The fire had long since died, but the coals still whispered of violence.
James knelt in the smoldering ruins of what had once been a farmhouse, one gloved hand sifting through ash. His fingers found a child's doll—half-burnt, one eye melted, its mouth a blackened hole. He didn't flinch, didn't speak. The cold wind tugged at his long coat, rustling the scorched fields behind him like the breath of a ghost. All around him, silence pressed in, thick as grief.
Mira stood a few paces back, arms crossed, jaw set. "You're late."
James didn't answer right away. He turned the doll over in his hand, then dropped it gently to the ground. "They were looking for me."
"Villagers don't get set on fire for no reason," she snapped, voice low and hard. "They're not soldiers. They had nothing."
James rose slowly, tall and shadowed against the smoke-streaked sky. His eyes, storm-gray and unreadable, flicked to Mira. "You think I don't know that?"
Mira looked away, her fingers tightening around the hilt of one dagger. "They're going to keep doing this. Hunting you. Hurting everyone who stands too close."
He didn't argue. Couldn't. The truth didn't need repeating. He felt it, clawing behind his ribs with every breath. Guilt had long since turned to something else—something quieter, colder.
Behind them, a low, shuddering sound rose from the wreckage. A woman, soot-streaked and trembling, stumbled out from the remains of the barn. Her eyes locked on James.
"Murderer."
He froze. The word pierced clean through.
She tried to run at him, but her legs gave out. Mira caught her before she hit the dirt, easing her down. The woman beat at Mira's chest with weak fists.
"They came for him," she sobbed. "They said he brought the beasts. Said the prince was a demon—"
James turned away. The Void pulsed beneath his skin, warm and waiting, a second heartbeat in his veins. He clenched his fists. Not now. Not here.
Toren's voice cut through the wind as he approached, leading a mule cart piled with salvaged supplies. "We need to move. If the Blackguard razed this place, they're not far."
James walked toward the cart, jaw tight, but Lyssa stepped into his path.
Her eyes—pale green, sharp as broken glass—narrowed. "You brought this on them."
He stared back. "I didn't summon anything."
"No," she said. "But maybe you don't need to anymore."
The words lodged in his gut. He brushed past her without another word.
They rode in silence for miles. The cart creaked, the wind howled, and the road ahead stretched gray and cracked beneath a bleeding sun. Toren kept glancing at the sky, muttering calculations under his breath. Mira sat beside him, silent, arms wrapped around herself.
James rode at the rear, eyes on the trees. He could feel it, like a whisper in the bones—the Void. It was near. Always.
The sky darkened to bruised purple as dusk fell. They made camp near a dried creek bed. Mira refused a fire. "Smoke draws eyes."
James sat on a boulder apart from the others, staring into the black. His hand trembled slightly as he pulled back the glove.
Beneath it, the skin of his palm was marked by a lattice of black veins, faintly pulsing, like ink spilled through cracked porcelain. The Void's touch.
He flexed his fingers. A cold wind stirred, though the air was still. From the edge of the camp, Lyssa watched him, one hand resting near the bow at her hip.
"I'm not going to summon anything," he said without turning.
She didn't answer. Just kept watching.
He let the glove fall back into place.
But the whispers had begun again. Soft, coaxing, like a mother's lullaby sung in reverse.
*Let go. Call us. You're tired. We are not.*
James shut his eyes.
When he opened them again, they were no longer alone.
Something was moving in the trees.
Not human. Not animal.
Shadows stretched wrong in the fireless dark. One by one, the others rose, silent and tense.
A low growl echoed from the forest line.
Mira drew both daggers. Toren downed a vial of shimmering liquid. Lyssa melted into shadow, already circling.
James stepped forward, his heart pounding, the Void a drumbeat behind his eyes.
The trees parted.
And something stepped through.
Something that shouldn't exist outside the rift.
Something he hadn't summoned.
He whispered, "Gods. It's one of mine."
But this beast—this nightmare—wore a crown of bone and wept shadows.
And it was smiling.