The heavy, mildew-scented curtain behind Kaelen didn't lead into a bustling kitchen or a simple back alley as Elara might have half-expected. Instead, it plunged them directly into the dank, oppressive embrace of Eldoria’s forgotten underbelly. Kaelen moved with an uncanny, predatory grace through the near-absolute darkness of what seemed to be a cluttered, neglected storage cellar beneath the tavern. Barrels loomed like silent, obese sentinels, crates were stacked haphazardly, casting deeper shadows within shadows, and the air hung thick with the cloying sweetness of spilled ale, the sharp tang of vinegar from pickling barrels long breached, the musty decay of damp stone, and the unmistakable, acrid ammonia scent of rat droppings. Elara stumbled after him, one hand outstretched, trailing against cold, sweating stone walls, the other clutching her now-empty satchel uselessly. The muffled chaos of the tavern – the shouts, the laughter, the clatter – faded rapidly behind the thick curtain, replaced by an unnerving silence broken only by the slow, rhythmic drip of unseen water onto stone and the sudden, panicked scuttling of tiny claws disturbed by their passage.
"Rule one, Archivist," Kaelen's voice echoed softly in the confined space, the earlier cynicism completely stripped away, leaving only curt, uncompromising professionalism. His tone allowed no argument. "Absolutely no unnecessary noise. Not a whisper, not a sneeze if you can help it. No light unless I make it, understand? Stick close enough so you don't get lost – close enough to smell my undoubtedly charming aroma of sweat and stale ale – but not so close you trip me up. Space is tight down here." He paused, letting the instructions sink into the oppressive darkness. "And if I tell you to run, hide, duck, or play dead, you do it. Instantly. No questions, no hesitation. Hesitation gets us caught, gets us cornered, gets us killed. Got it?"
Elara swallowed hard against the dryness in her throat, the cellar's unpleasant air doing little to help. The sheer competence radiating from him, the implicit acknowledgment of immediate, lethal danger, was both terrifying and strangely reassuring. "Understood," she managed, the word barely a squeak in the echoing quiet.
He seemed to accept her terrified compliance, making a low grunt of assent. Navigating by what seemed like sheer instinct or long familiarity, he located a heavy, iron-banded door set deep into the cellar wall, almost invisible in the gloom. With surprising quietness for such a heavy object, he lifted a thick wooden securing bar from its brackets, the scrape of wood on rusted iron loud in the stillness. The door groaned open on protesting hinges, revealing not a street or another cellar, but the gaping, black maw of a massive storm drain overflow tunnel. The roar of rushing water, amplified by the confined space, echoed from deeper within, a hungry, churning sound. The air that billowed out carried the complex stench of the city’s waste – raw sewage, chemical runoff from the industrial districts, decaying refuse, all mingled with the thick, muddy tang of the River Velun itself.
"Charming," Kaelen muttered dryly, seemingly unfazed by the stench or the darkness. "Welcome to the Eldorian Express. The quick way out, if you don't mind the smell or the company." He gestured towards the churning water below. "Watch your step. There’s a narrow ledge just inside. Slimy, but mostly solid." He stepped confidently onto it, disappearing into the tunnel's deeper blackness. "Current's running strong after this rain," his voice echoed back, slightly distorted. "Fall in, and the waterway gratings downstream will slice you finer than butcher's meat. So, don't fall in."
Taking a shaky breath, Elara hitched up her scribe's robes, praying they wouldn't snag on unseen projections, and followed Kaelen onto the narrow, slime-coated ledge. It was barely wider than her two feet placed side-by-side, slick with algae and foul-smelling muck. Her thin, soft-soled shoes, designed for the polished floors of the Archives, offered treacherous little purchase. The darkness was absolute beyond the faint ambient light filtering from the cellar door behind them, and the roar of the churning water just inches below felt like a physical force threatening to pull her in. Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm against the oppressive weight of the darkness, the stench, and the unknown depths below. She focused on the faint sounds of Kaelen’s movements ahead, placing her feet carefully, testing each step before committing her weight.
Kaelen moved swiftly, confidently, a darker shadow against the profound blackness. He seemed utterly at home in this subterranean labyrinth, pausing only occasionally, his head cocked, listening intently to the echoes and flows of the unseen world around them, before continuing his silent, purposeful progress. Elara struggled to keep up, her fear a cold knot in her stomach. They navigated a bewildering network of interconnected tunnels, some vast enough to drive a wagon through, others barely shoulder-width. Occasionally, they passed beneath grated openings high above, offering fleeting, disorienting glimpses of rain-swept streets, the undersides of bridges, or the hurried footsteps of oblivious citizens going about their nightly business – a world impossibly distant from the hidden, foul-smelling passages they traversed.
