I submerge into the cold river again.

  The instant my head breaks the surface, the sound of the forest vanishes—cut off cleanly, replaced by the muffled, deep hum of the river current flowing around me. My hands move in tight, frantic circles, nails digging into the scalp with a kind of fury that borders on punishment, scraping until the skin beneath burns raw. I keep going even when I resurface, scrubbing away at arms, face, neck, chest—anywhere I can reach.

  But no matter how hard I clean, the feeling won’t leave me.

  The filth isn’t skin-deep.

  "Calm down, Harv. You’re already clean," Olev says from the bank. "You’ve been at it for nearly half an hour."

  I say nothing.

  The words don’t register—not really. My hands are still moving as I wade toward the shore, fingers prying at the corners of my eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth—trying to clean inside. I half-expect something red to come out again, something thick and clotted. But there’s nothing. Just water. Still, the sensation lingers. Like I’m stained from within.

  I reach the pack I left under a tree and pull out my spare set of clothes. A towel comes first—rough and dry. A few quick swipes and I’m mostly dry, then dressed. I glance toward the rocks where the old clothes lie spread out, half-dry in the breeze. Washed thoroughly.

  And still red.

  The moment they touched the river, blood seeped out in long, lazy streams—forming crimson rings that expanded slowly, stubbornly, accusingly. I washed them again. And again. Still stained. Still ruined. Once dark gray, now tainted with the kind of red that doesn’t fade.

  Maybe I should just leave them here.

  I stand there, staring at the bundle. Why am I even considering taking them back? I’ll throw them out the moment we’re back in Rockwall anyway. They’re ruined. Beyond saving.

  A few people pass by and their eyes drift toward me. Some stare. Some whisper. I catch glimpses of their expressions—uneasy, guarded. Someone points.

  I stare at them until they disappear further away.

  "You should take them." Olev interrupts my thoughts "You don’t have a third set, right?"

  "Only the one on me." I replied with a shake of my head.

  "You don’t have to wear them. But keep them just as a backup."

  He’s right.

  I nod and raise a hand, weaving a gentle [Fireball], modified into a heat orb. It hovers low, radiating just enough warmth to finish drying the blood-stained set. Minutes pass before I fold the clothes and stuff them into the bottom of my pack—tucked out of sight. Out of mind.

  We start walking again—back to where we left Joe and the injured. The trees close in overhead, a green tunnel filled with the scent of wet bark and churned earth. My thoughts, however, drift elsewhere.

  The skill.

  The reverberation.

  I begin cycling mana into the dagger in my hand as I walk.

  Olev warned me about the cost. Said it drains mana.

  I underestimated exactly how much.

  Even with my not-small reserves, I barely managed to hold it for a few minutes. It’s not like the standard mana blade—I can summon that with a thought and keep it active for hours. This new skill... it’s different.

  Slower.

  Heavier.

  Alive.

  Bell.

  The image forms in my mind: a massive bell hanging in an endless void.

  Bell!

  BELL!

  Dagger begins to vibrate. The buzz returns, but I kill the skill after a second. I don’t want to exhaust myself.

  Still too slow.

  Five seconds from thought to activation. In combat, that’s an eternity.

  The first time I used it, it was instant.

  So... it can be fast. That means the delay isn’t a requirement—it’s something I’m doing wrong.

  I try again.

  Buzz.

  Still slow.

  Olev did say that it was more of a feeling than fine-grain control... Maybe the feeling I’m using is wrong?

  That’s ridiculous.

  It's exactly the opposite of what I’ve been taught!

  Skills and spells still follow the same universal rules!

  Mana is not an emotional mumbo-jumbo with rainbows and butterflies, where one who is more angry and screams louder is stronger.

  It’s a precise science that requires analysis, patience, and dedication. Even if there are people who somehow can use magic without understanding the exact process behind it, magic is still magic.

  How magic works doesn’t change because of our perception of it!

  The sun is the sun.

  The moon is the moon.

  And no mental gymnastics, contemplation, feelings, or change in the naming convention will alter their objective property and behavior.

  You can’t just claim the sun doesn’t exist because you don’t believe in it!

  Same with magic!

