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“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, branches hanging 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 there is a 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.

“We can’t just leave them there.”

“Our mission takes priority,” Varam says. “We cannot risk exposure.”

“Besides,” Mira adds, voice flat, “the merchants will probably be released once the bandits take what they want. ”

She’s lying. I don’t know how I know that, but just like with Sacha, I’m certain of it.

Is this another aspect of whatever power flows through me now? An ability to sense deception? Or simply that I’ve spent enough time in this world to recognize when someone is trying to shield me from uglier truths?

I glance back toward the clearing.

One of the bandits has drawn a knife and has it pressed against the throat of the youngest man. The merchant flinches, but the bandit only laughs. A thin line of blood wells up where the blade bites into his skin.

“They’re going to kill him.” I’m struggling to keep my voice steady. “We can’t just?—”

“We can, and we must.” Varam’s voice is firm. “The mission?—”

A branch snaps behind us.

Loud.

Too loud.

“Well, well,” a voice drawls. “Looks like we got ourselves some more visitors.”

A man steps into view, crossbow raised, aimed squarely at Varam’s chest. Three more emerge from the trees, weapons drawn.

“Move into the clearing,” the first man orders, jerking his weapon in a sharp motion. “Nice and slow. Hands where I can see them.”

Sacha’s eyes meet mine. There’s something in them—a silent command, or a warning—but the meaning slips past me. Then he steps forward, hands raised in what looks like surrender. The rest of our group follows, tension thickening the air.

The bandits herd us into the clearing, forcing us toward the merchants still bound on the ground. Up close, the bandits look even rougher—scarred faces, armor pieced together from scavenged parts, weapons that have seen plenty of use.

“Authority uniform,” their leader muses, circling Sacha like a wolf sizing up a threat. He’s taller than the rest, lean but solid, with a jagged scar running from his temple to his jaw. His eyes are sharp, assessing. “Long way from any check point, aren’t you?”

“We’re on official business,” Sacha replies, his voice steady. Commanding. Dismissive. The sneering contempt in it is so sharp it cuts the air. I’ve never heard him use that tone before. “Release us immediately or face the Authority’s wrath.”

The bandit lets out a slow, amused laugh, thick with disbelief. “Official business? Out here? Try again.” He jerks his chin at one of his men. “You. Search them. Take anything valuable, then we’ll decide what to do with them.”

Four bandits move in.

Varam is first. They pat him down roughly, hands moving over him with no pretense of respect. When one of them finds the knife hidden in his belt, he grins and pockets it.

The pressure behind my eyes surges, a roaring heat that floods through my skull, pounding with every heartbeat, every breath, until the edges of the clearing blur into silver and black.

My breath catches. My fingers twitch at my sides, the world tilting, warping —the voices too loud, the sunlight too bright, the bandits’ dragging trails of afterimages through the air as they move.

The silver is no longer at the edges of my vision. It’s filling it.

Mira stiffens as rough hands search her, the touch lingering in places longer than necessary. My fingers clench as her jaw tightens, her entire body locked in rigid silence. The energy inside me stirs, pulsing in slow, insistent waves.

“Ellie.” Sacha’s voice is quiet. “Stay calm.”

I force myself to take a breath, then another.

One of the bandits turns to me next. His hands are rough, methodical, sweeping over my arms, my waist, my legs. Searching for weapons, but not stopping there. His fingers dig into my breasts, squeezing, a leering grin flashing across his face, showing teeth black with rot.

My stomach twists. I freeze, blood roaring in my ears.

Then his hand slides up, brushing my face, rough calluses scraping against my skin as he cups my cheek in mock tenderness.

“This one is pretty.” His breath hits my face, sour and hot. “Maybe we should keep her when we’re done.”

Something inside me snaps.

The energy surges, faster, hotter than before, not building gradually but exploding through my veins all at once. A crackling pulse runs up my spine, spreading outward like lightning searching for ground.

The moment his thumb touches my lips, a flash of silver erupts between us—a searing flare that blinds me for a second.

For one impossible instant, I feel everything . The heat of it, the bandit recoiling, the air splitting apart.

The man jerks back with a startled cry, stumbling into one of his companions. He stares at his thumb where the skin has blistered, red and angry.

“What the—” He doesn’t get to finish the sentence.

Sacha moves.

One moment he’s beside me. The next, the bandit who touched me is on the ground, a sickening crack splitting the air as his neck snaps. There’s no hesitation in Sacha’s movement. No wasted motion. Just pure, deadly violence.

Before anyone else can react, he’s across the clearing, darkness rolling off him like smoke. The leader fumbles for his weapon, but Sacha is faster. His hand locks around the man’s throat, lifting him clean off the ground.

Chaos erupts.

Varam and the others strike, taking advantage of the confusion. I press back against a tree, as violence explodes around me.

The fight is brutal , and over in seconds.

Sacha moves through them like a force of nature, implacable and merciless.

Every strike breaking, crushing, and ending lives.

A knife flashes in a bandit’s grip. Sacha uses shadow to twist his wrist with a sharp, wet pop, sending the blade tumbling.

He drives his elbow into the man’s skull. The body crumples without a sound.

Varam takes down two others, shattering one’s leg with a single bone-snapping kick before burying a knife into the other’s side.

Mira moves through the fray in a deadly arc, her blade singing through the damp air, severing a scream before it can form.

The other two fighters dispatch the remaining threats, with clean, merciless strikes.

The merchants watch, bound and shaking, eyes wide and mouths open in silent horror, as bodies hit the dirt around them.

Then …

Silence .

Not the soft silence of a forest at rest, but a heavy, suffocating stillness. Blood steams on the cold ground. The metallic scent of it clings to the air.

Six bandits lie dead. Two more groan and twitch in the dirt, clutching shattered limbs. Blood pools around them, seeping into the forest floor, staining the moss black.

Sacha stands over the leader’s limp body. His breathing is steady. His gaze is black and cold, so dark it seems to drink in the light.

No one speaks.

No one dares.