Chapter 16

  The massive body of the Earth-Veska collapsed with a dull rumble that sounded like the distant echo of a dying mountain. Where just moments ago a proud, albeit malevolent construct of ancient wood and magically hardened stone had stood, only a lifeless skeleton remained. The green-violet eyes, which had previously glowed with the intensity of emeralds and amethysts, flickered weakly one last time and then extinguished for good. The central core within it, the pulsing heart of its power, withered into a gray, worthless lump of coal within seconds.

  It was finished. The sixth Veska in just three days had fallen victim to our merciless hunt. Three days in which we had eaten our way through the undergrowth of the Black Woods like a force of nature. And despite the weight of our task—warning Thivan Sothar—I couldn't deny it: it was incredibly fun.

  "Ha! Did you see that? My vines penetrate their cores like butter now!" Vin exclaimed. Her voice was bright and clear, a sharp contrast to the musty smell of decay that surrounded us. She began to dance almost playfully to the song of the birds, which were slowly returning to the treetops now that the predator was defeated. Her movements were fluid, freed from the burden of expectations that had almost stifled her in Caleon.

  Arik stood a little apart. With a casual wave of his hand, he dissolved his ash weapons. The gray particles swirled for a moment like dancing dust in the pale sunlight before flowing back into his forearms like a gentle rain. He took a deep breath and loosened his shoulders. Maira, however, remained silent, her eyes still fixed on the carcass. She withdrew her plague magic, those invisible tentacles of corruption that had slowly but unstoppably sucked the life energy out of the ground and the body of the Veska over the last few minutes. It was a slow, almost meditative method of killing—methodical and efficient. Quite unlike my contribution.

  I grinned at the thought of my last stroke. A single, epic sword blow, charged with pure demon magic, that had shattered the beast's shield and blown up the core from the inside out. The pride of it burned in my chest like a pleasant ember.

  Curiously, I felt that this pride and the sheer fun of the hunt were soothing my dark rage. It was no longer that all-consuming fire that blinded me, but rather a controlled current. But was it affecting me? Was I becoming weaker if I no longer acted out of pure hate?

  "No, it doesn't," Gravor answered promptly in my head. I could almost see his amused grin, that arrogant smirk he so loved to relish at my ignorance. "Rage is just fuel, Luken. But we mustn't lose the anchor. And that anchor, right now, is Reyn... and believe me, he won't disappear anytime soon. His hatred for you and everything you stand for is the most solid foundation we have."

  I was glad to hear that, even if a part of me longed for the moment when Reyn would be nothing but a bloody memory. "And when Reyn is dead?" I asked in my thoughts. "What then?"

  "As I said, that will take a while yet. In maybe four or five boo—"

  "Whatever!" I interrupted him curtly before he could reveal anything about threads of fate or things I wasn't supposed to know yet. Gravor loved to speak in riddles that confused me more than they enlightened me. "Do you have any idea where that bastard of the storm is right now? Do we need to hurry? Thivan won't exactly welcome us with open arms if we arrive too late."

  Gravor sounded terrifyingly casual in his response, almost as if he were chatting about the weather. "I don't think he's knocking at the gates just yet. But I’ll tell you one thing: he's gathering allies. Many allies. The outcasts, the pariahs, the broken... Caleon can prepare itself for quite a lot, even if they are warned by you. A warning doesn't stop an avalanche, Luken. It only tells you that you should start running."

  I sighed heavily. My good mood had vanished, at least partially. The image of Reyn creating an army out of thin air while we were here on a "hunting vacation" in the forest left a bitter aftertaste.

  "Do you really think this massacre will go unnoticed?" Arik asked suddenly, tearing me from my telepathic dialogue with his rough voice. He stood on a small rise and pointed behind us with a broad gesture.

  I followed his gaze and saw what he meant. Behind us stretched a mile-long path of devastation. It was a trail of sickness, decay, scorched ash, withered thorns, and the unnatural imprints of demonic forces. We hadn't just crossed the forest in the last three days; we had scarred it. It looked as if a small apocalypse had wandered through the green thicket.

  Maira barely spared the sight a glance. To her, death was just another form of existence, a necessary change. Vin ignored the path entirely; she was far too preoccupied with her own thoughts. The upcoming meeting with Thivan and the prospect of seeing Sothar again seemed to put her in a state between anticipation and nervous tension.

