Chapter 15: Prepare Yourselves

The forest had grown even darker, the dense canopy overhead blotting out the moonlight. Alaric and Jorin sat in their thicket, the silence pressing down on them like a heavy blanket. Every rustle of leaves and distant crack of a branch made Alaric’s heart jump, his hand never straying far from his dagger.

“We can’t stay here,” Jorin whispered, his voice barely audible. His face was pale, and dark shadows rimmed his eyes. “If that man finds us again...”

Alaric nodded, the Zeton heavy in his pocket. “I know,” he replied, his voice equally low. The fire from earlier had left a trail, and the man in the black cloak was a determined hunter. They needed to put as much distance between themselves and their pursuer as possible.

Standing, Alaric helped Jorin to his feet, the young monk leaning heavily on his staff. The exhaustion was clear on Jorin’s face, but there was a stubborn determination there as well. They didn’t have the luxury of resting any longer, not with danger so close on their heels.

“Keep your steps light,” Alaric advised, leading the way. He moved quietly, years of experience as a thief coming back to him in a rush. The forest was a maze of shadows and obstacles, but he knew how to move unseen.

Jorin did his best to follow, though he stumbled more than once on roots and uneven ground. Alaric kept a careful eye on him, ready to help if needed. Despite their dire situation, he felt a surge of admiration for the young monk’s resolve. Jorin had been thrust into a world of danger and uncertainty, but he hadn’t broken.

The forest began to change as they pressed on. The air grew cooler, and mist drifted between the trees, clinging to their clothes and skin. The ground sloped downward, and Alaric realized they were descending into a valley. The path was treacherous, and he had to slow their pace to avoid slipping.

“Where are we going?” Jorin asked, his voice strained.

Alaric glanced over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the dark forest behind them. “Somewhere he can’t follow,” he said. He didn’t know if it was true, but he had to believe there was a place where they could lose their pursuer. If we keep moving, we have a chance.

The mist thickened as they descended, muffling the sounds of the forest and wrapping them in an eerie stillness. Alaric couldn’t tell if it was a blessing or a curse—on one hand, it hid them from view, but on the other, it made it nearly impossible to hear anyone approaching.

They reached the valley floor, and the trees grew taller, their trunks twisted and gnarled. The mist pooled around their feet, and Alaric felt an unsettling sense of isolation. He tightened his grip on his dagger, the Zeton pulsing faintly in his pocket.

“Are we... safe?” Jorin asked, his voice trembling.

Alaric hesitated, his instincts screaming that something wasn’t right. “I don’t know,” he admitted. The valley felt wrong, like a place lost to time. But they couldn’t go back, not with the threat of the man in the black cloak so close.

They pushed forward, their footsteps swallowed by the mist. The silence was oppressive, and Alaric found himself glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting to see their pursuer emerging from the fog. But the shadows remained still, and he forced himself to focus on the path ahead.

Suddenly, a faint light flickered in the distance. Alaric’s heart skipped a beat, and he grabbed Jorin’s arm, pulling him to a stop. “Did you see that?” he whispered.

Jorin’s eyes widened, and he nodded. “Yes. What is it?”

Alaric’s mind raced. A campfire? A trap? They had to be careful, but the possibility of help was too tempting to ignore. He motioned for Jorin to stay low, and they crept forward, moving as quietly as possible.

The light grew brighter, and they emerged into a small clearing. A fire crackled in the center, and a lone figure sat beside it, wrapped in a thick cloak. The person’s face was obscured by the shadows of their hood, but they appeared to be cooking something over the flames.

Alaric’s grip on his dagger tightened, and he exchanged a wary glance with Jorin. This could be our pursuer—or someone just as dangerous. But before they could retreat, the figure spoke, their voice calm and even.

“You can come out,” the stranger said. “I mean you no harm.”

Alaric’s heart skipped a beat. The voice was neither hostile nor friendly, but it held a confidence that made him uneasy. He stepped into the clearing, his dagger at the ready. “Who are you?” he demanded, his tone guarded.

The stranger tilted their head, and the firelight glinted off a pair of deep, amber eyes. “A traveler,” they replied. “Much like yourselves. But you seem lost—and hunted.”

Alaric didn’t lower his weapon. “How do you know that?”

The stranger’s lips curved into a small smile. “Because you carry something that draws predators,” they said, their gaze flicking to Alaric’s pocket. “The Zeton, if I’m not mistaken.”

Jorin stiffened, and Alaric’s pulse quickened. How does this person know about the Zeton? “Who are you?” Alaric demanded again, his voice edged with fear.

The stranger reached up, pushing back their hood to reveal a striking face framed by long, dark hair. They looked to be in their thirties, with sharp features and an air of mystery that sent a chill down Alaric’s spine. “My name is Liora,” they said. “And I’ve been tracking the Zeton for a long time.”

Alaric’s jaw clenched. “If you’re after the relic, you’re wasting your time,” he said. “I’m not handing it over.”

Liora’s amber eyes softened, and they leaned back, their hands open in a gesture of peace. “I’m not here to take it from you,” they said. “But I can help you understand it—if you’re willing to listen.”

Alaric exchanged a skeptical look with Jorin. They had been on the run for so long, and trusting a stranger seemed like the worst idea imaginable. But something about Liora’s calm demeanor, the way they seemed to understand the Zeton’s power, made Alaric hesitate.

“How do you know about the Zeton?” he asked, his voice low.

Liora’s smile was faint but knowing. “Because I once sought it myself,” they said. “The Zeton has a history longer than you can imagine, and its power is both a gift and a curse. If you wish to control it, you must understand the forces that created it.”

Jorin’s eyes widened with curiosity and hope. “Can you really help us?” he asked, his voice tinged with desperation.

Liora’s gaze flicked to Jorin, and their expression softened. “Perhaps,” they said. “But knowledge comes at a price. The Zeton is not a tool to be wielded lightly. It will test you, and the consequences of failure are... severe.”

Alaric’s mind raced. Could this person really help us? Or is this just another trap? The fire crackled between them, and the mist swirled around the clearing, adding to the sense of unreality.

Before Alaric could respond, a sound shattered the quiet—a harsh, guttural shout from somewhere in the woods. The man in the black cloak had found them.

Liora’s eyes darkened, and they stood smoothly, drawing a pair of slender, curved blades from beneath their cloak. “It seems our conversation will have to wait,” they said, their voice cold and focused. “Prepare yourselves.”

Alaric’s heart raced, and he drew his dagger, the Zeton pulsing with energy. Jorin raised his staff, his face pale but determined. The fire cast long shadows, and the clearing felt like a fragile island in a sea of darkness.

The man in the black cloak stepped into the clearing, his crossbow aimed at Alaric. His eyes gleamed with a predatory hunger, and his lips curled into a cruel smile. “You’ve led me on quite the chase,” he sneered. “But it ends here.”

Liora stepped between Alaric and the stranger, their blades glinting in the firelight. “Not if I have anything to say about it,” they said, their voice deadly calm.

The air was thick with tension, and Alaric’s grip on his dagger tightened. The Zeton pulsed harder, and he knew that whatever happened next would change everything.

The fight for their survival had only just begun.