting smirk. He raised his hand. A glint of silver caught the moonlight as subtle, almost invisible threads of wire shot from his rings.

  Stolen story; please report.

  The wires wrapped around the wolves mid-leap. The dance ended abruptly as the strings tightened. The Death Singers were lifted off the ground, a pack of grotesque puppets hanging in mid-air, suspended by their own rage. With a sharp flick of his fingers, the strings sliced through their bodies like butter. Five of the wolves became minced meat, a shower of blood raining down. Virkam remained untouched, shielded by a string umbrella.

  However, he intentionally left the sharp, curved claws of one wolf intact. He also left one wolf alive for his "show." He released the last wolf, letting it lunge and sink its teeth into his shoulder from behind. Virkam didn't flinch. Only then did he pull the final string, decapitating it. Its head, frozen in a snarling mask, remained clamped onto his flesh.

  Virkam turned back to the tree. He used his strings to pick up the severed wolf claws, attaching them to the ends of his wires like jagged hooks. He lashed out, using the claws to tear at the tree roots mercilessly. Rip. Tear. Hack. To his fury, the roots didn't just break; they groaned and shifted, growing back instantly to seal the gashes he made. He attacked faster, his muscles tensing as he poured more strength into the strikes. The wood seemed to heal faster than he could cut it. He lashed out again and again until the wolf claw itself began to crack and splinter against the reinforced bark.

  "Move!" he spat, his frustration reaching a boiling point.

  Just as the claw shattered, he spotted it—a minute opening where the roots hadn't quite knitted together in time. He didn't hesitate. He retracted his wires and used a concentrated burst of string to saw through the smaller branches blocking the gap. He squeezed his way through the opening and entered the cave.

  The cave was small and warm. He saw the child in the middle of the open area. The boy's eyes, a shocking, vibrant blue, glowed faintly. The child laughed at the sight of the bloodied man.

  The rain drizzled on the giant leaves, a soothing melody that lulled her into a serene half-sleep. Despite their exile, she felt more at peace here than she ever had in the empire.

  That was until the first horn sounded—a shrill, piercing note of alarm. She shot up, her heart hammering. She climbed down and scanned the camp, spotting Virkam in the shadows. So he's the one Valerian appointed to protect Azuma, she thought with a sigh of relief.

  She rushed to the hidden spot at the base of the massive tree. She crawled inside and placed Azuma in the center of the small hollow. "Please be safe," she whispered, kissing his head.

  She crawled back to the entrance and pressed her palm against a specific knot in the wood. She closed her eyes, channeling a steady pulse of mana. "Activate," she breathed.

  The ground groaned. Thick, heavy roots began to writhe like snakes, weaving together across the cave mouth until the entrance was completely sealed by a wall of living wood. But she didn't stop there. She pulled a small vial from her belt containing a pungent, earthy oil. She poured the liquid over the freshly grown roots. It soaked in instantly, masking the scent of the interior and strengthening the bark's regenerative properties.

  She left the cave, her worry easing as she saw Virkam still standing watch in the shadows. She dismissed the weird smile on his face; she had a battle to win.

  Relief washed over her as she saw the patrol teams safe. The Death Singers were being thinned out by the traps. She faced the injured King wolf. The King wolf let out a 'guuuuuggeeee' so loud it felt like a wall of noise, drowning out the rain and every other sound in the forest until Antheros could only hear the thumping of her own heart.

  Her form turned to golden light as her granular armor formed. With two swords of pure energy, she ended the beast in a single golden flash.

  Antheros unequipped her armor, the light fading. "Give me a headcount!" she shouted.

  No casualties. She sighed in relief, but as she hurried back toward the cave, the scent of fresh blood—too much like her own kind—hit her nose. She saw the dead wolves, but Virkam was gone. Her face paled as the horrifying truth dawned on her. She raced back toward the cave, her heart hammering so hard it hurt.

  She saw the dead wolves, but Virkam was not there protection and she feared the worst as she saw blood dripping into the cave.

  Vikram POV

  Virkam drew closer. I'll take him and kill him somewhere else, he planned, grinning.

  Suddenly, the boy said, "Nannana," and held up a tiny fist. As the fist opened, a small, white ball of gentle light floated from his palm. Virkam was mesmerised. He reached for it, but the ball slipped through his fingers and burrowed into the dirt.

  The damp earth beneath Virkam’s boots began to hum. It wasn't a normal shake; it was a rhythmic, deep vibration that made the cave walls rattle and the hair on his arms stand up. A tiny green sprout cracked the dirt, and before he could even blink, it thickened into a pale, fleshy stalk. It grew with an aggressive, snapping sound of wood stretching too fast, rising to his chest level in seconds.

  Virkam froze, his breath catching painfully in his throat. He had spent his life around artefacts and empire magic, but he had never seen anything that moved with this kind of raw, unnatural speed. His pupils constricted until they were tiny black dots in his widening eyes. A cold sweat soaked through his shirt, making the wolf's head on his shoulder feel twice as heavy. His fingers, usually so steady with his wires, began to twitch uncontrollably. He wanted to move, to strike, but his feet felt like they were part of the cave floor.

  A pristine white flower blossomed at the top of the stalk, its petals unfurling with a wet, rustling noise. The sweet, floral scent hit him like a physical weight, making his head feel light and his stomach turn. As he leaned in, mesmerized by the pulsing heart-shape in the fruit, the flower suddenly recoiled and shot forward.

  It didn't just hit him; it hammered into his chest like a battering ram. A skull-numbing pain flared through his nerves, turning his vision white. He doubled over, gasping for air that wouldn't come. His stomach churned violently, and he retched, vomiting a thick, white liquid. It glowed with an eerie light, looking like a fluorescent healing serum, but it felt vile. He collapsed into the puddle, his hands slipping in the warm slime as the liquid began to pull him down, sucking at his skin like hungry mud.

  "What the..." he murmured.

  That was the last thing he saw before the white liquid forced its way into his nose, mouth, and shoulder wound. The fluid covered him completely, forming a thick, white cocoon.