The high canyon stretched like a wound in the mountainside, narrow and deep, its walls rising sheer for hundreds of feet. Wind moaned through the passage, carrying flurries of snow that danced in chaotic spirals before settling. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the canyon floor, transforming innocent rock formations into lurking figures.
Fynnarin crouched on a ledge halfway up the eastern wall, his silver-blue fur blending with the shadows. In half-form, he could maintain near-perfect stillness, his enhanced senses monitoring the canyon's southern entrance where the king's hunters would eventually appear. Below and around him, concealed in various positions, waited for the others—Soren and four more Spirit-Walkers from the Cloud Walker Tribe, each in their own half-forms, ready to spring the ambush.
Kitra and Mirwen had taken positions further back, on higher ground, where they could provide support without being immediately exposed to danger. Fynnarin had argued against their presence entirely, but both women had proven immovable in their resolve to stand with him.
"The plan is simple," Soren had said during their hasty preparations. "We draw them into the narrowest section, where their numbers count for less. We strike from above and both sides, eliminating as many as we can in the first assault. Then we fall back to the northern exit, leading survivors toward the old ravine."
"And what's in this ravine that gives us advantage?" Fynnarin had asked.
Soren had smiled, revealing teeth that seemed too sharp for his human face. "The reason we never hunt there. Even predators need to respect their betters."
Now, as the light faded and the temperature dropped precipitously, Fynnarin rehearsed the plan in his mind, seeking weaknesses. The king's hunters had superior numbers and, presumably, experience in capturing the Wild-Blooded. But they were lowlanders, unused to the thin mountain air and treacherous terrain. And they couldn't know they were walking into an ambush.
At least, that was the hope.
A faint sound reached his sensitive ears—the distant clink of metal against stone. He raised his hand in the signal they had agreed upon, alerting the others. The hunters approached.
Moments later, he caught their scent on the wind—humans, horses, and something else... something wrong. The smell was like rotten meat and stagnant water, with an underlying note of alchemy and forbidden magic. The Bound Ones, he realized. And perhaps this "King's Shadow" Mirwen had mentioned.
Fynnarin slowed his breathing, calming the instinctive revulsion the scent triggered. The Wild-Blood in him recognized an abomination against nature. He focused instead on the task at hand, reminding himself that he had once been a hunter—patient, methodical, alert to opportunity. The fact that he was now also the bait in their trap was an irony not lost on him.
The first of the king's men appeared at the canyon entrance—scouts on foot, moving with the caution of experienced soldiers. They carried crossbows at the ready and wore the blue-and-silver livery of the Royal Army, though their armor was lighter than standard infantry, designed for mobility. Behind them came more soldiers, and among these walked figures that made Fynnarin's blood run cold.
The Bound Ones.
They might once have been Wild-Blooded like himself, but whatever the king's alchemists had done to them had created something nightmarish. They existed in a permanent state of partial transformation, their forms asymmetrical and unnatural. One had the upper body of a man but lower limbs that belonged to some great cat. Another's face was half-human, half-avian, a single feathered wing sprouting from its left shoulder. All moved with jerky, uncoordinated motions, as though their bodies were poorly controlled puppets.
Around their necks, each wore a collar of strange, silvery metal inscribed with glowing runes. Similar bands encircled their wrists and ankles. Even from this distance, Fynnarin could sense the wrongness of the magic that bound them—it seemed to create a discordant hum in the air, like an instrument painfully out of tune.
Behind the Bound Ones rode a man on a black horse—tall, thin, dressed in the elaborate robes of a royal magistrate. His face was sharp and cold, with the distant arrogance of someone accustomed to absolute authority. This, Fynnarin guessed, was Magistrate Caldwell, the man who had ordered Thornvale's destruction.
And at the magistrate's side walked... something else. At first glance, it appeared to be a man in a hooded cloak. But as it moved, the fabric seemed to ripple and flow in ways that defied natural movement, occasionally revealing glimpses of a form that wasn't entirely substantial. The King's Shadow.
The sight of it sent a wave of primal fear through Fynnarin. Whatever it was, it existed at least partially outside the natural order—a perversion of life's fundamental principles.