  I just shrugged indifferently. "Maybe someone will notice," I said, wiping some remnants of Veska blood from my armor. "But the local warlords and the corrupt noble houses of Caleon cause worse. If they find a few dead forest spirits, they'll think two clans were fighting over hunting grounds. None of them expects a Paladin, an ex-cleric, an Ashblood, and a fugitive bride."

  Arik crossed his arms over his chest. "It’s not about the lords, Luken. It’s about the balance. The forest has eyes. And Thivan’s seers are not blind. We are leaving a signature that screams as loud as a signal fire."

  "Then let them find us," I replied, feeling Gravor’s power tickle my fingertips. "We aren't here to hide. We're here to make sure this realm doesn't burn before we're ready to set the fire ourselves."

  Vin stopped dancing and looked at us. Her face became serious. "Thivan will know it's me. He will recognize the nature magic I use. He will know that I am coming back."

  "And he will know that you are not alone," Maira added softly, gripping her staff tighter. "He will wonder why the woman he loved travels with the scum of the world."

  "Then it will be an interesting conversation," I said, setting off again. "But we have no more time for sentimentality or ecological concerns. We still have a long way to go, and the forest won't get any friendlier the closer we get to the center of power."

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  We continued our march, away from the carcass of the sixth Veska. The silence of the Black Woods closed behind us, but the scent of the hunt clung to us like an invisible cloak. We were not heroes on a noble quest. We were a group of the scarred, laying our own trail of destruction to prevent an even greater catastrophe.

  The ground beneath our boots was soft, soaked with the sap of trees and the blood of our enemies. I glanced back briefly at Arik, who was still suspiciously scanning the surroundings.

  "Don't sweat it, Arik," I called out to him. "If they want to find us, they have to get past us first. And after the last three days, I feel like we’ve only just warmed up."

  A deep, satisfied laugh from Gravor echoed in my head. He enjoyed the provocation. He enjoyed the risk. And deep down inside, beneath the layers of responsibility and worry, I enjoyed it too. The hunt was our new reality, and the prey was the future itself.

  As we delved deeper into the heart of the Black Woods, the trees began to change. They became more massive, their trunks thicker and their leaves such a dark green they appeared almost black. The air grew heavier, saturated with a magic so old it made our lungs burn. We were approaching Sothar territory.

  "We’re almost there," Vin whispered, and for the first time in days, a genuine fear resonated in her voice. Not the fear of death, but the fear of confronting the past.

  I briefly laid a hand on her shoulder. My armored hand felt heavy, but I hoped it gave her some support. "We’re going through with this, Vin. Together."

  She nodded silently. Arik and Maira caught up to us. We formed a solid line, four figures against a world that would either hate us or fear us. Probably both. And as we climbed the next hill, I saw in the distance the first towers of Thivan's realm, rising like stone spears into the clouded sky.

  The hunt for the Veska was over. Now began the hunt for the past. And that was going to be far bloodier than anything we had experienced in the last three days.

  -

  The dull, rhythmic thrumming of tons of metal striking soft forest floor echoed through the dense undergrowth of the Black Woods like the heartbeat of a mechanical god. Thorsten Barwan, the head of the proud House Barwan and undisputed lord of Hammerfell, sat high up in the cockpit of his golem, the "Iron Fist."

  Around him, it was cramped, warm, and filled with the faint hum of magical circuits. The cockpit, an invention of the dwarves, was a marvel of engineering. Thorsten was connected directly to the Earth-Veska core at the machine's center via fine mana-threads attached to his temples and wrists like a nervous system. To Thorsten, the golem did not feel like a machine; it was his body. He felt the resistance of the branches against the metallic forearms, the shift in weight with every step, and the deep rumble of the engine in the pit of his own stomach.

  It was a perfect coupling. Thorsten thought briefly of the young King Thivan Sothar, whose first connection with a core had gone wrong years ago—an accident that had nearly cost the boy his mind and left him with those nervous twitches and that unpredictable aura to this day. In the Barwan family, such weaknesses did not exist. They were like the steel they forged: hard, pure, and functional.

  "Father, look at this," the voice of his son, Haldan, rang out over the communication crystal. Haldan was piloting a slightly smaller, more agile Scout-class golem that glided nimbly through the tighter clusters of trees.

