The road westward unfurled into a plain that seemed to have no end. The grass was sparse and yellowed, broken by ridges of dark stone that jutted from the earth like broken teeth. Their caravan moved at a steady pace, wheels crunching over old trails and half-buried stone.

  Ren sat on the back rail of a supply wagon, bow resting across his knees, the mechanical arm folded neatly against his side. The horizon stretched wide and empty beneath a pale sky, too quiet, too still. The kind of quiet that made his skin itch.

  The others seemed unbothered.

  Perrin had been oddly cheerful since they’d left the outpost. He sat up front with the reins, humming off-key while the cargo beasts plodded along. His wound had healed days ago - completely. The boy barely winced when moving, laughing at Leo’s bad jokes, pestering Raven about spellcraft, even asking Sinclair for sword lessons.

  Ren should’ve been relieved.

  Should’ve.

  Instead, unease tugged at him like a thread he couldn’t cut.

  Leo leaned out a wagon window, quill tapping against his lip. “Imagine if this plain was once a shallow sea. The mineral buildup - ”

  “Leo,” Raven cut in, voice flat. She rode alongside, dark hair tied back, posture still as carved obsidian. “Not every silence needs your commentary.”

  The young mage huffed but scribbled anyway.

  Ren smirked faintly. “He’s not wrong. The stone looks like the ground froze mid-wave.”

  Sinclair, at the head of the line, raised a hand to shade his eyes. “Ground doesn’t twist like that without something powerful behind it.” His voice carried easily over the wind. “Stay sharp.”

  They camped that night near a ridge of black stone. The jagged wall offered little shelter, but enough to break the wind. A small fire crackled as they ate - flatbread and smoked meat, the smell sharp in the cold air.

  Ren kept glancing at Perrin. The boy laughed, argued with Leo, gestured animatedly with his hands. Normal. Too normal. Every so often his hand drifted to the spot on his neck where the wound had been, fingers brushing the skin before dropping away, unaware.

  Ren looked away. Maybe it really was just his imagination.

  Two days passed in rhythm - travel, rest, drills. Sinclair kept them busy: rotating watches, scouting routes, defense formations. The plains stretched endless, the silence pressing in until even conversation felt like trespass.

  No caravans. No herds. Not even birds.

  By the third afternoon, Ren’s nerves were raw.

  The attack came at dusk.

  He was patrolling the perimeter when the ground trembled. A low shudder ran through the nearest ridge, like something waking beneath it.

  He froze.

  The stone split with a grinding roar. Shapes rose from the fracture - massive humanoid figures of rock and molten core, their joints grinding as boulders slid and locked into place. Their eyes burned orange, fissures glowing like veins of magma.

  “Monsters!” Ren shouted, loosing an arrow. The metal tip sparked uselessly off stone.

  Chaos erupted. Cargo beasts shrieked, men scrambled for weapons.

  Sinclair’s voice cut through it all. “Form up! Defend the wagons!”

  Three of the things lumbered forward, each taller than two men. Their fists hit like falling anvils. Ren rolled aside as the ground cracked where he’d stood. He came up with his dagger drawn, Thread-Surge flaring through his arm in a blinding pulse.

  “Ren! Left flank!” Raven’s voice rang sharp. She hurled fire across the nearest golem’s torso - flames licking the cracks but doing little damage.

  Ren fired again, aiming for the fissures. The arrow sank deep, and the creature staggered, molten light leaking brighter from the wound.

  On the other side, Leo unleashed bolts of raw mana, bursts of white-blue fire that splintered rock. Perrin darted past him - too fast - axe flashing. His strike bit deep into a joint, sending a tremor through the creature’s frame. The boy dodged a counterblow with unnatural precision, movements clean, inhumanly smooth.

  Ren saw it but didn’t have time to think. The third golem charged the wagons.

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  He sprinted, Thread energy flaring, vaulted up the wagon frame, and leapt. His dagger plunged into a glowing seam at the creature’s neck. The light stuttered, then went out. The golem shuddered and collapsed in a rain of stone. Ren hit the ground hard, breath ripped from his lungs - but alive.

  Two more to go.

  The air burned with dust and magic. Sinclair moved like a blade given life, cutting at the fissures Raven’s fire exposed. One creature’s leg cracked; it toppled with a roar that shook the earth. Leo’s spells struck the last one, Raven’s fire burned white-hot - and Perrin’s axe came down again and again until the light in the golem’s chest went dark.

  Silence fell.

  Only the hiss of cooling rock remained.

