The scream pierced the fading light, sharp and sudden. Kieran's heart leapt into his throat as the sound echoed through the trees. It wasn't just fear—it was something deeper, something primal that clawed at his ribs. A silence followed, heavy and waiting, broken only by the panicked murmurs of the guards still urging the wagons onward.
Maera raised a clenched fist, and the group froze in place behind the cover of thick underbrush. Her expression was sharp and composed, but Kieran could see it in the tight line of her mouth—she was calculating, watching every movement, weighing risks.
Kieran's muscles coiled, ready. Mana stirred within him, restless and crackling beneath his skin, as if it too sensed the tension in the air. He clenched his fists and breathed steadily through his nose, grounding himself. Not yet, he thought. Not until we know what we're facing.
Beside him, Ysolde crouched low, her eyes narrowed on the road ahead. She gripped her staff tightly, the polished wood gleaming faintly in the dim light. Her jaw was tight, and there was a look of fear in her eyes, just barely masked by her practiced calm. Despite it, Kieran could see the worry in her posture. She wasn't just concerned for herself—she was watching the others. Protective. Ready to act.
Thorne, meanwhile, had drawn his short sword but held it low, out of sight. His brows were furrowed, and his breath came quickly. He wasn't trembling, but Kieran noticed the stiffness in his shoulders and the way his eyes darted from shadow to shadow. He was afraid—anyone would be—but he wasn't running.
Kieran's gaze drifted to the fleeing wagons. Something was wrong. The fear wasn't just in the guards' shouts—it was in the way the horses foamed and struggled at their reins, in the panicked expressions of the drivers. These weren't soldiers escaping a routine threat. They were survivors.
Maera turned to them, her voice low but urgent. "Stay sharp. We don't know what caused this, but we might be close to danger. Wait for my signal before you move."
The group nodded silently. Even Thorne managed a tight nod, his grip shifting slightly on his weapon. Kieran glanced at him and gave a faint, reassuring smile. Thorne met his gaze, and in that moment, Kieran could see the younger boy's resolve harden just a little more.
The wind shifted. Kieran closed his eyes for a moment, reaching out with his mana sense. The world came alive with faint pulses of life—birds in the canopy above, small mammals rustling nearby—but beyond that, something darker loomed. A void. No, presence. As if the forest itself held its breath.
He opened his eyes. "Something's out there," he whispered. "Something big."
Maera's face darkened, but she only nodded. "Then we wait. Let it pass."
The group remained crouched in tense silence, hearts hammering, until the last of the caravan disappeared beyond a rise. The scream still echoed in their minds. The shadows stretched longer around them, and Kieran couldn't help but feel that something unseen was watching.
Not just with eyes.
But with intent.
Then came the thunder of hooves.
A third wagon—smaller than the others and clearly damaged—lurched into view. One wheel was cracked, and the driver, a bloodied man with a gash across his forehead, fought to keep the horse steady. Behind the wagon, three figures sprinted, one limping heavily. A woman clutched a child in her arms, and another man dragged a short sword as he stumbled, turning to glance behind them with eyes wide in panic.
Then they saw it.
Emerging from the treeline in pursuit came a hulking creature, its form vaguely canine, but far too large—its matted fur marred by patches of warped flesh that glowed with eerie crimson veins. Its eyes burned like coals, and its breath came out in steaming huffs.
A mana-twisted beast.
Maera swore under her breath. "It's corrupted," she said, then turned to Kieran with urgency in her eyes. Before she could speak again, Kieran stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the panicked survivors.
"We have to help them," he said, his voice steady but filled with urgency. "We can't just let them get caught by those things."
Maera held his gaze for a heartbeat, then gave a sharp nod. "Do it quickly. We'll cover you."
The group sprang into action.
Maera stepped forward with sword drawn, shouting to the refugees. "Get to the trees! Behind us!"
Kieran surged to his feet, mana flaring through his limbs as he positioned himself in front of the limping man. "I've got him!" he shouted, then called to Ysolde. "Shield the others!"
Ysolde moved like lightning, throwing her arm out and casting a quick ward in front of the mother and child. A shimmer of light pulsed from her palm, the barrier catching the first wave of wind as the beast charged.