  Thorsten directed his golem’s optical sensors in the direction his son was pointing. They were on the hunt for valuable dry-wood and new cores for the next generation of war machines. But what they found here was not prey. It was a graveyard.

  "By the Light of the Forge..." General Hektor murmured, leading the third golem of the formation. His voice sounded distorted through the ether of the crystal, but the horror was clearly audible.

  They stepped into a clearing that looked as if the wrath of the gods themselves had raged here. Thorsten brought the Iron Fist to a halt, the heavy metal feet digging deep into the musty ground. Before them lay not one, not two, but four Earth-Veska corpses. The massive creatures, which usually presented a serious challenge even for a golem patrol, had been literally torn to shreds.

  But it wasn't just the Veskas. Dozens of other forest creatures—shadow wolves, tree-creepers, and even a rare earth dragon—lay scattered around like discarded toys.

  Thorsten magnified the optical display on his viewing screens. "What a waste," he growled. "The cores... they are withered. Someone sucked the energy directly out of them. Which house dares to wreak such destruction in our hunting grounds? Is it the Sothars? Do they want to prove their strength to us before the celebration?"

  He was ready to issue the order for combat readiness immediately. Accusations against the other houses of Caleon were already forming in his mind. Such a massacre reeked of a display of power, of a large-scale military operation using new, experimental weapons.

  But General Hektor, a veteran of a hundred border conflicts, steered his golem closer to one of the Veska carcasses. The general’s mechanical claw lifted a piece of rotted wood that had once belonged to the beast's jaw.

  "My Lord Barwan," Hektor said, and his tone made Thorsten pause. "This was no house of Caleon. Look at the edges of the wounds. The wood isn't cut or smashed. It’s... eaten away."

  Thorsten switched to the analytical sensors. His cockpit filled with data, but the results made no sense. "Acid?" he asked.

  "Worse," Hektor replied, shocked. "This is plague magic. Pure, concentrated necrosis. Do you see how the ground around the carcasses has turned black? The grass isn't just dead; it’s dissolved. And here..." He pointed to a series of deep furrows in the ground. "Those aren't golem prints. Those are vines. But they were used with an aggressiveness I only know from the legends of the Shadow Elves. No house in Caleon uses nature magic in this destructive synergy with decay."

  A heavy silence fell over the radio link. Haldan steered his scout golem nervously from one leg to the other. "Father, look at the trees. This path... it stretches for miles to the north. No army marched through there. Something... smaller passed through. Something that kills everything that crosses its path."

  Thorsten Barwan felt a coldness that had nothing to do with the temperature in the cockpit. He looked at the analyses. The magical signature was a chaos of dark impulses. He recognized traces of ash—not from burnt wood, but from something that felt like the mineral remains of living beings. And layered over it was an aura his sensors classified as "Demonic" before they briefly flickered due to the intensity.

  "That’s impossible," Thorsten whispered. "Demons in the Black Woods? Here, so close to Hammerfell?"

  He thought of King Thivan’s upcoming unification celebration. All the Great Houses would be there. The defenses of the border towns were reduced to a minimum. If a power capable of destroying four Earth-Veskas simultaneously and without visible effort was moving through their land, then no one was safe.

  "General Hektor, secure the data," Thorsten commanded in a voice that brooked no contradiction. He felt the coupling to his golem react to his tension; the Iron Fist involuntarily clenched its massive metal hands into fists. "We are aborting the hunt immediately."

  "But Father, the trophies for the championships..." Haldan began.

  "Forget the championships, boy!" Thorsten snapped at him. "If whatever raged here reaches Hammerfell, there won't be a city left to display trophies in. We must return. We must reinforce the defenses and prepare for the journey to the palace. Thivan Sothar must be informed—if he doesn't know already."

  Unaware of the true identity of the "hunters," but deeply horrified by the extent of the destruction, the three golems abandoned their position. With heavy, now hurried steps, they turned away. The mechanical stomping suddenly no longer seemed like a demonstration of strength, but like a desperate signal of flight from a danger they did not even begin to understand.

  The path of death remained behind them, a silent testament to Luken's group, now being slowly swallowed by the poisonous mist of the Black Woods. Thorsten Barwan stared straight ahead through his screens. In the back of his mind, only one thought burned: Whatever that was, it is faster than us. And it is heading straight for the heart of the realm.