He forced himself to remain still, to follow the plan. Let them advance deeper into the canyon. Wait for the signal.
The scouts moved cautiously forward, examining the ground, the walls, alert for signs of ambush. Behind them, the main force advanced in good order, weapons ready. The Bound Ones shambled along, their movements suggesting they were driven forward rather than advancing of their own will.
Fynnarin watched, counting. Twenty-three Royal Army soldiers. Six Bound Ones. The magistrate. The Shadow. More than they had anticipated, but not enough to abort the plan.
When the lead scouts had reached the narrowest point of the canyon, Soren gave the signal—a perfect mimicry of a mountain eagle's cry. In that same instant, the trap was sprung.
Boulders, carefully positioned earlier, crashed down from the canyon rim, blocking the southern entrance and crushing two soldiers beneath their weight. More rocks rained down on the soldiers in the middle of the column, creating chaos and confusion. From ledges and crevices, the Spirit-Walkers leapt into action, attacking with the savage efficiency of natural predators.
Fynnarin launched himself from his perch, his body moving with the fluid grace of his recent training. He landed among a group of soldiers who were still reacting to the initial attack, his clawed hands and enhanced strength making short work of their armor. He fought without conscious thought, the River Wolf's instincts guiding his movements, his water magic manifesting as a protective shimmer around his body that seemed to deflect blades and arrows.
Around him, the other Spirit-Walkers wreaked havoc. Soren, in his wolf half-form, tore through soldiers with terrifying speed. A woman with lynx aspects leapt impossible distances between canyon walls, dropping on her prey from above. A man with bear characteristics simply waded into the thickest fighting, shrugging off wounds that would have felled an ordinary person.
For a moment, it seemed the ambush would be an overwhelming success. The soldiers, caught by surprise and in disadvantageous terrain, were falling rapidly. But then the magistrate raised his staff, shouting commands in a language Fynnarin didn't recognize, and the tide began to turn.
The Bound Ones, previously shambling and disorganized, suddenly moved with coordinated purpose. Their collars flared with sickly light as they charged into battle, their unnatural forms proving devastatingly effective weapons. The soldier with the feline lower body covered ground with impossible speed, leaping upon one of the Spirit-Walkers and tearing him apart before anyone could intervene. The one with the avian features shrieked, the sound amplified to weapon-like intensity, disorienting those nearby.
And worst of all, the King's Shadow stepped forward, its cloak falling away to reveal a form that seemed to constantly shift and change, never quite settling on a single appearance. It raised hands that elongated into grotesque claws, and darkness gathered around them like physical substance.
"Wild-Blood!" the magistrate called out, his voice carrying easily over the sounds of battle. "Surrender now, and your companions may live! Resist, and I will bind you in ways that will make you beg for the mercy of death!"
Fynnarin had no intention of surrendering, but the situation was rapidly deteriorating. Two of the Spirit-Walkers were already down, and the Bound Ones were proving more formidable than anticipated. Worse, the King's Shadow was moving methodically through the battlefield, touching Wild-Blooded fighters with those darkness-wreathed hands, causing them to collapse in silent agony.
It was time for the next phase of the plan. Fynnarin caught Soren's eye across the melee and gave the signal to fall back. The Spirit-Walker nodded, relaying the command to the others with a series of short howls.
As one, the remaining Wild-Blooded fighters disengaged, retreating rapidly toward the northern end of the canyon. Fynnarin leapt from rock to rock, using his enhanced strength and agility to gain height and distance. Behind him, he could hear the magistrate shouting orders for pursuit.
The plan was working so far. They had inflicted significant casualties on the king's forces and were now drawing the survivors away from the tribal camp's evacuation route. But the cost had been high—at least two Spirit-Walkers dead, and Fynnarin didn't know if the others were all still with them.
He paused on a high ledge, allowing himself a moment to survey the situation. The surviving hunters were in pursuit, the Bound Ones in the lead. The magistrate followed at a more measured pace, the King's Shadow at his side. There seemed to be about fifteen soldiers remaining, plus the six Bound Ones—still formidable odds.
