Miles woke to the feeling of being watched.
Not the casual, harmless kind of watched—this was heavier. Intentional. Like a weight pressing between his shoulder blades. He blinked, disoriented for a moment before remembering the ceiling of glowing wooden veins above him and the soft pulse of the Heartroot hollow.
Lysara was already awake.
She sat near the entrance, body still, bow across her lap, face turned toward the faint light drifting through the moss curtain. In the pale glow, her silhouette looked carved from moonlight and shadow.
"You didn't sleep," Miles whispered.
"I rested," she corrected softly.
"That's not the same thing."
"For elves, it is enough."
Miles groaned as he sat up. "Is it still out there?"
Her gaze flicked toward him. "Yes."
Great.
He rubbed his eyes. "Can you tell what it is yet?"
"Not yet." She tilted her head slightly, listening. "Its presence is muffled by the Heartroot's aura, but it lingers. Patient."
Miles's skin prickled. "So it's waiting for us to leave."
"That is my guess." She rose smoothly, bow in hand. "We will not give it the opportunity."
Miles scrambled to his feet. "Meaning… what? We stay in here all day?"
"No. Meaning we move differently."
That didn't sound comforting.
She gestured to the small stone stand carved from the floor. "Eat."
On the slab sat two pieces of something that looked like dried fruit but smelled like honey and mint. Miles picked one up hesitantly. "What is it?"
"Gladesap rations. Nourishing. Harmless."
He sniffed it again. "Harmless to who, exactly? Elves? Humans? People who've lived here for a thousand years?"
Her mouth curved faintly. "You worry too much."
"You worry too little."
"I am armed and alert," she said. "You are chewing slowly."
He stopped mid-bite. "…Fair."
The ration tasted surprisingly sweet and refreshing, dissolving in his mouth without residue. As he ate, warmth spread through his limbs, clearing the fog in his head.
The System chimed faintly:
[Nutritional Boost Detected]
[Body Condition: Stabilized]
[Fatigue Reduced]
Miles blinked. "That's new."
"What?"
"It just gave me a… health update, I guess."
Lysara lifted an eyebrow. "Your System cares for your well-being more closely than most."
"Hasn't felt like it so far."
"It guided you to me, did it not?"
He paused. "…Fair enough."
Lysara adjusted the strap on her quiver, then knelt beside the glowing pool, brushing a hand along its edge. The wood responded with a gentle ripple of light.
"The Heartroot allows us passage," she murmured. "But we must leave soon."
Miles swallowed. "And the thing watching us?"
"It will follow," she said plainly. Then, after a beat: "But we will not let it catch us."
Not reassuring.
Before he could question her, the moss curtain at the entrance rippled—just slightly. No wind. No movement. Just… awareness.
Lysara's posture sharpened. "Prepare yourself."
"For what?"
"For whatever shape the danger chooses."
He felt a surge of helpless frustration wash through him. "I don't even know how to prepare! I don't have a weapon—"
"Yes, you do."
She motioned to the materials shelf.
Miles blinked. "You want me to craft something?"
"You have the gift. Use it."
His pulse quickened. "I don't even know what to make."
"Then listen to your skill." She turned fully toward him. "The System will guide you as far as you allow it."
He hesitated. "And if I make something useless?"
"You will learn." Her voice softened. "And I will defend us."
He took a shaky breath and walked toward the wall of materials. The moment he stepped close, the System interface flickered into view.
[Adaptive Crafting Activated]
[Available Materials: Lumishard Sap, Miststone Fragments, Gladefiber Bark, Rootsteel Threads]
[Recommended Project Complexity: Low–Moderate]
Rootsteel Threads?
Miles scanned until he found them: thin strands coiled on a wooden peg, shimmering like metal but woven like plant fiber.
"That wasn't here yesterday," he murmured.
"I placed them for you," Lysara said. "Rootsteel holds enchantments better than common wood."
"I don't know how to enchant things."
"You do not need to. The Heartroot taints the threads—just enough."
Miles's stomach twisted. "Taints? Should I really be touching that?"
"You will be fine."
Not comforting.
Still, he picked up the coil.
The moment his fingers closed around it, heat tingled through his skin—like static, except deeper, running into his bones. The System pulsed.
[Material Identified: Rootsteel Thread]
[Potential Use: Binding / Reinforcement / Lightweight Support]
[Recommended Pairing: Miststone Fragment]
Miles glanced at the small bowl of Miststone pieces—smooth white pebbles etched with faint swirling lines.
His chest tightened. "It wants me to make something specific."
"Then begin."
He sat cross-legged on the floor, the materials spread before him. His fingers moved automatically—guided by instinct, the System's nudges, and a growing sense of clarity he wasn't sure entirely belonged to him.
Rootsteel Thread twisted.
Miststone nestled within it.
Gladefiber bark formed a flexible support.
Lumishard sap sealed joints with glowing rivulets.
His breath deepened into a steady rhythm.
Then—without fully realizing how—he held an object in his hands.
A small device. Lightweight. Smooth. Palm-sized. One rounded end and one tapered. The Miststone core pulsed gently inside its woven cage of Rootsteel.
Lysara crouched beside him, eyes wide. "What is that?"
Miles stared at it, surprised and unsure. "I… don't know."
The System supplied the answer.
