They fell into a rhythm.

  Aelric walked ahead, never wasting a step, never once checking if Joren could keep up. He expected him to. Kaela drifted between them—sometimes alongside Joren, sometimes ranging ahead and circling back, like wind with boots on.

  They followed an old hunter’s trail that cut through thicker woods than Joren had ever been allowed to range. Moss hung heavy on branches. The air smelled of damp earth and old stone.

  Joren’s pack dug into his shoulders. His legs ached. He didn’t complain.

  He’d seen what these two moved like.

  Complaining felt like a luxury for people who didn’t glow when they were upset.

  “You walk quiet,” Kaela remarked at one point, falling into step beside him. “Most villagers stomp.”

  “Bran taught me,” Joren said.

  She snorted. “Yeah. That tracks.”

  “Did you really know him?” Joren asked. “Before he came to Graythorn?”

  “For a while,” Kaela said. “He served in Ophora. Didn’t like cities. Liked people, though. Trained half the green scouts into something not useless.”

  Bran’s echo warmed. She exaggerates, he said. A little.

  Kaela’s eyes narrowed as if she’d heard something itch at the edge of her Aether sense. “They’re noisy in there,” she said.

  Joren nearly tripped. “What?”

  She twirled a finger in the air, vaguely indicating his chest. “The echoes. They lean when you lean. They flare when you panic. It’s like watching four shadows try to move with you.”

  “Can you hear them?” Joren asked, alarmed.

  “No,” she said. “But I feel the weight shift. It’s… weird. Not bad. Just weird.”

  He exhaled slowly. “I don’t want them to hurt anyone.”

  Kaela studied him from the corner of her eye. “You didn’t drag them,” she said. “They chose you. That matters.”

  “Does it?” Joren asked quietly.

  Kaela lifted her shoulders. “To me? Yes. To politicians? Less. To demons? Not at all.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  Up ahead, Aelric called without turning, “Kaela.”

  She sighed. “That means ‘stop telling him everything you think,’” she told Joren. “Come on.”

  They walked until the trees thinned and the ground began to rise.

  By midday they reached a ridge.

  From there, the land fell away into a valley of rolling hills and distant jagged rock spires, mist clinging in low hollows. The sky above that expanse seemed wider than any Joren had ever stood under.

  Aelric stood at the ridge’s edge, eyes half-closed.

  “We’re near the frontier,” he said.

  Joren stepped up beside him, breathing hard.

  “The frontier of what?” he asked.

  Aelric raised a hand. “Listen.”

  Joren did.

  At first he heard only wind and the rasp of his own breath.

  Then he felt it—before he heard it.

  A low vibration, so deep it was more feeling than sound—like a giant heart beating inside the earth far below, slow and constant. It traveled up through bone and teeth, a steady reminder that something vast was anchored beneath them.

  “What is that?” he whispered.

  “Ophora’s warding web,” Aelric said. “The outer barrier that keeps demon storms and wild Aether from swallowing the kingdom.”

  Kaela plopped down on a nearby rock and unhooked a waterskin. “Fancy shield,” she translated.

  She took a swig, then flicked the waterskin toward Joren. “Catch.”

  He snatched it out of the air without thinking.

  “Nice reflex,” she said. “You’re trainable.”

  He drank grateful mouthfuls of water, his throat burning.

  Aelric’s hand pressed flat to the rocky ground.

  “We’re not alone out here,” he murmured.

  Joren stiffened. “Demons?”

  “No,” Aelric said. “Not yet. Someone following our trail. Someone who crossed where we crossed and hasn’t bothered to hide their Aether.”

  Bran’s presence bristled. Itsuka, he said.

  The name slid through Joren’s mind like oil. “Itsuka,” Joren repeated aloud before he could stop himself.

  Aelric’s gaze flicked up sharply. “You know him?”

  “I don’t,” Joren said. “They do.”

  Sera’s echo trembled. He kills his allies, she whispered. We… saw it. His Aether tasted wrong.

  Lira’s presence edged sharp. He takes souls for power. Will do the same to you.

  Tyren’s thoughts vibrated with anger. I hate him.

  “He’s a Soulbearer,” Joren said, voice tight. “Strong. He killed demons like they were nothing. And then he killed the boy with him. Took his soul.”

  Kaela’s expression hardened. “So a hunter who eats his own pack.”

  “Predatory,” Aelric said. “Exactly what happens when a Soulbearer stops seeing people as people.”

  He stood.

  “He’s moving like we do,” Aelric added. “Compressing his Aether, traveling fast between stable points. And he felt the ripple—when something changed inside you. He’ll follow that.”

  “So he’s coming for me,” Joren said.

  “Yes,” Aelric said simply.

  Wind gusted over the ridge.

  Joren’s fingers tightened around the waterskin until the leather creaked.

  “Can we outrun him?” Joren asked.

  “We can stay ahead of him,” Aelric said. “For a while. But distance is not your real defense.”

  “What is?” Joren asked.

  Aelric looked at him steadily. “Control,” he said. “And knowledge. Both of which you lack.”

  Kaela clapped Joren on the shoulder. “Good thing you just picked up a couple of very patient, very underpaid teachers, then.”

  Joren almost smiled.

  Almost.

  He rolled his shoulders, squared his feet, and looked out over the valley.

  “Then let’s move,” he said. “Before he gets closer.”

  Aelric nodded once.

  They descended the ridge toward the shimmering line where Ophora began.

  High above them, beyond sight, something watched from the clouds.

  The world had taken note.