  There are rules and patterns which govern this skill’s behavior and I just haven’t determined them yet. And the first step in understanding it is to determine what affects it. And it would be great if there was someone who could guide me here, but as always everything has to be done the hard way.

  Brute force and repetition.

  As always.

  I try again—this time shifting the axis of oscillation.

  Buzz.

  Same.

  Damn.

  Maybe it’s not the axis—maybe the uniformity of mana flow?

  But the thought doesn’t finish before the tree line breaks open.

  We arrive.

  Rows of injured lie scattered on the forest floor—some groaning, some deathly still. Healers move among them, focused, frantic, desperate. Mana glows softly over torn flesh, sealing what they can, when they can.

  My eyes shift to the other side of the clearing.

  The dead.

  Seventeen bodies, laid in two neat rows.

  Seventeen.

  Some might say that, out of several hundred, that’s not a high number. Less than half a percent. Barely a statistical blip. But that’s the kind of thinking you do from behind a desk, far away from the stench of blood and the sound of wheezing lungs.

  Seventeen people.

  Seventeen stories.

  Careers. Families. Names.

  Gone.

  Joe spots us from the edge of the clearing and makes his way over. His eyes moving around. The emotions on his face are hard to parse through.

  He reaches us and stops, taking in the scene with a glance that lasts too long.

  "A third of my supplies are gone," he mutters.

  My brows knit. "What do you mean gone? Stolen?"

  He shakes his head, voice low.

  "No. Sold. Paid for. But we haven’t even reached the destination. And we still have to come back." His hand flexes around his bow. "If things continue like this... I won’t have enough left."

  I frown. "Isn’t that good for you? From a business perspective? Less supply, more demand. You can raise the prices."

  His eyes pan over the dead, injured, and then everyone else standing nearby.

  "In situations like this it’ll only create unnecessary animosity," His voice whispered. "Gold is useless to the dead."

  My eyes shoot wide.

  Shit.

  I didn’t look at it that way.

  Joe’s skilled-but he’s still only Tier 2. And while most of the people in the expedition are also Tier 2 with few rare 3’s here and there, their sheer number is a problem.

  What happens when the wounded grow desperate and he can’t provide? What happens when fear outweighs reason? All it takes is one group deciding they need his bag more than he does. Desperate people aren’t rational and irrational people so far away from the city can do irrational things.

  And I’m the one who dragged him into this.

  "Don’t leave our sight," I said. "Stay close. We’ll watch your back."

  He looks at me—long and unreadable.

  Then nods.

  "Thanks."

  Olev places a hand on his shoulder. "Stay near," he echoes. "We—"

  He stops.

  A group of adventurers, a dozen or so, stomp past us. No words. Just footsteps and tense shoulders. Headed back to the city.

  Soldiers sneer at their backs. The injured don’t even look at them.

  Cowards, some might say.

  But I can’t blame them.

  Orcs that appear from thin air? Magic blades in the hands of monsters? Surprise attacks in broad daylight?

  That’s unheard off.

  It doesn’t matter if the job pays well, it’s not worth your life.

  Some part of me demands that I join the leaving adventurers, that it’s the smart thing to do, that a smith shouldn’t be hunting orcs

  But another part answers back. Louder. Hotter.

  Is this it?

  Is this where Harv Livar stops and runs away like a rat?

  Less than a shadow of the man Harv Navarus was.

  No.

  No.

  My chest burns, emotions twisted in a knot I can’t untangle—shame, rage, pride, guilt. Conviction.

  I will NOT run.

  These pests are a decease.

  And I shall be the cure.

  I draw a deep breath, rework the mana around the dagger into a layered pattern.

  Buzz.

  Four seconds.

  Still too slow.

  But I’m getting closer.

  ...

  "Harv, are you okay?" Olev asks as he drives his blade into the neck of a twitching, blood-soaked orc sprawled across the forest floor.

  "I’m fine," I reply flatly, eyes scanning the tree line with sharp, erratic movements.

  Just trees. Just forest.

  But we’ve learned the hard way that ‘just’ is rarely what it seems anymore.