In one wider junction, where several tunnels converged into a large, echoing cistern filled with disturbingly murky water, Kaelen paused abruptly, holding up a hand, motioning for absolute silence. Elara froze instantly, straining her ears against the constant rush and drip of water. Faintly at first, then growing steadily louder, carried on the damp, heavy air from one of the larger side tunnels, she heard it – rhythmic, heavy, metallic footsteps. Multiple sets. Clad in heavy boots, echoing loudly off the curved stone walls. City Watch patrol. And sounding closer than Elara liked.
"Alcove. Now. Quiet," Kaelen breathed, the command sharp and urgent. He practically shoved Elara into a shallow, arched recess in the tunnel wall, half-filled with slimy, decomposing refuse that squelched unpleasantly under her feet. He pressed himself flat against the curved wall beside her, melting into the shadows, his hand resting lightly on his sword hilt. They waited, scarcely daring to breathe, the stench of the alcove thick in Elara’s nostrils. The patrol emerged into the cistern area, the beams of their oil lanterns cutting bright, dancing swathes through the gloom, reflecting off the disturbed surface of the water. Four guards, their polished helmets and breastplates gleaming dully, their expressions bored and slightly disgruntled.
"Smells worse down here every week," one guard grumbled, his voice echoing unnaturally. "Think the Sanitation Guild ever actually *cleans* these main drains?"
"Doubt it," another replied, kicking disinterestedly at a floating piece of debris. "Long as the surface streets don't flood during storms, they figure job done. You hear about that tremor this morning? Shook the Guild Tower pretty good, rumour has it."
"Aye, felt it meself. Third one this week. Collegium *swears* it's normal, but feels… edgy, don't it? Like the ground's got indigestion."
"Edgy's the word. Sergeant was jumpy as a cat on hot bricks today. Unusual patrols ordered, even down here. Didn't say why. Just 'increased vigilance'."
The guards lingered for a moment, sweeping their lanterns around the cistern, their beams passing agonizingly close to the shadowed alcove where Elara held her breath, certain they would be discovered. Then, apparently satisfied, they continued down the main outflow channel, their voices and the rhythmic clump of their boots gradually fading into the tunnel's roar. Elara didn't realize she'd closed her eyes until Kaelen let out a slow, almost inaudible breath beside her.
"Too damn close," he breathed, relaxing fractionally. "Increased patrols down here? Unusual orders? Means someone important is rattled. Either your grey friends made a bigger splash than we thought, or something else entirely is spooking the brass." He peered after the retreating lights. "Doesn't matter. Means the usual routes might be watched. We need to adjust." He scanned the other tunnels leading off the cistern. "This way. Less direct, but probably less traffic."
He led her down a narrower, rougher-hewn side tunnel, clearly older, perhaps part of an earlier drainage system. The air here was staler, the silence deeper, broken only by the drip of water and the faint skittering sounds that suggested larger, more unpleasant inhabitants than mere rats. Once, Elara stumbled, her foot catching on something soft and yielding in the darkness. Kaelen’s hand shot out, steadying her before she could fall. His touch was brief, impersonal, but strong. He didn't comment, simply continued onward.
Further along this less-used passage, near a section where the ceiling had partially collapsed, leaving a tumble of debris, Kaelen stopped again, holding up his hand. He tilted his head, listening intently. Elara strained her ears but heard nothing beyond the usual drips and echoes. Kaelen, however, seemed to detect something. He cautiously approached the collapsed section, peering through a gap in the rubble into the passage beyond. After a moment, he beckoned Elara forward silently.
Peering through the gap, Elara’s eyes, now slightly more accustomed to the profound lack of light, made out faint markings on the far wall of the passage beyond the collapse. They weren't accidental scratches or natural formations. They were symbols, crudely painted or perhaps scratched into the brickwork with something sharp. Angular, jagged, asymmetrical symbols that resonated with a chilling familiarity – echoes of the censored interrogation report, variations on the sigils the grey cloaks might have borne. A faint, almost invisible shimmer, like disturbed air or heat haze, pulsed rhythmically around the markings, and Elara felt that cold, invasive resonance prickle behind her eyes again, stronger here, tainted, malevolent.
"See those?" Kaelen whispered, his voice barely audible, tight with suppressed urgency. "Cultist markers. Fresh. That shimmer? Residual Void-taint. Means they've been through here. Recently. Using the deep tunnels." He scanned the passage beyond the collapse, his eyes narrowed. "This changes things. If the Hand is using the underways too, nowhere is safe. We need to get topside. Now. Before we run into a welcoming committee."
Abandoning their previous route, Kaelen backtracked quickly, then chose another path, moving with renewed urgency. He seemed to be heading towards the city's outer perimeter, towards the less prosperous, more neglected districts. Their path took them through increasingly dilapidated sections of the undercity – tunnels partially flooded with stagnant, foul-smelling water they had to wade through, sections where the structural integrity felt dubious, the ceiling groaning ominously above them.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of tense, claustrophobic navigation, Kaelen stopped before a heavily rusted iron ladder ascending into darkness. "Should lead up to a disused maintenance shaft," he whispered, testing the rungs. "Opens into an old tannery yard in the Gutters district. Near the outer wall. Smells worse than down here, but it's our best bet for an unwatched exit."
