Dawn peeled away the night in thin layers.

  Joren hadn’t slept.

  His body felt heavy and wired at the same time, like every muscle was both exhausted and coiled to move. Every breath seemed to scrape past that new cold presence lodged somewhere behind his ribs.

  The Echoes were very quiet.

  Bran watched.

  Lira bristled.

  Sera worried.

  Tyren paced.

  But for once, they didn’t try to fill the silence.

  Joren scattered the remains of his fire, shouldered his pack, and stepped back onto the trail. The forest looked almost ordinary in the morning: dew on leaves, birds arguing overhead, light catching motes of dust as it slid between branches.

  Underneath it all, the world hummed.

  He couldn’t tell if it was his imagination or if the new presence inside him really made everything feel sharper.

  He walked.

  Roots curled over the path. A stream cut a shallow groove across it, tumbling over polished rocks. He crouched to drink, cold water biting his teeth.

  When his fingers brushed the streambed stones, he felt it.

  A faint indentation.

  Too deep for animal. Too clean for a fallen branch.

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  A bootprint.

  Fresh.

  He straightened sharply, hand drifting toward his sword.

  Bran’s presence focused. We’re not alone.

  Lira’s awareness flared outward, tasting the air. Not demon. Too clean. Too… disciplined.

  Sera pressed closer to Joren’s thoughts, quiet and tense.

  Tyren’s thoughts coiled like a wound spring. If they wanted to hide, they’re doing a lousy job.

  The forest was still.

  Too still.

  He scanned the trees, heartbeat thudding in his ears.

  Nothing moved.

  Not visibly.

  He stepped back from the stream, leaving the bootprint behind, and started walking again—this time with more care. Steps placed precisely. Eyes shifting constantly from shadow to branch to ground.

  A twig snapped somewhere in the deeper woods.

  Soft.

  Deliberate.

  Joren’s skin went cold.

  “Someone’s following me,” he whispered under his breath.

  That, Lira said, is the smartest thing you’ve said all day.

  He didn’t break into a full run. Not yet.

  He just walked faster, slipping into the underbrush where the path thinned, letting ferns and leaves hide his outline. The forest closed around him. The sound of his own footsteps grew muffled.

  Another twig cracked. Closer this time.

  The sensation of being watched sharpened, no longer an idea but a weight.

  He broke.

  Joren bolted.

  Branches whipped at his clothes and face. Mud slicked under his boots. He ducked under low limbs and vaulted fallen logs because Bran’s drills had burned those movements into his muscles. His lungs burned.

  Behind him, something moved.

  He couldn’t hear it.

  He could feel it—like pressure in the air, a presence sliding through the trees with practiced ease.

  A gust of wind slammed into his back, throwing his balance off just enough to send him stumbling.

  That wasn’t natural.

  Kaela, somewhere far behind him, exhaled as she let the last of the Gale Aether slip from her fingers.

  “He’s fast,” she said.

  Aelric’s eyes tracked the faint shimmer of Joren’s trail. “He’s scared,” he corrected. “And smart enough to run.”

  Joren burst out of the thick underbrush into a clearing ringed by old stone.

  For a second, he froze.

  He knew this place.

  Broken pillars, a half-collapsed arch, scorch marks still faintly visible on one rock where Bran had once made him practice dodging fire spells. The memory sliced through him.

  No more running, Bran said quietly.

  Joren skidded to a halt in the center of the clearing, chest heaving. He drew his sword, both hands gripping the hilt so tightly his knuckles ached.

  He turned toward the trees.

  Wind sighed through the leaves.

  Then a calm voice called from the shade:

  “Joren of Graythorn.”

  A man stepped out of the treeline.