  "You don’t look fine," Olev mutters, his gaze flicking over the carnage near me. "Your eyes are bloodshot. And you’re... excessive."

  "I said I’m fine."

  He lets it drop. Doesn't press. Just moves on, quietly dispatching the dying remnants still choking on their own blood. Cleaning up the battlefield.

  Meanwhile, something simmers in me. A soup of emotion that hasn’t stopped bubbling since the first ambush. Some of it I can label—grief, fury, fear. But some of it is a formless mess I can’t pin down.

  And now, added to the swirl, is confusion—a sharper, colder thread that cuts deeper with every passing fight.

  Since when can every orc use mana?

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  It makes no sense.

  Sure, there are orc shamans—magic specialists. They’re not unheard of. They sling curses, cast rudimentary spells, maybe even set traps. But they’re physically weak. That’s the tradeoff.

  Then there are the aberrations. Rare, terrifying blends of muscle and magic. Exceptionally dangerous. But rare.

  These orcs, though? The ones we’ve been fighting for the past few days? They’re all using mana. Not one or two—all of them. Crude and wasteful, sure. But they’re wielding blades wrapped in unstable mana like it’s normal.

  It’s not.

  This kind of proficiency doesn’t just appear overnight. It requires study. Repetition. Deep knowledge. Years of work, from both teacher and student.

  And yet... here we are.

  Even if someone had smuggled the Empire’s entire library of arcane theory into their grubby hands, it wouldn't spread this fast. We would've seen warning signs. There would've been reports. Whispered rumors at the very least.

  But this? This is new. And worse—no one saw it coming.

  Yes, their control is sloppy, and most of the adventurers still outclass them. But power isn’t just about control. It’s also about volume. And these bastards are pushing a lot of mana around.

  The reason orcs have never been considered a major threat is simple: if you had even moderate mana discipline, you could carve through them like butter.

  Mana is the great divider. A chasm between the weak and the truly dangerous.

  But now? If mana no longer divides us... if they’ve bridged that gap...

  Then the old rules don’t apply.

  I take a deep breath.

  The only reason I still have an upper hand in the engagements is that I very conveniently learned ‘Oscillation Blade’. If that hadn’t occurred, I’m not sure how the very first clash would’ve ended...

  And now that I think of it, why the hell has no one in the clan ever taught this skill?

  Yes, its mana cost is insane compared to the damage output, but the results speak for themselves! It is a VERY powerful skill!

  So why did I never hear about it in the clan? While the army academy has it mandatory in their curriculum. Which means that-

  I close my eyes and exhale slowly.

  When I open them again and glance down at my clothes. I’ve done my best to keep the blood off me, but now this set of clothes looks even worse than the one I originally was thinking of discarding. And the smell... the smell is indescribable... and there’s no river nearby to wash in...

  Great.

  "We should join back up with the main team." says Joe while cutting off the last set of ears from the corpses around us.

  I walk over and drop the ones I collected into the sack he’s holding. Our collective team results will be provided to the senior officer. He will count them all and add another number in his book, while we get a small receipt with his signature on it.

  Bureaucracy is as strong as ever, even so far away from civilization.

  My eyes move to the sky and the gathering clouds in the distance. That doesn’t look good.

  And yet the expedition must march on. There’s still no answer as to how the orcs keep slipping past the scouts, past the spells designed to detect them.

  And yet not once was there any signal or sign that an attack was coming.

  Even if [Echo Pulse] theoretically can find them in concealment, its radius is quite limited and using it often would quickly eat through the mana reserves. But if orcs get close enough for them to be found that way, things are already very grim.

  Mana blades. Concealment.

  I think that’s just the tip of the iceberg and there are other things that we still don’t know about.

  The worst part?

  We’re the ones pushing into their territory. That’s why we keep getting ambushed. A crowd of sitting ducks just waiting to be shot. And if the weather gets worse... it may not end well for us...

  Terrain, environment, familiarity with the area... none of those are in our favor...

  And no one’s talking about turning back anymore. They all know: leaving now is a suicide. At least in the herd, there’s some safety in numbers.

  My eyes fall to the mangled bodies of the orcs.

  And still, somehow, we’re winning.