Movement to his right caught his attention. Kitra and Mirwen were making their way along a parallel route, higher up the canyon wall. They had wisely stayed out of the direct fighting, but were keeping pace with the retreat. He felt a surge of relief seeing them unharmed.
Resuming his flight, Fynnarin pushed himself to greater speed. The northern exit of the canyon was less than half a mile ahead, and beyond it lay the old ravine that Soren had spoken of. Whatever advantage awaited them there, they would need it soon.
As he ran, he became aware of a presence paralleling his course, moving with impossible speed through the difficult terrain. One of the Bound Ones—the one with feline legs—was gaining on him, its mutated form perfectly adapted for the pursuit. Its eyes, when Fynnarin caught a glimpse of them, held no intelligence, only a mindless hunger.
Fynnarin pushed harder, drawing on reserves of strength he hadn't known he possessed. The blue shimmer of his water magic intensified around him, seeming to lighten his body and ease his passage over the rocky ground.
The canyon began to widen, its walls growing less steep as they approached the northern exit. Ahead, Fynnarin could see a vast, open space—the ravine. But it appeared empty, lifeless. Whatever advantage Soren had promised seemed nowhere in evidence.
The feline-legged Bound One was closing the distance rapidly. Fynnarin could hear its labored breathing, smell the wrongness of its transformed flesh. It was mere seconds from overtaking him.
With no other choice, he spun to face it, dropping into a fighting stance. The creature slowed, regarding him with eyes that held no emotion, only empty purpose. The collar around its neck pulsed with sickly light.
"I'm sorry," Fynnarin said, though he doubted the thing could understand. "I'm sorry for what they did to you."
The Bound One leapt, its movement blindingly fast. Fynnarin sidestepped, scoring a deep gash along its flank with his claws. The creature didn't react to the pain, immediately twisting in mid-air to attack again. This time, Fynnarin met it head-on, grappling with strength enhanced by desperation.
They rolled across the rocky ground, a tangle of claws and fangs. The Bound One was stronger, it's unnatural form granting it advantages even over Fynnarin's half-transformed state. It pinned him, jaws snapping inches from his throat, the metal collar pressing cold against his skin.
In that moment of contact, Fynnarin felt something—a flicker of awareness inside the creature, a last fragment of the person it had once been, trapped and screaming within the prison of its own flesh. The realization hit him like a physical blow. These weren't mindless constructs; they were people whose wills had been chained, forced to watch as their bodies committed atrocities.
Rage surged through him—not the hot, desperate fury of combat, but something colder and more focused. This was obscenity beyond measure. No one had the right to enslave another's essence this way.
The water magic that had manifested as mere protective shimmer suddenly intensified, responding to his emotional state. Blue-silver light coursed down his arms and into his hands, gathering in his palms. Acting on instinct rather than thought, he pressed his glowing hands against the collar around the Bound One's neck.
There was a moment of resistance, as though two opposing magics were contesting for dominance. Then, with a sound like ice cracking on a spring lake, the collar split and fell away.
The effect was immediate and shocking. The Bound One convulsed, its body twisting as though in the grip of a seizure. The unnatural melding of human and animal aspects began to separate, flowing like liquid back to natural configurations. Within seconds, a man lay where the monster had been—unconscious but whole, restored to his proper form.
Fynnarin stared in disbelief at his hands, the blue glow already fading. He hadn't known such a thing was possible. The water magic, it seemed, could cleanse corruption, restore natural balance. Perhaps this was why the foxin had chosen him, why it had spoken of balance being restored.
There was no time to contemplate the discovery. The rest of the king's hunters were approaching rapidly, and the unconscious man at his feet needed protection. Fynnarin gathered him up with strength born of necessity and continued his retreat toward the ravine.
Ahead, he could see Soren and the other survivors gathered at the ravine's edge, looking back anxiously. Kitra and Mirwen had joined them, the old healer already attending to wounds.
"Quickly!" Soren called. "They're almost upon us!"
Fynnarin sprinted the final distance, the unconscious man's weight barely slowing him. As he reached the others, he gently laid his burden down.
"What happened to him?" Kitra asked, staring at the man who had been a monstrous Bound One just minutes before.
"I broke the binding," Fynnarin said, still hardly believing it himself. "The water magic—it can undo what they've done to these people."
