Faelan made his way back Dorvel and went straight to the messenger's guild.
The building was loud in the way only working places were—boots on stone, clipped voices, parchment sliding across desks. It smelled of ink, sweat, and old leather.
He reported in.
"Message delivered. I ran into some trouble but I'm here now."
He didn't mention the man in the window.
Didn't mention the dagger nor the Orthdra.
Didn't mention how close he'd come to dying, several times.
Lior stood behind the main desk, arms folded, eyes sharp as ever. They flicked over Faelan once—bandaged arm and side, stiff posture, the way he favored one leg. The assessment was quick and silent.
Lior said nothing about it.
He counted out the coin, heavier than Faelan expected, and slid it across the desk. The pouch hit the wood with a dull, solid sound.
"Your payment," Lior said evenly. "Being a messenger is dangerous work. Not too many people want it." A pause, just long enough to matter. "And sometimes not too many people survive it."
Faelan closed his fingers around the pouch.
"…Thank you," he said.
Lior nodded once. "Rest. Take easier runs for a while. Speed means nothing if you don't make it back."
Faelan turned to leave, the coin heavy at his side, his body aching.
As he returned to his dorm room he studied his hands equipped with the scaled knuckle blades.
He'd make a fist and relax his hands.
The glow along the scales would as his hand relaxed, dull and quiet again.
Not fire. Not life.
Just what was left.
Cineris, he thought.
The name felt right.
**Few years earlier**
Faelan moved cautiously through the forest, each step careful and deliberate, eyes darting to shadows and strange movements among the mutated foliage. The air was thick with humidity, and the scent of wet earth and alien flora clung to him, but he ignored it, focusing on survival.
What felt like months had passed since he'd lost himself in the forest. He built shelter, stayed a few days, then moved deeper into the trees. It became his routine.
Every snap of a twig or rustle in the underbrush made him freeze, knife at the ready, but the forest seemed momentarily still. Faelan paused to catch his breath.
As he crouched to nibble on the fruit, his thoughts drifted briefly to the village he had lost. Pain and grief flared, but he shoved them down.
He blinked against the morning light, listening to the forest around him. Psigeons chattered oddly in the distance. A stream of water he had stumbled upon gurgled faintly somewhere nearby.
As he walked it felt like he was being stalked, from the rustle of the leaves to the gnawing feeling he had that he was not alone,he knew well that running from it aimlessly would alert it that he knew he was being followed, faelan didn't have the confidence that he could outrun what it was that was stalking him.
Faelan slowed his pace, forcing his breathing to stay even. Panic itched under his skin, but he buried it. The forest felt… wrong. Patches of dense growth abruptly gave way to bare soil, and then back again, like the land itself couldn't decide what it wanted to be.
The silence came in waves. One moment alive with distant calls and skittering movement—then nothing. No insects. No wind. Just his own footsteps, too loud, too deliberate.
I'm not alone.
A leaf shifted behind him. Not snapped—shifted. Controlled.
Faelan didn't turn. Turning meant confirmation, and confirmation meant fear would take over. His grip tightened on the knife, knuckles whitening. He adjusted his path slightly, angling toward thicker brush, pretending it was coincidence. If something was following him, he needed to know how it followed.
Another rustle. Closer this time. Off to his left.
Whatever it was, it was patient. Smart. It wasn't rushing him like the Loboan had. It was studying him—his pace, his awareness, his hesitation. A predator that knew the forest better than he ever could.
Faelan swallowed, heart pounding hard enough to hurt.
He kept walking, every sense stretched thin, mind racing for options in a world that offered none—while unseen eyes tracked his every step through the warped, breathing forest.
Faelan's steps slowed even further, each one deliberate, soft against the damp earth. He kept his head low, scanning the shadows between the twisted trees, listening for any sign that could betray his stalker. A snapping twig. A faint scuff. A whisper of movement—anything.
A low, almost imperceptible growl curled through the air, vibrating faintly in the ground beneath him. His stomach clenched. Not the Loboan—something else. Something heavier. Smarter. And closer.
He pressed himself against a wide tree trunk, trying to blend into its shadow, muscles coiled like springs ready to snap. The growl came again, this time accompanied by a faint rustling in the leaves above him, like something shifting its weight. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled.
The rustling shifted again—closer, almost directly in front of him. His pulse hammered in his ears. And then, just as suddenly as it started, the forest fell silent.
Too quiet…
Faelan knew better than to breathe too heavily. His survival depended on patience now. The hunter had become his teacher, and every second he lingered was a lesson in stillness and observation.
A shadow detached itself from the underbrush ahead, moving with an unnatural fluidity. Faelan's eyes widened as the creature emerged into the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy.
It was unlike anything he had seen before. A being nearly twice his size on all fours knuckle walking, it had a sleek and muscular physique which seemed built for battle, the body seemed humanoid in its torso, twisted and warped with unnatural proportions. Its skin shimmered faintly, dark with streaks of muted blue, sharp angular facial bones with a unique crest on it's forehead. Its eyes, large and intelligent, bore straight into Faelan's, calculating, sizing him up—not with hunger, but curiosity.
The creature crouched low, moving silently despite its size, tilting its head as though mocking him. Faelan's grip on the knife tightened, knuckles white. Every instinct screamed to run, but he knew that running could trigger it.
