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There’s something about the way the darkness clings to him, even here. It’s subtle, more sensed than seen, the way light seems to bend slightly around him.

Does he feel them, these shadows? Is there more to his link with them than I understand? Are they just shadows, or are they extensions of himself?

He glances at me, one eyebrow raised, and for a heartbeat longer than necessary, his gaze captures mine. It isn’t a question. It’s knowing. An awareness that slides over my skin like a whisper. I look away, cheeks heating, embarrassed at being caught looking at him.

The path becomes harder to follow, broken by fallen trees and uneven ground. Rocks jut at odd angles, slick with moss, forcing us to slow so we don’t slip. Mira catches my arm more than once when my footing slides from beneath me.

The air smells damp, thick with the scent of old wood and earth—so different from Chicago’s concrete and exhaust fumes that sometimes I wonder if my memories of that life are just elaborate dreams.

Occasionally, I catch glimpses of movement. A deer startled into bolting, birds taking off and shaking the leaves. Each unexpected sound sends a burst of adrenaline through me, my body primed for danger that might appear from anywhere.

By late afternoon my legs are aching from the constant strain of climbing, muscles I never knew I had screaming in protest. Even the others move with slower steps. The path, when it appears at all, is broken up by rockslides or buried beneath fallen branches, forcing us to find new routes.

This journey to Ashenvale feels like a metaphor for my entire time in Meridian so far—constantly adjusting, finding new paths forward when the expected ones disappear.

At the crest of a small hill, Varam slows.

“There’s an outpost ahead,” he says, Sacha translating for me. “Not Authority, but a place for travelers to stop. It might be wise for us to avoid direct contact.”

He veers us into thicker woods. The undergrowth here is untouched, vines and brambles dragging at our clothes, brancheshanging low enough to require constant ducking. Every step is an effort, the forest closing in around us.

Then a noise reaches us. Voices, sharp and raised in argument. Varam stops short, lifting a hand, bringing our little group to a halt.

Sacha moves forward without a sound, joining Varam at the edge of a clearing I hadn’t even noticed. They exchange words then Sacha comes back.

“Bandits.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “They’ve ambushed the people staying at the outpost.”

“How many?” one of the fighters, Mishak, asks.

“Eight. Armed. Their victims are bound. It looks like one put up a fight. He’s been badly beaten.”

“We should go around,” Mira says. “This isn’t our fight.”

Something shifts on Sacha’s face. “The longer route would put us behind schedule. We need to keep to our timeline to get to Ashenvale in time.”

Maybe it’s nothing, or maybe it’s due to what happened between us, but I know for certain he’s lying. That the reason he’s giving isn’t his real reason for not wanting to walk away.

And that’s when I realize I’m understanding what’s being said without Sacha translating.

How? How am I catching every word?

The thought stirs uneasily at the back of my mind, but there’s no time to chase it now. I make a mental note to ask Sacha later … if thereisa later.

“We could take them,” the other fighter is saying, one hand dropping toward his sword. “Eight isn’t many.”

“It would require combat we’d prefer to avoid,” Varam rejoins us, and again I catch every word as if the language barrier never existed. “Authority patrols sometimes check these woods.”

While they argue, I inch forward. The undergrowth shifts beneath my weight, leaves whispering as I press through. I stop at the treeline, just close enough to see into the clearing.

Sacha’s description didn’t really paint the true picture of what was happening.

The eight men are spread out, rummaging through crates, weapons strapped to their belts like decorations—proud displays of their capacity for violence. Three men, merchants I guess by the scattered produce and wares, lie bound in the dirt. One has already taken a brutal beating. His face is swollen, blood dark against his skin, one eye sealed shut. Another tries to speak and is cut off by a vicious kick to the ribs. The sound of it echoes through the forest.

A familiar pressure forms behind my eyes, tight and hot, pushing against the inside of my skull. Silver light flickers at the edges of my vision, threatening to break free. I clench my fingers until my nails bite into my palms, using the pain to ground myself.

Not here. Not now. I can’t lose control.

I creep back to our group, heart hammering against my ribs so hard it feels like it might break free.