Thorne stepped up beside Kieran, his eyes wide but focused. "We're doing this?"
"We're already in it," Kieran said through gritted teeth, feeling the fire rise within him. "Just follow my lead."
The beast let out a roar, more felt than heard, and lunged.
Kieran moved on instinct. His mana surged—not in a blaze, but with precision. He twisted, palm out, and focused his awareness inward, forcing the heat to his fingertips. A jet of flame burst forward, not wild, but shaped—a controlled arc that struck the ground in front of the creature and forced it to veer to the side.
Maera was already there, her blade catching the fading light as she met the creature head-on. Steel clashed against corrupted flesh in a burst of sparks and snarling fury.
Behind them, Ysolde ushered the civilians into cover, voice firm and commanding even through the fear. Thorne stayed at Kieran's back, protecting the flank with quick, decisive strikes as smaller corrupted beasts—gnarled things that looked like foxes with spined backs—emerged from the trees.
They fought as one, but it was far from perfect. Kieran's heart pounded as he tried to keep pace with the chaos, weaving flame and force as best he could to push the corrupted back. His instincts kicked in, honed by long hours of training, but this was different—messier, real. He misjudged his footing once and nearly tripped, only barely correcting in time to avoid a slashing claw.
Ysolde's wards flickered more than once before solidifying, her chants rushed and tinged with panic, though each successful cast hardened her confidence. She stumbled, regained balance, and readjusted her grip on the staff, gritting her teeth. Maera, though clearly the most experienced among them, showed signs of rust—her blade struck true, but her movements lacked the effortless precision of someone in constant practice. She overextended once, drawing a shallow gash across her arm before rallying with a fierce snarl and a renewed strike.
Thorne, breath ragged and movements clumsy, kept trying to watch Kieran for cues. He blocked a blow too late, the impact jarring him backward, but recovered and returned a wild swing that knocked a smaller corrupted beast away. The boy was trying—heart and soul—but he was clearly green.
Still, they adjusted. They learned. Each mistake sharpened them, each shouted warning strengthened their cohesion. Kieran could feel the burn in his limbs and the thrum of mana just behind his eyes, threatening to pull him under, but he pushed forward. He leaned into his training, drawing on what he had practiced and refined since his awakening—learning to focus his mana under pressure, drawing it with intent rather than instinct. Channeling his mana through tightly controlled pathways he had only recently begun to understand, Kieran molded his flame into precision strikes. The discipline he'd cultivated in the past weeks surged to the surface, guiding his casting and swordplay through the chaos with a newfound clarity that bordered on revelation.
He conjured bursts of flame in short, precise arcs—less brute force and more like weaving threads of fire between the chaos. At one point, he instinctively adjusted his breathing to stabilize his flow, remembering his father's harsh correction during a past lesson: "You control it, or it controls you."
His vision pulsed with strain, but he managed to flare a wave of heat that seared across a charging beast's side, staggering it long enough for Maera's blade to find its mark. Every small success built on the last, and he felt the unfamiliar thrill of battle-readiness merging with desperation. It wasn't graceful, but it was effective.
They had people to protect. A mother. A child. A man barely clinging to life. That was all that mattered.
Every heartbeat, every frantic breath was a lesson carved into flesh and willpower. They were surviving—together, imperfectly, but undeniably.
The battle wasn't long—but it was brutal. When the last creature fell, a smoldering heap, silence returned in a rush.
Kieran stood still, chest heaving, the scent of smoke and blood thick in the air. His hands trembled slightly. Not from fear—but from the surge of power he had managed to control. He turned to Thorne, who was leaning on his sword, bruised but breathing.
"You good?"
Thorne gave him a shaky grin. "Yeah. That was… insane."
Ysolde walked over, face smudged with ash, but her eyes sharp. "They were corrupted. Wild mana must be leaking into this region. That's not normal."
Maera sheathed her blade with a frown. "No. It's not. Something's changed."
As the last rays of light disappeared behind the hills, Kieran glanced at the injured wagon group huddled behind them, their eyes wide with gratitude and fear.
Whatever lay ahead, the road to the capital would no longer be just a journey.
It had become a crossing into the unknown.