The mud clung to his boots like it didn't want him to leave. Every step forward was a slow fight—against the weight of the earth, the cold soaking into his marrow, and the echo of footsteps that weren't his own.
He hadn't eaten in a day. He hadn't slept in two. And he hadn't spoken since the fire.
Fog choked the forest east of Drevos Hollow, a dense, yellowish mist that twisted between trees like smoke from a dying hearth. Pao had seen real fog before—this wasn't it. This stuff moved. It listened.
He kept his pace steady, one hand on the strap of his satchel, the other near the hilt of his iron-forged blade. It was chipped. The grip was torn. But it was iron—and that still mattered.
At least, that's what the manual said.
The world hadn't always been this way. That's what the old ones liked to tell you, those who remembered before the collapse. Before the summoners and seers disappeared. Before the wards failed. Before cities started falling to cults who spoke in dead tongues and carved spirals into stone.
Now, only exorcists remained.
And they weren't what they used to be.
Pao wasn't a licensed one. Not officially. He hadn't passed the Rite. Hadn't even finished his studies. He was just seventeen. A student of a dead man and the last survivor of Drevos Hollow.
He adjusted the satchel beneath his coat. The leather was cracked and soaked through, but inside was his only inheritance: a half-burnt exorcist's manual, bound in crowskin, inked in ash and bone-oil, and sealed with a glyph that still shimmered faintly when touched.
He hadn't opened it since the fire.
Not since Master Solon died in the chapel, screaming words that were never meant to be heard.
The cold deepened.
Pao paused beneath an arch of gnarled branches. The woods had grown unnaturally quiet. No insects. No birds. No rustle of leaves.
The fog had gotten thicker again.
He squinted.
The trees ahead… weren't trees.
Not all of them.
He took a careful step forward, then another.
A shape rose out of the mist, hunched and still. At first, he thought it was a broken shrine, maybe one of the old spirit-warders—crumbling remnants of the time before the collapse.
But as he neared, he saw the truth.
It was a body.
Crucified upside down on a tree trunk, the figure's arms were pinned by jagged iron rods. Its skin was flayed in ribbons. Someone had carved a spiral into its chest.
Still fresh.
Still bleeding.
Pao's stomach clenched. His breath clouded in the air, then vanished too quickly.
A ward trap.
He backed away slowly, hand gripping his charm—a shard of stained glass wrapped in red thread. A minor ward anchor. Fragile, but reliable.
The glass pulsed once.
Then cracked.
He swore under his breath.
The fog began to stir.
Low at first, like smoke shifting across a hearth—but then it rose, lifted, swirled.
Shapes moved in it. Long-limbed and crooked. Whispering.
Pao ran.
His boots slipped on the wet roots. Branches scraped his arms. The satchel slammed against his side with every step. He could hear them behind him—footsteps that didn't quite match his, laughter that sounded like bones clicking together.
The path twisted, then vanished.
He burst into a clearing ringed by pale stones.
The air here felt heavier—thicker. Old.
Pao skidded to a stop, breath ragged.
A single tree stood at the center, blackened and dead. Its bark was scorched, and its limbs reached upward like pleading arms. Beneath it, symbols were carved into the dirt. A circle. A spiral. Teeth.
Not drawn.
Burned.
The clearing wasn't on his map.
It wasn't supposed to exist.
He looked down—and realized he was standing inside a summoning ring.
His blood went cold.
No exorcist, not even the Master-ranked, dared to use one alone. And definitely not without protection.
He turned to leave.
But the fog had already sealed the way.
A voice whispered behind him—not from the woods, but from within the circle:
"Speak it."
Pao spun.
No one there.
The brand beneath his collarbone—the Lanternbrand—flared with heat. A gift from Solon. A curse, maybe. It had never burned like this before.
He staggered back, heart pounding.
Memories surged—unbidden, unwanted.
The fire.
The screaming.
Master Solon, bleeding out on the chapel floor, his fingers clawing at Pao's chest.
"Don't speak their names," he'd whispered. "Don't ever… speak their names."
And then he'd carved the Lanternbrand into Pao's skin with the tip of his dagger.
That was the last lesson.
A flicker in the fog.
Pao turned.
She stood across the circle.
A girl—maybe. Maybe once.
She wore a white dress stained brown at the edges. Her arms hung too long, her neck bent too far. Her eyes were hollow.
She didn't blink.
She didn't breathe.
Pao drew his blade—iron edge trembling in his grip. "Stay back."
She tilted her head.
Then stepped forward.
He shouted the first incantation that came to mind—half-formed, half-remembered from Solon's training:
"Verun Kaa!"
The air split with a sharp ripple.
The girl convulsed mid-step, her limbs jerking. The fog recoiled slightly, like something struck it.
The spell wasn't complete.
But it worked.
Barely.
Then came the second voice.
"So… you speak the language of fire."
Pao turned toward it.
No one.
The voice wasn't in the clearing. It was in the air. In the earth.
It came from beneath.
The summoning circle glowed. Faint, then brighter. The symbols burned white.
The girl was gone.
So was the tree.
He stood alone in a ring of scorched earth.
The fog vanished—replaced by shadow. Deep, living darkness.
A spiral began to form under his feet.
He tried to move. Couldn't.
A name echoed in his mind, forced into his thoughts like hot metal:
"Kezrith… Vorr."
His vision blurred. Blood poured from his nose.
The Lanternbrand seared his chest, blinding hot.
He collapsed to his knees, gasping.
The name had power.
And now something knew he'd heard it.
Something ancient.
Something hungry.
And it was coming.