Torren was slowing down.
It wasn't obvious at first—just a slight drag of his left leg, a deeper breath between steps. But Evelyn noticed. The sharpness in his eyes dulled with fatigue. The forest around them, once merely dangerous, now felt like it watched them from beneath root and stone.
She walked ahead for the first time.
The trail was broken by claw marks in the bark—three-pronged, asymmetrical. Echoed. Not fresh, but not old either. Evelyn stopped at one tree, ran her fingers across the grooves. Her skin tingled—like the memory of heat long after fire.
Torren caught up. "Don't touch it."
"I need to understand them."
"You need to stay alive."
She turned. "You don't feel it?"
He looked away. "I feel tired. Hungry. And like we're not far from dying."
They hadn't eaten in two days. The last of the dried rootcakes were gone. Evelyn had offered to forage, but the forest had turned against them. Every stream turned brackish too quickly. Berries withered before her hand reached them. Even the birds were silent.
And yet, Evelyn didn't feel hungry. Her limbs were strong. Her vision sharp. The heartbeat within her had steadied, synchronizing with the rhythm of her steps.
She was changing.
That night, they found shelter under a craggy overhang. Wind howled low through the trees, whispering syllables Evelyn almost understood.
Torren winced as he sat. He clutched his ribs.
"You're hurt."
"Bruised. Maybe cracked. From the fall two nights ago."
"You didn't tell me."
"Didn't want to slow you down."
Evelyn crouched beside him. "You didn't want to slow me down? You were always the strong one."
He looked at her then, something hollow behind his eyes. "You carried me through the last valley. I barely remember. You don't sleep. You don't bleed anymore. Evelyn—what did you do when you touched that core?"
She looked at her hands. Veins glowed faintly, pulsing with that second light beneath her skin.
"I survived," she said again. But this time, the words rang thinner.
Because she wasn't sure anymore if she'd simply survived—or if she'd become something else entirely.
Torren shifted, pulling his cloak tighter. "I don't know if I trust what you're becoming."
Evelyn stood. Walked to the edge of the firelight. The forest shimmered at the edge of vision—dark and dreaming.
"Neither do I."
A crack echoed in the woods. A branch? No. A bone, snapping under weight.
They both froze.
Then came the growl. Low. Guttural.
Evelyn's eyes narrowed. She turned to Torren. "Stay here."
He grabbed her arm. "Don't be stupid. If it's an Echoed—"
"I feel it. It's circling. It's… testing."
Torren's grip tightened. "That's not how these things work."
But Evelyn was already moving. She didn't run. She walked into the trees with deliberate calm.
The heartbeat within her accelerated.
Not fear. Hunger.
The beast emerged slowly—a creature cloaked in shadow, its form too fluid to name. Wolf-shaped, but stretched. Eyes burned like oil on water. It hissed low when it saw her.
And Evelyn hissed back.
Something answered within her. A glyph flared at her sternum.
The beast froze. Then backed away—slow, uneasy.
It turned and vanished into the brush.
Evelyn stood alone.
No weapon. No shield.
But untouched.
She returned to the firelight, where Torren gaped.
"It saw something in me," she said, voice quiet.
Torren didn't speak.
He just stared at her like he didn't recognize who she was anymore.
She lay awake that night, the second heartbeat now louder than the first.
In the darkness, Evelyn whispered to herself.
"What am I becoming?"
And from somewhere deep inside—below bone, beneath memory—the core pulsed once in reply.