Night's hush presses in as I slip through the undergrowth, mask pressed tight to my face. The traps at Crystale Marsh lie waiting; the warded circle in the clearing glows faintly beneath the moon's touch. My thoughts drift to Thane's last report—smuggler movements near the east ridge—and the vault beneath Marga's hut, still only half-formed.
A twig snaps.
My heart hammers. I freeze, stormlight coiled, ring thrumming beneath my sleeve. The forest holds its breath.
Then I see her.
A figure kneeling on a flat stone, arms raised in cultivation stance. Pale runes hover above her palms, silver fire dancing in the air. No mask; just eyes bright with inner light.
I step closer, silent. The ring stills.
She lowers her hands, wind-kissed hair falling back. "Who's there?" Her voice is calm—curious, not frightened.
"A wanderer," I reply, watching her technique. It mirrors mine but with a different rhythm.
She stands, studying me. "Another cultivator. Rare to find someone—even rarer at night."
"I seek strength," I say. "And allies."
She regards me for a moment, then gestures to the clearing. "Show me, then. What path do you follow?"
I settle into my stance and draw energy from earth to bone, guiding it into the ring's stormlight. Silver vines of power twist beneath my skin. She watches, then steps forward, tracing her own pattern: rushing currents of light that crackle in the darkness.
When we lower our arms, the forest trembles. I press the edge of my mask and speak quietly.
"There's a threat coming," I say, voice low. "Something older than smugglers or thieves. A rival—wielder of bone-thread magic—will return through Stonefold's broken heart. He will hunt power. He will unmake what he finds."
She frowns, unaware. "Rival? I know nothing of this."
I nod. "Few do. He was the blade behind the Ash Spire's fracture—an unmaker of seals and lives. Five years from now, he will come again."
Her eyes harden. "If that's true… why warn me?"
"Because shadows alone will not stop him," I say. "We need more than traps and wards. We need cultivators who understand the old ways."
She studies me, the runes on her palms fading to embers. "I am Syra, guardian of these woods. I know Smuggler hunts and wild beasts—but not bone-thread." She shakes her head. "Teach me."
I offer her a nod. "Then we prepare. Together."
She lowers her arms in agreement. "The forest will stand with us."
I press my palm to her shoulder, feeling the hum of her power. "Meet me here each night. We train. We gather allies. We build foundations the rival cannot break."
Syra inclines her head. "I will be here."
We stand side by side in the moonlit clearing—two cultivators bound by a shared purpose. Behind us, the warded circle rests, waiting for the storm to come.
And for the first time, I know I will not face the coming dark alone.