Mirwen's eyes widened. "Extraordinary," she breathed, examining the unconscious man. "His spirit is whole again, though badly traumatized. He'll need time to heal."
"Time we don't have," Soren said grimly, pointing back toward the canyon.
The remaining king's hunters had emerged, the five other Bound Ones in the lead, followed by the surviving soldiers. The magistrate rode at a more measured pace, the King's Shadow gliding at his side. They would reach the ravine within minutes.
"Where is this advantage you promised?" Fynnarin demanded. "The ravine looks empty."
Soren smiled, an expression that held both anticipation and respect. "Not empty. Waiting." He turned to face the open expanse of the ravine and let out a series of howls—complex, layered sounds that carried for miles across the mountain landscape.
For several heartbeats, nothing happened. Then, as the king's hunters closed to within a hundred yards, movement stirred in the ravine's depths. Something large was approaching—many things, moving with coordinated purpose.
Foxins. Not one or two, but dozens. Perhaps hundreds. They emerged from hidden dens and concealed passages in the ravine walls, their golden fur catching the last light of day, the crystals in their foreheads and down their spines glowing with inner light. They moved as a single organism, flowing across the rocky terrain with liquid grace, their luminous eyes fixed on the approaching hunters.
Even at this distance, Fynnarin could see the magistrate's expression shift from triumph to uncertainty. The Bound Ones halted, seemingly confused by the sight. The soldiers drew closer together, instinctively forming defensive positions.
"The ravine has been a foxin sanctuary for generations," Soren explained quickly. "The tribes have an ancient pact with them—we never hunt here, and they provide... deterrence... when needed."
As if to demonstrate this "deterrence," the lead foxins began to sing—a haunting, multi tonal sound that seemed to vibrate in the bones rather than the ears. The sound built in complexity and volume as more foxins joined, creating harmonics that shimmered in the air like heat haze. The effect on the king's hunters was immediate and dramatic.
The soldiers clutched their heads in pain. Several of the Bound Ones dropped to their knees, their collars flickering erratically. Even the magistrate seemed affected, his face contorting in discomfort as he struggled to maintain control of his mount.
Only the King's Shadow appeared untroubled, gliding forward with the same eerie, fluid motion. It raised its darkness-wreathed hands, and for a moment, it seemed the foxins' song might be countered by whatever power the Shadow commanded.
Then, from the center of the foxin assembly, a larger individual emerged—an ancient creature with a crystal formation that extended all the way down its spine to the tip of its tail. Its fur was paler than the others, almost white-gold, and the power that emanated from it was palpable even at a distance.
The elder foxin fixed its gaze on the King's Shadow and emitted a single, pure note that cut through the chorus like a blade through silk. The Shadow hesitated, its form seeming to waver and thin. A second note followed, higher and sharper, and the Shadow visibly recoiled, darkness boiling around it in agitation.
The magistrate, seeing his most powerful asset affected, finally made the decision to retreat. He shouted commands, rallying his remaining forces. The soldiers began to withdraw in good order, dragging the incapacitated Bound Ones with them. The Shadow, after a final confrontation of wills with the elder foxin, turned and flowed back toward its master.
The foxins continued their otherworldly chorus, maintaining pressure on the retreating forces until they had disappeared back into the canyon. Only then did the song gradually fade, though many of the creatures remained vigilant, watching the canyon entrance.
"They're really leaving," Kitra said, disbelief in her voice. "We won."
"Not won," Soren corrected. "Gained a reprieve. The magistrate will return with greater force, better prepared."
"But not immediately," Mirwen said. "And not before the tribe has completed their evacuation to the winter refuge." She looked thoughtfully at Fynnarin. "And perhaps not before we've had time to develop your newfound talent."
Fynnarin was only half listening. His attention had fixed on a particular foxin that had separated from the main group and was approaching them directly. He recognized it immediately—the same creature that had gifted him its forehead crystal, that had guided Mirwen through the storm. Its eyes, luminous and knowing, met his without fear.
*The balance shifts,* came that familiar voice in his mind, clearer now than ever before. *But the work is not yet complete.*
"What work?" Fynnarin asked aloud, ignoring the startled looks from his companions. "What balance?"