  Am I just being paranoid? Reading too much into all of this?

  Then a question creeps in, unwanted, but persistent: Could one of these corpses have killed Oldie, James, or Num?

  Unlikely.

  But not impossible.

  The one who did it might already be dead. Just another body cooling in the mud. And I'm just chasing ghosts.

  Or they may still be alive.

  These pests may still be somewhere in the forest, waiting for their next victim.

  ...

  The moon finally appears from behind the clouds and illuminates the forest in a soft blue glow. Clouds have been appearing more and more these past few days, and the temperature also seems to be dropping. During the day barely a third of the blue sky was visible. In a day or two, it may start raining.

  But the bad news don’t end there. The Army had unilaterally decided to extend the length of the quest, citing the significantly higher number of orcs that they expected. They also have increased the reward for the quest, but that wasn’t enough to cheer up the displeased crowd. This isn’t what people signed up for.

  And our numbers continue decreasing with each battle. Several more died today. But unlike the last time, the bodies were not sent back to the city for the same reason no one of the crowd dared to make a return trip.

  A small exhausted group so deep in the forest is a much easier prey. And by now everyone is already sure that we’re being observed at all times.

  Which explains the large number of scouts patrolling the perimeter of the camp. In the distance, I can see at least four performing a routine round, and that’s just in our part of the camp alone. The shifts switch every few hours with the next one being awake and ready at least an hour before their time, like the duo before me. Sentries on standby. Just in case things go south.

  Not like we’re really in any danger of that tonight.

  My head turns to the center of the camp. The core force of the expedition. I didn’t see the battles with my own eyes, as we’re the ‘auxiliary force’, and are always in the rear, while they’re in the front. But during the last battle, the auras and mana explosions were felt from quite a far distance. Whatever monsters are in the core force, they’re the pillar that ensures that the expedition continues and doesn’t fail.

  A smaller circle of sentries stands around them, not allowing anyone near. Joe tried to approach and engage in trade, but he wasn’t allowed past. He even tried to utilize one of the sentries, by offering him a massive discount and a gift if there would be a successful trade. He gave the sentry a paper with a list of items he has on hand in case they require anything. They didn’t reach back to him. It seems like they don’t need anything. They came prepared.

  I toss another log into the fire pit and step back, retreating to my spot several meters away. From here, the burnt smell of damp wood won't reach me.

  "Hey, Splatter! Why are you always so far away?" a voice cuts through the crackling of the fire. There's a laugh—short, loud, hollow. "Afraid of fire?"

  A pause.

  Then a frown follows. "And weren’t you on the night shift yesterday, too?"

  It takes real effort not to snarl in response.

  A joke from the gods? Or just some cruel coincidence?

  Splatter. Again.

  That’s what they call me now. Ever since the first clash several days ago. It’s because orcs tend to explode into a shower of gore when I use my new skill. Bits of them end up everywhere, but mostly on me. Same thing happens when Olev uses it, but because he has much more experience with the skill, the shower is not as large and violent.

  I hold the irritation down and force a calmer answer out.

  "Can’t sleep," I say, brushing off the rest of his questions.

  The man in uniform watches me for a second longer than necessary. Then he shrugs. "There are people on watch. You can rest. We’ve got this."

  I don’t respond. Just keep working the dagger in my hand, testing something new.

  For some reason, he doesn’t return to whatever dull conversation he was having. His friend notices the shift, his eyes flicking over to me.

  "You sure you’ve slept, lad?" he asks, voice less confrontational than curious.

  Persistent.

  "Yes. During the day." I lie, staring into their eyes.

  They both nod eventually and turn away. Back to themselves. Good.

  It’s not the first time I’ve had trouble sleeping—and won’t be the last. Just wish I’d brought the pills...

  I start.

  One.

  Two.

  Three—

  Buzzing resounded.

  Three seconds. A small improvement. Some would even call it significant. But it’s not enough.

  The old clan instructors drilled it into us over and over: a single second can mean life or death. They are right. And it’s not just the delay that’s a problem—it’s the cost. The damn skill burns through mana like nothing I've seen before. I hoped a bit of practice would lessen the drain. It hasn’t. Not yet.