  Ren’s chest heaved. His dagger was nicked, his arm ached, but the battle pulse still thundered in his veins. Around him, the others gathered - Sinclair calm, Raven pale but steady, Leo already writing with shaking hands.

  And Perrin - Perrin stood amid the rubble, breathing slow, eyes too still. No fear. No tremor. Just composure.

  Sinclair’s voice broke the silence. “Everyone alive. Good. We move before more come.”

  Ren looked at Perrin again. The boy met his gaze and smiled.

  Too normal. Too easy.

  Ren forced a smile back. But inside, suspicion rooted deep.

  He’d been chewing on it for days. Perrin’s smile. His too-bright eyes. The way his wound had sealed like flesh remembering its original shape. No scar, no ache, nothing human in its precision.

  Ren had seen infection before - how it warped the body, slowed the soul. This wasn’t that. It was the opposite. Too clean. Too smooth.

  And sometimes, when Perrin sat near the fire, his gaze unfocused. His expression stilled, as though something else was using him to practice being alive.

  That night, Ren stopped pretending it was nothing.

  The caravan camped near a wind-scoured ridge. Tents crouched low, fires glowed dull in the dark, the beasts slept in their pens. The night was clear, the stars cold and sharp above them.

  Ren waited until the laughter died down. Then he rose and went to Sinclair’s tent.

  The older man appeared instantly, eyes sharp. “What is it?”

  “It’s Perrin,” Ren whispered. “Something’s wrong. I need to check.”

  Sinclair’s brow furrowed. “Check what?”

  “I don’t know. Just - come see.”

  A long pause. Then a curt nod. “Wake Drake. Quietly.”

  Drake grumbled when they found him, pulling on his cloak. “You two sound like grandmothers. The kid’s fine.”

  Ren ignored it. His gut was beyond reason now.

  Perrin’s tent sat near the edge of camp. A smell hit Ren before they reached it - coppery, heavy, metallic. Not blood. Something thicker. The stench of iron baking under the sun.

  He slowed. “You smell that?”

  Drake sniffed. “Could be a wound - ”

  Ren held up a hand for silence, dagger drawn. The air around the tent felt dense, heavy.

  He called softly, “Perrin? You awake?”

  Silence.

  Only the wind whispering across the plains.

  “Perrin.” Louder now.

  Nothing.

  Sinclair nodded once. Together, they pushed inside.

  The tent was empty - at first glance.

  The bedroll lay twisted, gear scattered, a half-packed bag overturned. But the air… the air was wrong. Thick. Damp. Metallic.

  Then Ren’s eyes adjusted.

  The walls and floor were laced with pale, fibrous growths - fungal veins crawling up the canvas, pulsing faintly like veins under translucent skin. The smell was stronger here. At the center, where the bedroll had been, the growth thickened into a mat - shaped by the imprint of a body.

  Sinclair swore under his breath. Drake just stared, the color draining from his face.

  Ren crouched, extending a hand. The fibers shivered before he touched them, recoiling like living things. A jolt shot through him, instinct screaming.

  He withdrew fast.

  Sinclair’s voice was a low command. “We leave. Now. Before whatever did this returns.”

  Ren’s throat was dry. “What if he’s still - ”

  “Ren.” The captain’s tone cracked like a whip. “He’s gone.”

  The mat pulsed once, slow and deliberate, as if something beneath it breathed.

  That was enough. Ren stumbled back. Together, they slipped out into the night.

  Outside, the camp was peaceful. Fires burned low, men snored, beasts slept. The three of them stood rigid, the smell of metal still clinging to their clothes.

  Ren wanted to shout. To tear down the tent. To warn everyone.

  But what could he even say?

  Sinclair gripped his shoulder. “We don’t speak of this. Not yet.”

  Ren turned on him. “You can’t be serious. He’s gone. That thing - ”

  “And what do you plan to tell them?” Sinclair snapped, low but sharp. “That Perrin grew a nest and vanished? You’ll start a panic. Half the men will flee before dawn. The rest will burn everything trying to feel safe.”

  Ren’s jaw clenched. He hated that the man was right.

  “We keep eyes open,” Sinclair said. “If he shows again, we watch. We learn. But we don’t act blind. Understood?”

  Ren’s grip tightened on his dagger. The night air felt too thin.

  Finally, he nodded.

  Drake muttered something like agreement, pale and silent.

  The three men drifted apart, returning to their tents under the cold gaze of the stars.

  Behind them, Perrin’s tent sat quiet. The canvas barely stirred in the wind.

  But inside, the pale fibers pulsed once more.

  Slow. Rhythmic.

  Like a heartbeat learning to mimic one.