The week passed in a rare and fragile calm.
For the first time since they had fled the castle, the group found themselves settling into something that resembled a rhythm. Within the sanctuary of the Shadowkin village, nestled beneath ancient canopies and cradled by towering trees, they were no longer fugitives—at least not for now. They became part of something slower, quieter, and unexpectedly healing.
Selena grew closer to Ariwin with each passing day. The pregnant Shadowkin woman, with her kind eyes and soft laughter, had a gentle presence that soothed Selena's weary heart. They cooked together under the sprawling branches of Anikin's house-tree, traded stories of their lands, and laughed like sisters.
One afternoon, as the scent of herbs and roasted root vegetables filled the air, Arya leaned against the wooden doorway and smirked.
"You two are becoming inseparable," she teased, arms folded. "Starting to think she's replacing me."
Selena chuckled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "She's not replacing anyone," she said softly, looking at Arya. "But I won't lie—it's nice… having someone like this again."
Arya smiled, her teasing eyes softening with understanding. "I get it. Just don't forget about me when you two start braiding each other's hair and finishing each other's sentences."
Meanwhile, Kael had taken to impressing Anikin with his elemental control. In a secluded glade behind the main house, he stood before the old Shadowkin with Stormclaw crouched beside him, eyes gleaming. With a low chant, Kael summoned three elements at once—crackling flame in one palm, water spinning in ribbons around his arm, and shards of earth lifting beneath his feet.
Anikin's brows rose in awe. "So humans can wield multiple gifts," he murmured. "This changes things…"
Kael grinned. "Told you I was special."
Elsewhere, Luther found himself alone beneath the twilight sky. He stared up at the stars, his thoughts drifting to Markas—his friend, his brother-in-arms. What would he think, seeing Luther now? Standing beside Markas's widow, protecting her… wanting her. The guilt was heavy, the longing heavier.
He didn't speak it aloud, but the truth weighed in his chest: I wish I could ask you what to do, Markas. Because I'm falling for her… and I don't know if that's right.
⸻
A few days later, the peace shattered.
It was late afternoon. The air was cool, touched by the scent of blooming flowers and damp earth. Ariwin had gone to gather herbs not far from the village, humming quietly, a woven basket swinging from her elbow. Farakin had insisted on accompanying her—perhaps still cautious after recent events, or perhaps just unwilling to let her wander alone.
They never expected what awaited them.
"Stay close," he said softly. "Something doesn't feel right."
Ariwin turned, brow furrowed. "You're just being—"
Then came the snap of a twig.
Farakin whipped around.
Figures emerged from the shadows—dozens. Clad in jagged black armor that shimmered oddly in the dappled light. Armor not forged in any forge, but pieced together from the remnants of something far more sinister. Skins of fallen Shadowkin. The armor pulsed with an unnatural stillness, deflecting the ambient magic around it like oil repelling water.
They carried no staffs, no arcane tools. Only cold steel. Long, curved blades. Spears. Daggers. Nets weighted with barbed hooks.
Northern humans.
Ariwin gasped, backing into Farakin. "No… no, not again…"
Farakin stepped in front of her, summoning the wind with a cry and thrusting his palm forward. A blast surged toward the intruders, swirling leaves and branches—only to break harmlessly against their armor. It fizzled, scattered. The soldiers didn't even flinch.
One of them grinned through a rusted helmet. "Your tricks don't work on us anymore."
Farakin roared, charging. His blade met steel, scraping against the human's armor with a shriek. He dodged a spear, parried another blade, and sent one attacker sprawling with a heavy kick. His movements were fast, fluid, the elemental tattoos across his skin glowing faintly with each strike.
The attackers surrounded him, but he moved like a storm—calling on the wind to boost his speed, the earth to shift under their feet. He plunged his blade into one man's throat, twisted, and yanked it free, blood spraying across his chest.
Ariwin tried to run—but two men cut her off. She threw a burst of air at them, knocking them back for only a moment. Then a net flew through the air, weighted with iron spikes. It struck her shoulder and wrapped around her. She screamed.
Farakin saw her fall. "Ariwin!"
The attackers overwhelmed him, driving him to the dirt. One drove a sword into his side and twisted. Blood gushed from the wound as Farakin cried out in agony.
"No!" Ariwin shrieked.
"Don't kill him," one soldier said.
But the commanding officer—his face half-covered in a helmet made from dark, cracked chitin—stepped forward, blade resting on his shoulder. He glanced at Farakin's collapsed form with disinterest.
"He's useless. Let him bleed. He'll be dead by nightfall."
Ariwin's eyes went wide. "Please—no! Don't leave him!"
The captain ignored her, nodding to his men. "Take the woman. The others will want to see how she reacts to the Icehart."
A net tightened around her, and she was dragged screaming through the undergrowth. Farakin, face half-buried in dirt, watched helplessly, blood seeping from his wounds, vision blurring.
He carved one last shaking rune into the soil—his plea to the wind and earth for help.
Then everything faded to black.