Torren had always trusted his instincts.
They'd kept him alive during his father's failed hunts, helped him win sparring bouts against stronger boys, warned him when the air was about to turn wrong.
Now, every nerve screamed the same thing.
Something is hunting us.
He crouched low in the underbrush, soaked in the mist that had crept in with unnatural speed. The fire from their camp had guttered out without warning—snuffed, as if something had taken the heat.
Evelyn lay beside him beneath a shroud of woven furs, her body still flickering faint pulses of golden light. Her breathing was ragged, chest rising in uneven gasps. Her eyes twitched beneath closed lids, caught in some deep vision.
Torren gritted his teeth. He had maybe two knives, one decent shortblade, and no core. Not even a cracked shard to tap for heat.
And the fog was wrong. It moved against the wind, curling toward their camp like fingers through undergrowth.
Then he heard it.
Not a growl. Not a howl. Breathing.
Heavy. Wet. Just on the other side of the tree line.
He rose slowly, blade drawn, feet careful not to snap the damp branches below. A shadow moved through the mist—too tall, too thin. It stepped with a loping, uneven gait, half-human, half something else. Eyes like dim coals blinked once, then faded.
Torren crouched low and placed his hand on Evelyn's shoulder.
"Stay with me," he whispered, though he knew she couldn't hear him.
The thing moved again.
It sniffed the air, sniffed toward them, and gave a low exhale like steam escaping flesh. Its silhouette rippled, wrong in the way Echoed things always were—as though reality hadn't fully accepted it yet.
Torren's grip on the blade tightened.
I'll kill it. I have to.
Then, Evelyn whispered.
Not in words. Not aloud.
In him.
He gasped and looked down. Her fingers were on his wrist, glowing faintly. Her lips moved in a half-dreamed phrase.
"Not a beast. Not Echoed. Hollow-touched…"
Torren blinked. Her voice had come through him. In his bones.
The thing in the fog stepped forward—closer, closer—and for a split second, the mist parted.
It wore a face.
A human one, pale and rotted. A hollow where a core should be. The chest cavity was torn open and empty. No magic. No pulse.
A Whisperer.
He'd only heard stories—humans stripped of their cores, still walking. Servants of the Hollow.
Torren acted.
With a shout, he lunged forward, blade arcing through the mist. It struck—but not deep enough. The creature shrieked, lunged back, and vanished into the fog, leaving behind a smear of thick, tar-like ichor.
Silence returned.
Only the rustle of trees and Evelyn's shallow breathing filled the void.
Torren didn't relax. Not fully. But he slid down beside her and exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours.
"You picked a fine time to start glowing," he muttered, brushing soot from her brow.
Evelyn stirred.
Not awake. Not yet.
But her voice murmured again, barely audible:
"They're watching… from behind the veil. One… two… hundreds."
Torren looked back toward the woods.
The fog was retreating now.
But the silence it left behind was too complete.
And above them, in the sky unseen, something far older than beasts or Echoed began to take notice.