  So. Time for adjustments.

  Let’s test a theory.

  It's a skill, but it must follow some rules.

  I slow the oscillation speed to a quarter of its usual rhythm. The sound drops into a deeper register—more hum than buzz. The mana drain decreases, too. Slightly. Not linear. Not ideal. But progress.

  I steady my breath and focus completely on the blade. With care, I gather a small mana packet near my wrist and burst it into the weapon.

  Less than a second later high-pitched buzzing erupted.

  A grin stretches across my face.

  I try it again. Again. Once more. Same result each time. Consistent.

  So I can alter the frequency rapidly now. Good. Very good.

  But another thought needles its way in.

  What about overload?

  I gather a larger mana packet—twice the previous amount. Step by step, same method.

  Burst.

  The hum breaks into chaotic static. The blade trembles in my grip, and then—snap—the mana around it fractures and dissolves into the ambient flow.

  Gone.

  Figures. That would’ve been too easy.

  Still, I can’t help but imagine it: if the base Oscillating Blade can slice steel, flesh and bone, what could an overcharged one do?

  It’s not impossible. Just... out of reach. For now. I will get back to it later.

  One realistic step after another.

  Three seconds later the buzzing returns and I repeat the original test, with the smaller packet of mana.

  Good. It wasn’t a fluke.

  Now for the harder part.

  I slow my breath and carefully begin lowering the frequency again. A step at a time. No rush. No slip-ups.

  Lower mana.

  Lower frequency.

  I repeat it like a mantra in my head. Slowly, the buzzing fades into a whisper, then into a near-silent hum. But I can feel it—the vibration is still there, subtle, restrained. The skill is active, just quiet.

  I stop right before losing control and take a mental step back.

  Stable. Mana usage is low, not to the degree Mana Blade, but still. With my mana pool hours at least.

  Excellent.

  Now, to identify the true bottleneck.

  I collect another packet of mana. Not massive, not tiny—average.

  Focus.

  Burst.

  The blade sings with its proper pitch two and a half seconds later.

  Damn it.

  I let out a long breath.

  The difference between keeping it constantly powered in at low frequency state and ramping it up when needed, compared to materializing it from nothing is minimal.

  Which means the real bottleneck is what I feared—frequency adjustment speed. That’s what needs work.

  Time drips by as I sit cross-legged in the dirt, blade in hand. The pitch rises, falls. Up. Down. Again and again and again. All while keeping the image of "bell" ringing in my head.

  I take a break, breathing deeply and allowing my mana reserves to restore. But at the same time I continue thinking.

  Perhaps the problem is the image. Should I focus more on the bell or the gong? No. Wait. Maybe I need both, but one more in the beginning and the other while the skill is running. I should test if-

  It happens instantly.

  A shrill, piercing buzz erupts.

  Pain blooms.

  Dagger falls out of my hand.

  I hiss and clutch the side of my head, but it doesn’t help. The buzzing changes pitch, drilling higher.

  Air in.

  Air out.

  Breathe.

  Air in.

  Air out.

  Just breathe, you idiot.

  Air in.

  Air out.

  A minute later, it starts to fade. My hearing comes back, faint and muffled—only in one ear. The right remains dull, half-deaf.

  But I barely notice.

  Because dread is setting in.

  It’s coming back.

  The spasms.

  The reason why I went to the old healer.

  And I’m out here. In the middle of a cursed forest crawling with orcs.

  This is bad. Really bad.

  I need to do something.

  Should I ask one of the healers for pills? Valerian extract was it? Or something to force rest? But that means letting him back out.

  Mellow Hardcock Harv.

  A pathetic joke of a man wearing my face.

  Can that 'Harv' even fight?

  But do I have a choice?

  What if it happens again in the middle of combat?

  Can the expedition's healers even help with something like this? They’re professionals, right?

  Right?

  Shit.

  Fuck.

  What do I do?

  "No, you idiot! It’s the blue ones!" one of the soldiers barks, veins bulging in his neck as he jabs a finger at his comrade.

  My head jerks up, the ringing in my ear not yet fully gone. The two are nearly at each other’s throats, hands twitching near their weapons.

