Chapter 17: Tides of Destiny

The forest stretched endlessly before them, a labyrinth of shadows and tangled roots. The mist had thinned slightly, but an eerie quiet still hung in the air, broken only by the rustling of leaves and the occasional call of a night bird. Alaric walked beside Liora, his senses on high alert, while Jorin trailed close behind, his staff clutched tightly.

They had left the clearing behind, the man in the black cloak tied up and left unconscious, though Alaric knew he was far from their only threat. The Zeton pulsed softly in his pocket, a reminder of the power he carried—and the danger that came with it.

Liora led the way with a confident stride, their blades sheathed but within easy reach. Their amber eyes scanned the forest, and Alaric couldn’t help but wonder who this mysterious traveler really was. They had saved his life, but trust was a rare commodity in his world, and he wasn’t sure he could afford to give it so easily.

“Where are we headed now?” Jorin asked, his voice hushed but steady. The young monk’s fear had not entirely vanished, but he held himself with a quiet strength that Alaric admired.

Liora glanced back at them, their expression thoughtful. “We need to find a path that leads out of this forest and into the foothills,” they said. “The city of Tarvos lies beyond the eastern mountains, but the journey will not be easy. Especially now that the Zeton’s presence has been revealed.”

Alaric frowned, his mind racing. “What did that man mean when he said others would come for the Zeton?” he asked. “Who are these people, and why are they so determined to get it?”

Liora’s gaze darkened, and they turned their attention back to the path ahead. “The Zeton is no ordinary relic,” they said. “It was created by the Weavers, an ancient order who understood the threads of time better than any who came before. Their artifacts hold the power to shape reality, and there are many who would use that power for their own gain.”

Alaric’s grip on his dagger tightened. Shape reality. The thought made his blood run cold. “Why me?” he muttered. “I’m just a thief. I’m not... special.”

Liora’s lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn’t reach their eyes. “Fate chooses us all in strange ways,” they said. “Perhaps the Zeton saw something in you that you have yet to see in yourself.”

Alaric opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, Liora raised a hand, signaling for them to stop. They crouched low, their eyes narrowing as they listened to the forest. Alaric and Jorin exchanged a tense glance, and Alaric’s heart began to race.

“What is it?” Jorin whispered, his voice barely audible.

Liora didn’t answer immediately. They moved silently to the edge of a dense thicket and peered through the branches. Alaric followed, careful not to make a sound, and what he saw made his stomach drop.

A group of figures moved through the forest, their forms barely visible in the dim moonlight. They were clad in dark armor, and their movements were unnervingly synchronized, as if they were hunting as one. Alaric counted at least six of them, each armed with blades and crossbows.

“Hunters,” Liora whispered, their voice tight with anger. “Mercenaries trained to track and capture powerful relics. They won’t stop until they have what they came for.”

Alaric’s throat tightened. How did they find us so quickly? He glanced at Jorin, who looked pale but resolute, and he knew they couldn’t afford to be caught.

“What do we do?” Jorin asked, his voice trembling.

Liora’s gaze was steely. “We move carefully,” they said. “Stick to the shadows and make no sound. If they spot us, we’ll have no choice but to fight.”

Alaric’s mind raced. We’re outnumbered and outmatched. But he knew they couldn’t hesitate. “Let’s go,” he whispered, taking the lead as they slipped deeper into the forest, moving as quietly as they could.

The hunters were methodical, their search patterns efficient and relentless. Alaric led Jorin and Liora through the underbrush, every sense straining to avoid detection. The ground was uneven, and branches threatened to snag their clothes, but they pressed on, hearts pounding.

They wove between the trees, their movements silent but urgent. Alaric could hear the mercenaries’ footsteps growing louder, and he gritted his teeth, praying they wouldn’t be discovered. The Zeton pulsed against his leg, a reminder of the power he held—and the price that came with it.

Suddenly, one of the hunters halted, holding up a hand. The others stopped immediately, and the leader—a tall man with a scar running down his cheek—turned his head, listening intently. Alaric froze, his breath caught in his throat. Had they heard them?

The hunter’s eyes narrowed, and he drew his blade, a wicked, curved weapon that gleamed in the moonlight. “Spread out,” he ordered, his voice a low growl. “They’re close.”

Alaric’s pulse roared in his ears. We have to move—now. He gestured for Jorin and Liora to follow, and they slipped away from the clearing, keeping to the thickest shadows. The hunters’ footsteps grew louder, and Alaric knew it was only a matter of time before they were discovered.

But then, Liora grabbed Alaric’s arm, their grip surprisingly strong. “Wait,” they whispered, their eyes glinting with determination. “There’s another way.”

They led Alaric and Jorin to a narrow ravine, its steep sides hidden by thick vegetation. The drop was dizzying, and Alaric’s stomach lurched at the sight. “You want us to climb down there?” he asked, his voice incredulous.

Liora nodded. “It’s our best chance to lose them,” they said. “The ravine leads to a river that flows east. If we follow it, we can escape.”

Alaric glanced at Jorin, who looked terrified but nodded nonetheless. “Alright,” Alaric said, swallowing his fear. “Let’s do it.”

They carefully made their way down the side of the ravine, using roots and rocks as handholds. The descent was treacherous, and more than once, Alaric’s foot slipped, sending a shower of pebbles tumbling into the darkness below. His hands ached, and his heart pounded, but he refused to let go.

Jorin was struggling, his hands trembling as he clung to the roots. Alaric climbed down beside him, offering support. “You’ve got this,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Just a little further.”

Jorin nodded, his face pale but determined. Together, they reached the bottom of the ravine, where the air was cooler and the ground damp. The river Liora had mentioned rushed by, its surface glinting in the moonlight.

Liora joined them, their expression serious. “We need to keep moving,” they said. “The hunters will realize we’re gone soon.”

Alaric didn’t argue. They followed the river east, the sound of the water masking their footsteps. The forest above loomed dark and silent, and Alaric knew they were still being hunted. But for now, they had a chance.

As they walked, Alaric couldn’t help but wonder how long they could keep running. The Zeton was a beacon, drawing enemies from every corner of the world. And as much as he wanted to protect it, he knew they couldn’t do it alone.

Liora’s words echoed in his mind: The Zeton will test you in ways you can’t imagine. Alaric clenched his jaw, determination hardening his resolve. He had to learn how to control the relic’s power—and soon. Because if he didn’t, the price of failure would be more than he could bear.