The air outside was heavy with smoke and iron.

  Ren stumbled into the open courtyard, dagger still dripping, bow clutched tight in his other hand. His chest burned from the sprint, and his arms ached from loosing arrows faster than he ever had in training.

  The building they’d stormed was behind them now, but more shadows spilled from its doorways - cultists with glassy, unblinking eyes. Their robes were smeared with dust and blood, their chanting reduced to a monotone hiss.

  “Keep moving!” Sinclair barked, blade flashing as he cut down one lunging for Ren’s back. His voice had lost its usual ease, hardening into that of a commander once more.

  Ren gritted his teeth, nocked another arrow, and fired - too fast. The shaft skimmed past a cultist’s shoulder. Cursing, he drew his dagger and met the rush with steel instead. His mana threads itched at the edge of his awareness, begging to be used, but he forced them down. Not now. Threads drained too quickly. He needed stamina, not flourish.

  One cultist clawed at him, nails cracked and blackened. Ren pivoted, slashing across the man’s chest. The blade bit deep. He ducked past another attacker, slammed a pommel strike into her temple, then retreated two steps to draw again.

  Sinclair fought beside him - relentless, efficient, every motion lethal. He didn’t waste time parrying. He just killed.

  “Eyes up!” Sinclair snapped.

  Ren looked up - three more cultists scrambled across the rooftop, broken glass crunching under bare feet. He drew and loosed. The first fell, an arrow buried in its throat. The second collapsed with Sinclair’s throwing knife between the ribs. The third leapt anyway, landing hard, rolling to its feet like a puppet on invisible strings.

  Ren slashed, but the man caught the blade with his bare hands, blood pouring freely as though it didn’t matter. Blank eyes locked with Ren’s.

  For a heartbeat, Ren’s stomach churned. That wasn’t emptiness in those eyes. It was hunger.

  He wrenched the dagger free and rammed it into the man’s side. This time he didn’t pull back. He shoved until the cultist spasmed and went still.

  His breath came ragged now, but the yard ahead was clear. The last of the cultists had fallen, leaving only silence - and the distant clang of alarm bells.

  “Keep going,” Sinclair said, gripping Ren’s shoulder before letting go. “We link up with Raven’s group before they’re swallowed too.”

  Ren nodded, though his arm still trembled. His bow felt heavy. He swapped it to his left hand, dagger clenched white-knuckled in the right.

  They wound through the side streets, avoiding the main square where soldiers clashed with more robed figures. The air stank of smoke - wood smoke, oil, and something acrid underneath.

  Finally, they turned down a narrow alley - and nearly collided with a crouched figure.

  “Leo!” Ren exhaled, relief breaking through his exhaustion.

  The young mage looked up, eyes wide. His staff glowed faintly, scorch marks blackening the cobblestones around him. Behind him, Raven stood with her usual composure, though her robes were torn and soot-streaked.

  Between them leaned Perrin.

  Ren froze.

  The boy’s shoulder rested under Raven’s hand, but he didn’t look hurt. He looked wrong. His lips were pale and tight, eyes staring forward - not at Ren, not at Sinclair - just past them. Blank.

  Ren’s gut twisted.

  Sinclair turned to Raven. “The captain’s secure - the assassin failed. But the cultists…” His words trailed as he gestured toward the flames rising over the square.

  Raven gave a sharp nod. “We saw enough. They’re already deep inside this place. We need to report this to Soraya.”

  Ren barely heard her. His focus was locked on Perrin.

  “Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer. “Perrin? You alright?”

  The boy didn’t answer. His pupils didn’t even twitch.

  Ren crouched, lowering himself to meet his eyes. “It’s me. Ren. You hear me?”

  For the briefest second, something flickered. Perrin’s lips parted - just a breath, no sound. Then his jaw locked again. The eyes stayed glassy.

  Leo’s voice was grim. “He’s been like this since we pulled him from the tavern. He fought beside us, but… it’s like no one’s home.”

  “Not physically injured,” Raven added. “Not exhausted either.” Her gaze lingered on him, and for once, there was a crease of worry in her composure. “It feels too close to them.”

  Ren’s throat tightened. He remembered the rooftop cultist, his dagger buried in a body that shouldn’t have been moving. That same emptiness was staring back at him now.

  “No,” he whispered. He reached out and gripped Perrin’s wrist. Warm skin. A pulse. But no tension, no recognition.

  Sinclair’s jaw worked. “We’ll deal with him. For now, we move before more of those husks flood the streets.”

  Ren snapped his head up. “Deal with him? He’s a kid. One of ours - not some cultist.”

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  Sinclair met his gaze, hard as stone. “Not yet.”

  The words hung there like an executioner’s blade.

  Ren’s voice trembled with anger. “He’s rattled from the attack - you can’t seriously think - ”

  “Later,” Sinclair cut him off. “We’ll talk later.”

  Silence pressed on them, broken only by the crackle of distant fire.

  “For now,” Sinclair said quietly, “keep him moving. But if he does anything off…”

  He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

  Ren’s stomach soured. He tightened his grip on Perrin’s wrist and forced his voice steady. “He won’t.”

  The night that followed was uneasy from the start. Even with the cultists exposed and the assassins dead, the outpost felt like a powder keg waiting for one spark.

  Ren sat on the edge of his tavern cot, bow leaning against the wall, half-listening to the murmurs outside. The air reeked of smoke - wood, oil, something darker beneath. His Threads prickled faintly, warning him of danger, but he pushed it down. He was tired of the constant dread.

  The door opened. Sinclair stepped in, armor loosened but sword still belted. His expression was carved from stone.