The creature took another step, slow, deliberate, and Faelan noticed the way it tilted its long, spindly fingers, as if testing him. It was playing with him—like a predator playing with a particularly interesting meal.
Faelan swallowed hard, forcing his voice to stay steady. "I… I'm not prey," he said, though even he doubted it.
The creature tilted its head, letting out a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the air. Then, to his shock, it spoke—its voice low, guttural, yet strangely coherent. "Interesting…"
Faelan froze. It can… talk?
The creature stepped closer, the ground trembling slightly under its weight. "You're… different. Not afraid enough. Not weak enough. Surviving like this is… rare."
Faelan's mind raced. He could fight—but the chance of winning against this thing was slim. He could run—but the forest might not favor him. And yet, something in the creature's tone hinted at curiosity rather than immediate violence.
Fear and curiosity warred in Faelan's mind. Unable to think like a normal person, he asked as clearly as he could, "Why haven't you killed me?"
The creature stopped.
For the first time since it revealed itself, it didn't move. Its eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in interest. A low, breathy sound escaped it, something between a chuckle and a growl.
"Because," it said slowly, circling Faelan now, boots of bone and sinew making no sound against the forest floor, "you noticed me."
Faelan felt its presence sliding around him like a tightening noose. Every instinct screamed, yet his body remained frozen, knife held low, useless. The creature leaned closer, its face inches from his, breath warm and faintly metallic.
"Most run," it continued. "Some scream. Some beg."
A pause.
"You thought."
It straightened, looming, its shape subtly shifting—muscle tightening, spine elongating just enough to remind Faelan how completely outmatched he was.
"This forest eats the loud and the foolish," it said. "You walk like prey… but your mind moves like a survivor or rather..."
The creature's gaze flicked briefly to Faelan's spine, lingering there a second too long.
The forest seemed to hold its breath.
"For now," the creature finished, stepping back into the shadows, "you are more valuable alive than dead."
Then it melted into the trees—not fleeing, not gone—just watching, leaving Faelan alone with pounding blood, shaking hands… and the terrifying certainty that something powerful had taken an interest in him.
Faelan sank to the forest floor, back pressed against a gnarled tree trunk, knees pulled to his chest. His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, each breath tasting of cold water, mud, and fear. The forest seemed impossibly still now, as if it, too, were holding its breath after the encounter.
What was that…?
The memory of those intelligent, piercing eyes burned in his mind. Not just a predator, not just a creature—but something else. Something that thought. Something that studied him. And the way it had circled him, speaking, almost as if it were testing him… it made his skin crawl.
Faelan's hand trembled as he clutched the knife. He wanted answers. He wanted safety. Most of all, he wanted to understand this world that had just become infinitely more dangerous, and infinitely more alive.
He forced himself to stand, every muscle protesting, and glanced toward the path the creature had disappeared into. The forest beyond seemed darker now, twisted more unnaturally, as if aware that he had been marked.
Faelan moved cautiously, each step deliberate as the forest seemed to close in around him. The strange sense of being followed lingered at the edges of his awareness, a subtle pressure that set his nerves on edge—but oddly, it also gave him a grim comfort. He wasn't completely alone, even if he didn't want another encounter with that thing.
As he walked, he muttered under his breath, words more for himself than anyone else. "Just… just find a safe spot. At least for tonight." The sound of his own voice echoed faintly through the trees, but there was no reply. No rustle, no growl—only the forest and his own ragged breathing.
Eventually, he stumbled across a small clearing, oddly serene compared to the twisted chaos of the forest around it. Plants grew in clusters here that seemed almost… safe. Thick, waxy leaves overhead formed natural canopies, blocking the sunlight into soft, diffuse patches. Stems and branches were strong, pliable, and ideal for constructing something that could keep him out of the wet and cold.
Faelan knelt to inspect the area, gathering broad leaves, twisted vines, and fallen branches. The air smelled faintly sweet, almost medicinal, unlike the usual acrid tang of the forest.
While constructing, he couldn't help glancing around constantly, knife in hand, ears straining for the faintest hint of his unseen observer. "It's there… I know it's there," he muttered to himself, tying a vine tight around a branch. "But… I can't let it stop me."
By the time he finished, the shelter was small, but sturdy and hidden well among the unusual plants. Faelan sank inside, exhausted, the knife resting across his lap. The forest was quiet—eerily so—but tonight, at least, he had a place to rest.
He made his shelter rather sturdy and slightly more comfortable than his last one, Faelan felt proud of himself for it.
He could hear the movements outside his shelter, he hoped it was his stalker rather than something else.
For some reason he drifted off to sleep easier this time,was it because off activities of the day,or maybe he's used to the forest now, he couldn't tell.
Neither was true. He woke before dawn, something crawling over his body. It smelled sweet, almost pleasant—but the moment it touched his skin, a strange sensation flared. The longer the vine clung to him, the stronger it became, until it burned.
Then it dawned on him.
The forest wasn't peaceful. It was a trap.
Faelan jerked awake, snapping upright as the strange, sticky vine coiled tighter around his arm. The sweet scent lingered in the air, almost intoxicating, and his skin prickled violently where it touched, sending a burning wave that pulsed up his arm. Pain and panic shot through him as he realized this was no ordinary plant—it was alive, aware, and hunting him.