  "Like you’d know, coward. You didn’t even see yellow," the other spits back.

  Their glares lock like drawn blades.

  And then, as if choreographed, they both turn toward me.

  "Well? Who’s stronger?"

  I blink, slow to process. The sharp undertones of pain and fatigue cloud my thoughts. A dozen cutting replies rise uninvited to the edge of my tongue, but I force them back down. No need to stir the pot. Not now.

  After a long pause, I settle for the path of least resistance.

  "Fight each other. See who wins."

  They frown, confused.

  "What? No!" one says, recoiling. "The color. Which color is stronger?"

  Stronger color?

  What the hell are these shitheads smoking? Should I call someone?

  I sigh.

  "The one the winner’s wearing?"

  Another moment of confused silence passes between them before the actual question finally emerges in full.

  "The orcs," one says, his voice lower now. "They wear different colors. Which kind do you think is stronger?"

  That... makes me pause.

  I furrow my brows, digging through hazy memories of blood, steel, and dismembered limbs. Hm. Oh. Yes. Some of the orcs did wear differently colored gear. I noticed it but never gave it thought. Why does it matter?

  "How does the aesthetic preference of an orc tell you anything about their strength?" I ask, half-sarcastic, half-genuine.

  Is it like a strength denotation? Something like the Tiers we have?

  "Are you serious?" one scoffs. "Each tribe’s got its own color. They all gathered into one big pack, but they’re still distinct. Captain said that's good-easier to kill 'em all at once."

  "You really didn’t know?" the other one adds, squinting.

  I freeze.

  My head slowly shook several moments later.

  "The tribes were migrating near the Rockwall for months." the first soldier explains. "They were bothering villagers, hunting all the game, trampling farmland, killing livestock. Adventurer Guild even posted a quest to clear them out. Was a goldmine I heard."

  "But a lot of orcs survived," the other continues. "Regrouped and started overrunning the outposts. Fuckin’ pests."

  A whirlwind of thoughts in my head roars.

  "What? Why are the orcs migrating?" I mumble.

  "Uh, yeah," one of them replies, scratching his head. "Happens once a decade. I heard it’s part of their religion or something."

  "Religion? Ha!" the other scoffs, like the word tastes foul. "More like superstition. Captain said they smoke poison mushrooms and try to divine the future from animal bones. Absolute savages. They think the forests—and everything in them—belong to them."

  I don’t answer. I barely hear the rest.

  Because the gears in my mind are turning fast now. Something cold and uncomfortable starts to crawl down my spine.

  Orcs pass nearby, hunting wildlife and livestock.

  He said BOTHERED the villagers, not killed...

  Locals get angry. Their property is stolen right before their eyes.

  So they reached out to the Guild.

  And the Guild, well... they posted a bounty.

  To hunt... to kill...

  Adventurers start hunting them in massive numbers.

  I alone killed at least thirty.

  Enraged orc gather in response, forming larger groups. And retaliate by attacking nearby army outposts... Killing people...

  The Army assembles a subjugation force in response.

  We escalated. Then they escalated.

  When does it stop?

  It all started because they killed animals... not humans... did they kill livestock for food?...

  Wait.

  Can these green creatures which we label lesser races and monsters even understand the concept of ownership, that animals and land belong to someone, and that someone spent years of their life cultivating and improving on it?

  If they’re constantly on the move, the concept of staying in the same place, domesticating animals and improving the land may seem alien.

  And we reacted with wholesale slaughter...

  Wait.

  They must at least understand the concept of grief and revenge. Because what else could have caused them to gather and attack an Army Outpost?

  Vengeance, right?

  And now we react to that by taking our vengeance. A repeated cycle with escalating force.

  Who’s to blame?

  Who started this?

  They don’t think they did.

  But neither do we.

  Is it a question of morals or laws?

  What if it’s just two worlds that can’t coexist?

  Their nomadic tribes moving across ancient paths they believe sacred. Us, building settlements, taming the wild, assigning ownership to dirt and beast and blade of grass. We call it progress.

  Their way of life against ours.

  Would this have even escalated so much if we didn’t kill every single orc in the vicinity of Rockwall?