The foxin sat on its haunches, regarding him with what seemed like gentle amusement. *The king binds what should be free. Nature corrupted serves unnatural ends. You have seen this truth with your own eyes.*
Images flashed through Fynnarin's mind—the Bound Ones, their spirits chained, their bodies twisted into weapons. The King's Shadow, a violation of life's fundamental principles. The corruption of magic from a gift into a tool of enslavement.
"The man I freed," he said slowly. "There are more like him. Many more."
*And they suffer,* the foxin confirmed. *Balance cannot be restored while such perversions exist.*
Fynnarin understood then what the foxin was suggesting. Not merely escape and survival, but active resistance. Using his newfound ability to counter the king's dark alchemy. Freeing those who had been bound against their will.
It was a daunting prospect. The king's power extended across all of Aldermere. His resources were vast, his armies numerous. And Fynnarin was just one Wild-Blood, barely understanding his own abilities.
But he was not alone. He looked around at his companions—Kitra with her practical strength, Mirwen with her ancient wisdom, Soren and the Spirit-Walkers with their mastery of the Change. And now, it seemed, the foxins as well.
*The blood of many waters flows where it must,* the foxin said enigmatically. *Even small streams can carve mountains, given time.*
The creature turned, preparing to depart, but Fynnarin called after it. "Wait. You've guided me this far. At least tell me your name."
The foxin looked back, its eyes twinkling with something like mirth. *Names are a human concern. But if it brings you comfort, you may call me Seren.*
With that, it trotted back to join its kind, leaving Fynnarin with a growing sense of purpose. The destruction of Thornvale had seemed like an ending, but perhaps it was merely the beginning of something larger—a cause that went beyond personal survival or even tribal allegiance.
"What did it say to you?" Kitra asked, coming to stand beside him.
"That we have work to do," Fynnarin replied. "Work that goes beyond hiding in the mountains."
Soren approached, his expression grave. "The tribes have whispered for years that change was coming—that the old ways would return as the kingdom overreached its rightful bounds. Perhaps you are the harbinger of that change."
Mirwen nodded, her weathered face thoughtful. "The foxin crystal you gifted me in Thornvale... I've never seen it's like. It healed not just bodies but spirits. And now you demonstrate the power to undo bindings that were thought permanent." She gestured toward the man they had rescued, now sleeping peacefully under her care. "These are not coincidences."
Fynnarin felt the weight of their expectations, their hope. He was no leader, no revolutionary. Just a half-elven hunter who had discovered an inheritance he never sought. Yet he could not deny the pull of responsibility, the sense that his abilities came with obligations.
"We should return to the tribe," he said finally. "Help with the evacuation, make sure everyone reaches safety. After that..." He looked out across the ravine, where foxins still stood vigilant. "After that, we decide what comes next."
As they gathered their strength for the journey back, Fynnarin felt a strange peace settle over him. The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with danger. The king's hunters would come again, in greater numbers and with darker weapons. The Wild-Blooded and their allies would need to be stronger, smarter, more united than ever before.
But for the first time since fleeing Thornvale, Fynnarin felt he was moving toward something rather than away from it. The River Wolf in his blood no longer seemed a curse or even merely a gift—it was a purpose, a calling. The water magic that allowed him to cleanse corruption and restore natural balance was exactly what this broken world needed.
*Balance must be restored,* the foxin had said. And perhaps, just perhaps, Fynnarin of Thornvale—hunter, protector, Wild-Blood—was meant to be the one to restore it.
The last light of day faded from the mountain peaks, and stars began to emerge in the darkening sky. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled—a sound of defiance and belonging that resonated in Fynnarin's very bones. Without conscious thought, he tilted his head back and answered, his half-transformed voice carrying the River Wolf's call across the ancient mountains.
One by one, the others joined—Soren's deep timber wolf howl, the higher voices of the other Spirit-Walkers, even Kitra attempting a human approximation. Their chorus echoed through the valleys and peaks, a declaration that these mountains still harbored the Wild-Blooded, still sheltered the old magics.
A declaration that some things, once awakened, could never again be chained.