  “We’ve decided,” he said. “At first light, we pull out. This place isn’t safe.”

  Ren nodded, though part of him doubted dawn would come before the next attack. “Perrin?”

  Sinclair’s mouth tightened. “Still not himself.”

  They stepped into the central yard. The night sky was choked with clouds - no stars, no moon, just the flicker of lanterns.

  Perrin stood near one of the fires, staring into the flames like a moth entranced. His eyes were wide, unblinking. Raven lingered nearby, Leo pacing restlessly behind her.

  Ren hesitated. The boy looked hollow. Like the cultists they’d fought.

  He opened his mouth -

  The first explosion tore through the north wall.

  The world became fire.

  Stone and timber exploded outward. Screams filled the air as figures poured through the breach - some human, others glass-eyed and chanting in a droning monotone.

  “More cultists!” Sinclair roared, cutting down the first one through the gap.

  Ren fired, dropping a man mid-sprint, then drew his dagger as another leapt over the body. Steel rang. He kicked the cultist into the firepit, the smell of burning flesh rising thick and nauseating.

  “Move!” Raven shouted, her staff blazing. Bolts of arcane light hammered the cultists trying to flank them.

  Leo unleashed a plume of fire toward the breach, buying seconds - but the cultists came on, heedless of pain.

  Ren’s gaze snapped to Perrin. The boy hadn’t moved. He stood rigid, staring through the smoke.

  “Perrin!” Ren shouted, parrying another strike. “Snap out of it!”

  The answer came from the cultists converging on him. Three of them, blades raised.

  “NO!” Ren lunged - but one more enemy blocked him. Sparks flew as blades met. He couldn’t reach the boy -

  Perrin moved.

  In a blur, his hand caught the first cultist’s wrist mid-swing. His other hand clamped the man’s throat. The crack of breaking vertebrae was sharp, final.

  Ren froze.

  Perrin didn’t stop. He ripped the sword from the next attacker’s grasp and drove it through his chest. The third tried to flee - but Perrin was already there. A twist. A snap. Silence.

  For a heartbeat, the world stood still. Even Sinclair stopped mid-swing, staring.

  The boy stood over the corpses, chest heaving, face expressionless. His eyes were still empty.

  “By the gods…” Leo whispered.

  Sinclair’s command cut through the shock. “Not here! We’re leaving - now!”

  Smoke billowed as the fire spread. Screams echoed from every corner. Cultists surged like ants, heedless of flame or blade.

  Ren slashed through them, following Sinclair toward the stables. Raven’s magic flared in bursts of blue light; Leo’s fire turned the yard into a storm of shadow and flame.

  And Perrin… Perrin walked with them. Silent. Blank-eyed. Every cultist who came near died in his grasp with terrifying ease.

  Ren wanted to scream, to shake him, to ask what had happened - but there was no time.

  They broke free of the burning outpost. Cold night air rushed over them, sharp and clean compared to the inferno behind.

  Sinclair didn’t look back. “We run,” he said. “We don’t stop until we’re clear.”

  Ren glanced over his shoulder one last time at the fire, the screams, the ruin - and then at Perrin, whose blank eyes glinted with reflected flame.

  Something worse than the cultists was happening here.

  And it was walking beside them.

  The outpost still smoldered behind them, its glow fading into the horizon like a dying ember.

  The caravan was a storm of motion. Shouts, snapping harnesses, the creak of cargo-beasts shifting their weight. The air reeked of smoke and charred wood, but beneath it lingered the sharp tang of mana - the residue of fire, blood, and something else.

  Ren tossed his pack onto one of the beasts, locking the straps tight with his mechanical arm. The motions were automatic, grounding. He checked every tie, every barrel, every rope - anything to keep his mind off the boy at the edge of the campfire light.

  Perrin stood still, pale and quiet. Since the ambush, he hadn’t spoken a single word.

  Ren could still hear the crack of that cultist’s neck, could still see how easily it had happened. Even now, Perrin’s thin fingers flexed absently, like testing strings that weren’t there.

  “Move it!” Sinclair barked, shoving a map case into a side compartment. “If they breached once, they’ll do it again.”

  Raven passed without a word, her cloak scorched at the hem. She spared Perrin a sharp, silent glance. Leo followed, arms full of tomes, muttering under his breath as if clinging to thought alone could keep him sane.

  “Cargo’s good,” Ren called. “Beasts ready.”

  “Then mount up,” Sinclair said. “Ten minutes.”

  Ren climbed onto one of the middle wagons, crossbow across his lap. The caravan lurched forward, creaking into the dark. Behind them, the outpost burned itself into memory.

  For a while, there was only the steady rhythm of wheels and hooves. Lanterns swayed. The road stretched into endless night.

  Perrin sat across from Ren, unmoving. Lantern light carved his face in half - one side soft and young, the other hollow as stone.

  Then the boy stirred. He pressed a hand absently to his stomach, where a cultist’s blade had once cut deep.

  The healer had said it was healed completely. But as Perrin’s shirt shifted, Ren saw it - just for an instant.

  A shimmer beneath the skin.

  A line split across his abdomen, widening like a wound reopening. No blood. Instead, faint threads of pale green spores pulsed outward, glowing softly in the dark.

  Ren blinked.

  In a heartbeat, the skin sealed shut again. Smooth. Untouched.

  Perrin lowered his hand and turned back toward the road. His face was calm. Empty.

  No one else saw it. Not Sinclair, not Raven, not Leo.

  Only Ren.

  The wagons creaked onward into the night, carrying them farther from the burning outpost -

  and deeper into something none of them yet understood.