Riven crouched low beneath the gnarled roots of a blackened tree, heart pounding in his chest like a wild drumbeat. Shadows loomed tall around him, oppressive and shifting, as if the forest itself were holding its breath. Twisted branches reached like skeletal fingers toward the sky, blotting out the last traces of moonlight. The scent of damp rot and cold stone clung to the air, filling his lungs with a chill that made him shiver.
His arms ached from clutching the injured Froakie, its frail body barely stirring, each breath it took raspy and pained. Blood—dried and fresh—stained its limbs, and its small form was trembling, even in unconsciousness. Riven's hands were slick with mud and grime, but he didn't dare loosen his grip. He could feel every fragile rise and fall of the Froakie's chest and the heat of its fevered skin. Time was running out.
A cruel thought crept into his mind—should he leave the Froakie behind? Maybe if he discarded it, he'd stand a better chance of slipping away unnoticed. The cultists were relentless, their steps eerily silent but always drawing closer. Every heartbeat felt like a countdown. Every second wasted was a risk.
But even as the idea formed, something deep within him recoiled.
No. He couldn't. He wouldn't.
The guilt of such a decision would haunt him forever. He'd rather die here, now, than live with that kind of regret. This wasn't just about surviving. It was about staying human in a world that constantly demanded cruelty to stay alive. If he gave that up, what was the point?
His mind spiraled into darker corners. Panic clawed at his throat, cold and sharp. He could feel the pressure building behind his eyes, the suffocating weight of helplessness. Everything was closing in.
But then, as if reaching through the fog of fear, memories began to flood him—his parents' proud, worried faces; Mira's tear-streaked smile as she waved goodbye on the day he left Kaer Vaelen; Grandpa Gideon's stern words echoing like scripture: "No matter what, don't forget who you are."
And Ethan…
The thought of Ethan made him clench his jaw. That cocky grin, that unshakable confidence. Ethan, who seemed unshakable even in the face of overwhelming odds. Ethan, who had grown stronger through suffering, who masked his pain behind sharp words and sharp eyes.
Riven wasn't done. Not yet. He hadn't found the truth about Varek. He hadn't lived up to the promises he made—to Mira, to Gideon, to himself. He hadn't proven he could survive in this twisted world without losing his soul.
He was going to make it out of here. With Froakie.
Resolve hardened in his chest like forged steel.
But resolve alone wouldn't save him. He needed a distraction, something to draw the cultists away. He scanned the dark woods, eyes darting from root to bush, from tree to shadow. Ideas slipped through his fingers like water. The oppressive atmosphere made it hard to think—like the trees themselves were pressing in, whispering doubts into his ears.
His breathing grew uneven. He could feel the cold fingers of fear starting to wrap around him again.
Then, something shifted.
The Froakie in his arms stirred, twitching as if sensing the urgency. Its fingers curled weakly, and a faint glow shimmered in its eyes.
Suddenly, to Riven's shock, a second Froakie materialized beside him—identical in every way, down to the twisted violet veins and battered limbs. It was a mirror image, but sharper somehow, its form flickering faintly like a reflection in water. For a heartbeat, Riven's breath caught in his throat.
Then realization struck: A clone?
But not just any clone. A Shadow Clone.
That shouldn't have been possible. Shadow Clone was a high-level technique—something a Froakie couldn't normally learn until long after evolving. Yet here it was, standing on shaky legs, its eyes narrowed with strange, eerie intelligence. A spark of will burned behind them. Not wild, not instinctual. Intentional.
Before he could process the implications, the clone darted into the opposite direction—away from both Riven and the cultists. Silent at first, then letting out a raw, agonized cry that pierced the dead air like a blade.
The sound was unnatural—too precise, too desperate. It echoed with perfect mimicry of a real cry for help, one meant to trigger concern and distraction.
All four hooded figures jerked their heads toward the sound in eerie unison. They said nothing, but Riven felt the shift—like a storm suddenly redirecting its fury. The cultists began to move, gliding across the forest floor with an unnatural grace, heading straight for the decoy.
Riven held his breath. Every second counted. His muscles were coiled tight with tension, sweat dripping down his brow despite the cold.
Once they'd passed his position and were nearly a hundred meters away, he began to crawl. Slowly. Painfully. Each shift of his limbs felt like it echoed in the dark woods. Twigs snapped like thunderclaps. The wet ground soaked through his clothes, chilling him further.
The Froakie in his arms remained still, but Riven could feel its faint heartbeat against his chest. He whispered reassurances he wasn't sure it could hear. "Hang on, little guy," he murmured. "You're doing great. Just a bit longer."
After crawling for what felt like forever, he reached a more open path. The forest canopy thinned slightly, allowing the faintest silver light to bleed through the trees. Riven paused, bracing himself. He reached for Aron's Poké Ball.
"I'm sorry," he whispered as he recalled the Steel-type, trying to ignore the sting of guilt. "You've done more than I deserve, buddy."
Then he stood, turned, and bolted.
His lungs burned. Muscles screamed in protest. But he didn't stop. He ran—through brambles, over roots, ducking under thick branches that clawed at his face and arms. Thorns tore at his clothes, and roots threatened to trip him, but still he ran.
He didn't know exactly where he was anymore. Chasing that Shinx earlier had led him far off course. But he could guess, and right now that was good enough. The forest sloped downward in this direction—away from the cult's likely origin point. Hopefully toward Velridge. Hopefully toward safety.
Ten minutes of pure, desperate running brought him to another clearing. His legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed beneath a crooked tree. Chest heaving, the Froakie cradled close, he let his eyes scan the woods behind.
Then he heard it.
Movement. Fast. Coming from the same direction he'd just fled. Footsteps. Or something like them.
Terror clutched at him again. His stomach turned. Was it them? Had they seen through the ruse already? It had only been a minute… maybe two…
Suddenly, a familiar shape burst from the ball at his waist. Aron.
The steel-bodied Pokémon butted gently against his leg, emitting a low, comforting sound that rumbled through the ground like a quiet drumbeat. A grounding force.
Riven blinked, touched.
He gave a faint, shaky smile and whispered, "Sorry, buddy… for earlier. And… thank you."
He reached down and stroked the Pokémon's smooth, hard head, fingers trembling. "We're gonna make it out. We have to. We still need to beat that smug Ethan and his Sandile."
Sitting there, back against the bark, Froakie held close and Aron by his side, Riven began to think. Strategize. What was their next move? How much longer until dawn? What direction would take him toward Velridge safely?
Every option carried risk. He was injured, exhausted, and off course. The Froakie needed care. He needed rest. The cultists were still out there.
But the first step was clear.
He had to rest. Just for a few minutes. He had to regain some strength, calm his breathing, and make a plan. Then, he'd move again—through thorns, through fear, through whatever the dark woods threw at him.
He would not fall here. Not now. Not before he unraveled the secrets Varek died for.
The night pressed in, thick and silent. Cold winds stirred the canopy, rustling leaves like whispers of the dead. But Riven's eyes stayed open, burning with defiance.
He would survive.