[Item Created: Echo Pulse Charm]
[Effect: Emits a short-range vibration revealing hidden movement and nearby life signatures]
[Durability: Moderate]
[Resonance: Stable]
[Crafting Proficiency Increased]
Lysara's brows rose elegantly. "That is not a common tool."
"I've never seen anything like it," Miles said. "But I think… if I squeeze it, it'll send out a pulse."
"Then we save it," she warned. "Use only when needed. The forest responds to magic."
He nodded—and tucked the charm into his borrowed belt.
A shadow crossed the entrance.
Both snapped their gazes toward it.
The moss parted slightly—only an inch, maybe less—but it was enough to reveal a sliver of darkness outside. Not the dim blue of the Glades. Not night, not shadow.
Something else.
Something watching.
Lysara rose, bow drawn. The root-woven walls thrummed with tension.
"Miles," she murmured, voice low. "Stay behind me."
He didn't argue.
The curtain rustled once more, then stilled.
No footsteps.
No retreat.
Just silence.
Miles whispered, "It knows we're leaving."
"It does."
"And it's waiting for us."
Lysara didn't deny it.
Instead, she breathed deeply, lifted her chin, and stepped toward the entrance.
"Take only what you made," she said. "And stay close. Do not run, no matter what shape the shadows take."
Miles swallowed hard and followed her out.
The morning light in the Glades was wrong.
Not warm, or bright, or comforting.
Thin beams of silver speared through the branches, carrying more chill than heat. Mist curled low around the roots. Leaves twitched despite the still air.
The forest felt like a held breath.
Lysara moved carefully but confidently along the winding path, guiding him through narrow arches of roots and spiraling trunks. Miles stayed close behind, fingers brushing the new charm at his belt.
"Where are we going?" he whispered.
"To the outer trail," she said. "If we reach the ridge, the thing tracking you will not risk open ground."
"And if we don't reach it?"
"Then we improvise."
Not the answer he wanted.
Halfway along a fallen log bridge, Miles froze.
A sound echoed through the trees—low and distant, like a faint groan of shifting stone. Not Shadehounds. Not wind. Something deeper.
"What was that?" he whispered.
Lysara didn't answer immediately. She listened, head tilted.
Then: "A warning."
"From the forest?"
"No." Her voice dropped. "From it."
Miles's blood ran cold. "Should we use the charm?"
"Not yet. If it reacts to the pulse, it could strike."
They continued down the path until the trees thinned. The ridge they sought appeared ahead—a steep rise covered in moss and climbing roots.
Miles almost felt relief.
Almost.
Then the path behind them darkened.
Not gradually.
All at once.
A shadow thickened between the trees, pooling like spilled ink that pulled itself upward, stretching tall and thin. No eyes. No mouth. Just a silhouette wrong in shape, wrong in movement, twisting like smoke and limbs and suggestion.
Miles's heart slammed against his ribs. "Lysara—"
"I see it."
The thing stepped forward without sound.
The forest dimmed around it.
Lysara drew her bow. "Back away slowly."
Miles's pulse hammered. Every instinct screamed to run—fast and far. But Lysara's command cut through his panic, anchoring him.
The shadow took another step.
The System flared in his vision:
[Unknown Entity Detected]
[Threat Level: Severe]
[Distance: Closing]
[Recommendation: Defensive Action Required]
Without thinking, Miles grabbed the Echo Pulse Charm.
Lysara hissed, "Not—"
But it was too late.
His fingers squeezed the device.
A shockwave erupted outward—silent but visible, rippling through the mist like a ring of distorted light.
The forest reacted instantly.
Trees moaned. Leaves shuddered. The ground trembled faintly.
And the shadow—
Screeched.
Not with sound—but with a jagged ripple of reality, its form spasming, splitting, convulsing against the echo. It staggered backward, limbs bending in impossible angles.
Lysara seized Miles's wrist. "Move!"
They ran.
For the first time since he arrived, Miles didn't feel lost. His feet moved with desperate clarity, the System flashing warnings and arrows in the corner of his vision.
Behind them, the shadow regained its shape—and followed.
Fast.
Too fast.
"We won't make the ridge!" Miles gasped.
"No," Lysara agreed. "But we will make something else."
"What?"
She grabbed him by the arm and yanked him toward a cluster of intertwined roots forming a natural archway.
"The Strayshade Crossing," she said. "Hold your breath."
"Why—?"
"Now!"
Miles sucked in air as Lysara shoved them through the arch.
A jolt like static lightning tore across his skin. The world blurred—colors melting, sounds distorting, his stomach flipping like he'd stepped through a sudden drop.
Then—
Silence.
Miles gasped, stumbling to his knees on unfamiliar ground.
The forest around them had changed.
Lighter.
Calmer.
Less… aware.
Lysara lowered her bow, breathing hard. "We are safe."
Miles wheezed, "Where the hell are we?"
She looked out across the pale green clearing, branches high above stirring with gentle wind.
"Somewhere the shadow cannot cross."
Miles leaned back, heart pounding, sweat chilling on his skin.
"That… thing," he whispered. "What was it?"
Lysara stared into the forest they'd escaped.
"Not a creature," she said quietly. "Not a spirit. Something worse."
"What's worse?"
"A seeker," she murmured. "A hunter of anomalies." She looked toward him. "It came for you."
Miles swallowed, throat tight. "Why?"
Lysara met his shaking gaze.
"Because," she said, "you are not supposed to be here. And the world knows it."