  Was that the tipping point?

  A spark in dry grass.

  James, Oldie, Num... are they dead because of a chain of events I helped start?

  If I hadn't taken that quest, would they still be alive?

  Who started it. Who escalated. Who bled first. Who bled more.

  None of that matters anymore.

  It’s a cycle. A slow spiral into a pit of violence and death.

  And the worst part?

  No one’s steering it.

  We’re all just part of it now.

  Pieces on a board no one sees.

  The question isn’t even who’s to blame anymore.

  It’s—what now?

  Where does this lead?

  What do we do?

  ...

  I tilt my head back, eyes searching the sky for even a single crack of blue. But there’s nothing. Just gray. Endless, heavy gray.

  The clouds above churn like spoiled soup, thick and sickly, sliding across the sky far faster than they should.

  All around me, the others are already up. Adventurers and soldiers alike moving in the rhythm of routine—gear being checked, blades sheathed and unsheathed, quiet murmurs exchanged like breath. We’re preparing for another day of marching through this gods-forsaken forest.

  It’s late morning, but you’d never guess.

  The whole world feels stuck in permanent dusk.

  And then—there it is again.

  That buzzing.

  That damned buzzing.

  Thin. Sharp. Coiled behind my right ear like a nest of hornets caught in the edge of thought.

  Not good.

  Maybe it’s because I haven’t slept in three days. Lack of rest coupled with constant physical activity is a recipe for disaster.

  Now?

  I need a healer.

  But the only ones in subjugation force are with the core force. Getting to them through the cordon of guards could prove to be a hassle.

  Let's wait for Olev and Joe before I do anything hasty.

  Time trickles by. I stretch, trying to work out the stiffness. Mana flows weakly through my limbs, barely dulling the pain. A dull ache gnaws at every joint. I feel like roadkill. Chewed-up. Tossed aside. I rub my scalp, fingers pressing into the base of my skull to ease the pressure.

  This is dangerous. If we were ambushed now—

  "Come."

  A whisper.

  Right behind me.

  I twist instantly—too fast—hand on Light, my heart slamming against the ribcage.

  But there’s no one there.

  Just the tree I stood next to.

  Still. Moss-covered. Empty.

  No footprints. No voices. No flicker of movement.

  Nothing.

  Dead quiet.

  [Mana Wave]

  The pulse ripples out.

  Clear.

  "Come."

  The voice again. This time from in front, as I stare directly at the tree in front of me.

  I narrow my eyes.

  [Mana Wave]—again.

  Still nothing.

  I close my eyes, and push mana into sensory organs in search of something, anything.

  Still nothing.

  My brow furrows as I commit to the more drastic option. A third of my mana gets funneled into a large, complex structure.

  [Mind Shield]

  The dome snaps into place. I feel it connect—anchoring to my consciousness. If anything tries to breach, I’ll know. I’ll feel it.

  "Come."

  And nothing touches the shield.

  No ripple. No shiver. No breach.

  It didn’t come from outside.

  The realization hits cold and deep.

  It’s inside.

  Inside my head.

  I take a step back. Then another. Then five more. My boots crunch over brittle leaves as I pull back, scanning instinctively for any threat, anything out of place.

  A pair of sentries stand nearby, eyes on the treeline. Silent. Still.

  The sentries don’t react as it resounded again.

  "Come."

  Just as loud.

  Just as close.

  But the voice’s direction shifted slightly.

  It has a direction?

  I move. One step to the left. Two back. One right. The voice adjusts as I continue trying to triangulate the direction. Only to freeze.

  The city.

  It’s coming from the Rockwall.

  What?

  How is that-

  "Harv!" Olev calls, stepping into view, Joe a half-step behind him.

  Both are smiling.

  "We’ve got good news!" they say, practically in unison.

  For several seconds we stood silent as smiles on their faces started dropping.

  Shit.

  I force a grin. A twisted mockery of the real thing. Jaw tight. Lips stiff.

  A puppet’s smile, pulled by strings not my own.

  "What news?" I asked, my voice sounding somewhat wrong.

  Not good.

  Not fucking good.

  I need a healer.

  Now.