The forest was quiet again.
Not in peace—but the kind of quiet that followed disaster. A hush of creatures too wary to emerge, of wind too scared to blow. As Lucian and Laila emerged from the earth's wounded belly, pulled up by Selia's rope and steadied by Elina's shaking hands, the sky above them mirrored the tension inside: low-hanging clouds, gray as ash, pressing down on the treetops.
"You're both alive," Elina breathed, her voice cracking. She crushed them in an embrace, uncaring of their bruises, their dirt-streaked skin, or the tremor in her own limbs. "I thought…"
Selia knelt nearby, watching them with eyes like flint. She didn't cry. She rarely ever did. But Lucian noticed the way her hand lingered on the hilt of her blade and the tightness in her jaw.
"We didn't stop it," Lucian said. "Not entirely."
"I know," Selia replied. "I felt it in the ground. That thing—whatever it was—left a scar in the ley lines. Magic's shifting. Thinning."
Elina looked between them. "Then what happens now?"
Laila answered, quiet and firm. "We hunt the rest."
There was no dramatic response. No shouting or panic. Just silence, heavy and knowing.
They made camp that night a few miles from the broken cavern. No one spoke much. The fire crackled, casting shadows over their faces. Laila sat close to the flame, turning a shard of obsidian over in her fingers—one she'd taken from the shattered altar. Lucian lay back against a moss-covered stump, staring at the stars.
He used to find comfort in constellations. Now, they felt too distant. Too still.
Selia returned after a scouting loop and crouched by the fire, setting down a rabbit she'd snared without a word. She cleaned it swiftly, then skewered it on a stick over the fire. Her movements were sharp, economical.
"We need to talk," she finally said.
Lucian sat up.
"That wasn't just a corrupted spell," Selia continued. "It wasn't some rogue cultist or minor break in the weave. That altar—that was ancient. Pre-Divide. Older than our kingdoms. Older than the Mage Accord."
"You think it was part of something bigger?" Laila asked.
"I know it was," Selia said. "The runes… they weren't meant to summon. They were meant to anchor something. That place was a root. A tether. And now, it's snapped loose."
Lucian rubbed his arms, feeling a phantom cold creep beneath his skin. "So what happens when all the tethers are broken?"
Selia looked at him, her gaze hollow. "Then the thing they were holding back comes through."
The fire popped.
"So how many tethers are there?" Elina asked. "We need numbers."
"Five," Selia replied. "At least. Some believe more. They were buried when the old kingdoms rose. Hidden by those who feared what lay beneath. It was never about keeping the power secret—it was about keeping the world safe."
Laila stood slowly. "We have to find the others before it does."
"And stop it how?" Lucian asked, not out of doubt, but weariness. "We barely survived one altar."
"We learn," Laila said. "We grow stronger. Fusion isn't just instinct anymore. We can train it."
Selia nodded. "She's right. The magic you two used wasn't just raw—it was ancestral. I've seen it once before. A long time ago."
Lucian's brow furrowed. "Where?"
Selia stared into the flames. "In the North. Among the Tempest Seers. They had twin warriors—soul-bound. They called it Echo Magic. Fusion that doesn't just blend, but amplifies. They held off a horde for three days with nothing but each other. But they vanished after the last Black War."
"Why?" Laila asked.
"Because they were hunted," Selia said grimly. "By kings who feared them. By gods who envied them."
Lucian's breath caught. "So we're targets."
"From the moment you fused," Selia said. "And now, with that altar broken, the echoes are awake. Creatures will come. Not just beasts—but people. Touched by the dark. Twisted by it. Some will come to worship. Others to destroy."
A quiet fell over the group, broken only by the flickering fire.
Then Elina spoke. "We can't go home, can we?"
"No," Selia said. "Not yet. Home will come under threat soon enough. But first, we have to reach the Northern Path. That's where the second tether lies."
Lucian stood, brushing soot from his pants. "Then we leave at dawn."
No one argued.
🌙
The next morning, the sky wept.
Thin rain fell through the forest canopy, cold and constant. They moved quickly, cloaks pulled tight, boots sloshing through wet leaves. Selia led them northeast through forgotten trails, occasionally stopping to scrape fresh runes into bark or sprinkle salt at crossroads.
"Wards," she explained. "In case we're being followed."
"By what?" Lucian asked.
"Worse than wolves."
By noon, they reached a cliff overlooking the valley. In the distance, beyond rising mist and the sweep of ancient trees, they saw a stone tower rising from a crag of rock—dark, broken, abandoned.
"That's Watcher's Point," Selia said. "Last safehouse before the Northern Pass."
"Looks cursed," Laila muttered.
"It is cursed," Selia replied. "But it's ours now."
The ascent took hours. Crumbling stairs, slick with moss, tested every step. At the tower's top, they found shattered remnants of an old outpost—barracks, training yard, a collapsed forge. But the watchtower still stood, though just barely.
They made shelter inside the tower's circular room. Wind howled through broken stones. Lucian lit a lantern while Laila pulled a worn tapestry from the wall, revealing a map etched directly into the stone beneath.
Selia knelt. "It's real."
"What is?" Lucian asked.
"The Tether Circle." She traced five points etched in silver across the map—each marked by an ancient rune. "This one," she pointed to the far north, "is next."
Laila's eyes narrowed. "And the others?"
"West, across the Singing Dunes. South, under the forgotten catacombs of Virellen. East, hidden beneath the Shattered Spire."
Lucian stared at the points. They formed no simple circle. More a web.
"How long do we have?" he asked.
Selia's voice was low. "Not long. If the others are breaking, the circle won't hold another season."
Elina touched his arm. "Then we stop it. One tether at a time."
Lucian nodded, his gaze rising to the open window where rain danced like ash.
This wasn't a journey anymore.
It was a war.