The climb was perilous, the rungs slick with slime and rust, threatening to crumble under their weight. Kaelen went first, moving with careful speed. Elara followed, her arms aching, her fear of heights battling with her fear of the darkness below. The shaft eventually opened into the promised tannery yard, under the relative shelter of a crumbling roof overhang. They emerged, blinking, into the drizzling rain and the overwhelming stench of chemical tanning solutions, decaying hides, and industrial waste. The yard was a desolate landscape of rotting wooden vats leaching vile liquids, leaning stacks of uncured skins buzzing with flies, and dilapidated sheds collapsing under their own weight. The rain had lessened, but the air here felt heavy, poisoned.
Kaelen scanned the area quickly, his hand never leaving his sword hilt, ensuring they were alone. Satisfied, he led Elara through the maze of urban decay towards the towering stone curtain of the city's outer wall, looming grey and forbidding against the dark, stormy sky. This section, bordering the noxious Gutters district, was notoriously neglected, the stone stained and crumbling in places, the battlements above showing gaps like missing teeth.
"Wall patrol's thin out here," Kaelen muttered, finding a precarious stack of discarded crates and broken pallets leaning against the stone, offering a potential climbing route. "Too smelly, too many better places to shirk duty." He tested the stack's stability. "Alright. Up we go. Quickly, but carefully. Don't want to bring this whole pile down on us."
Scaling the makeshift ladder was treacherous. The wood was slippery with rain and rot, threatening to give way underfoot. Kaelen moved like a shadow, testing each handhold, finding purchase where none seemed visible, his movements economical and precise. He reached the crumbling top of the wall first, then leaned down, offering Elara a hand for the final, difficult ascent. His grip was strong, calloused, hauling her up the last few feet with an impersonal efficiency that left no room for thanks.
Standing atop the wide parapet, buffeted by the wind, Elara looked back at Eldoria. From this height, the city sprawled behind them, a vast, confusing tapestry of rain-slicked rooftops, twisting streets, and countless flickering gaslights reflecting wetly under the oppressive sky. It looked almost peaceful, deceptively serene, belying the hidden corruption, the lurking Void-taint, and the grey-cloaked hunters undoubtedly still searching for her within its walls. A profound sense of severance washed over her. She had left not just the city, but her entire former life behind on the other side of that wall.
Kaelen wasted no time on contemplation. He located a section where the inner drop wasn't sheer, utilizing protruding stones and eroded mortar as handholds to descend quickly to the muddy fields bordering the wilderness outside the walls. Elara followed more slowly, her limbs trembling with exertion and reaction, scraping her hands on the rough stone. Dropping the last few feet landed her with a squelch in clinging mud beside Kaelen.
The air immediately felt different – cleaner, sharper, colder than the city's smog-laden atmosphere, yet paradoxically charged with a strange, palpable static energy that made the fine hairs on her arms prickle. The relative order of Eldoria, even its neglected fringes and chaotic underbelly, dissolved completely here. The night felt older, vaster, wilder. The very ground seemed to hum faintly beneath their feet, a low, resonant vibration entirely unlike the city's mechanical rumble.
"Alright, Archivist," Kaelen said, wiping mud from his hands onto his already filthy trousers, his voice rough in the sudden quiet. He turned his gaze away from the looming walls of Eldoria towards the dark, uncertain wilderness stretching before them. "Welcome to the real world. Try not to get eaten."
They moved away from the looming shadow of Eldoria's walls at a punishing pace, Kaelen setting a relentless, ground-eating stride that pushed Elara to the absolute limits of her endurance. He didn't consult a map, navigating instead by an instinct honed through years spent traversing these harsh borderlands. He seemed to read the subtle contours of the land, the direction of the wind, the patterns of the stars occasionally glimpsed through breaks in the storm clouds, heading roughly northwest through sodden fields that quickly gave way to tangled scrubland and sparse, dripping woods – the unruly transition zone between Eldoria's claimed territory and the true, untamed Shardlands.
The subtle weirdness of the world beyond the walls, hinted at even within the controlled environment of Zaltar's valley, became far more pronounced, more pervasive, the further they travelled from the city's stabilizing influence. Patches of ground shimmered with faint, shifting, phosphorescent light that seemed to emanate from the soil itself, unrelated to any visible fungi or mineral deposit. Twisted, stunted trees bore leaves that glowed with a soft, ethereal blue or sickly green luminescence before crumbling instantly to ash if touched. Strange, melodic chimes, like distant glass bells, would echo suddenly from unseen sources, only to vanish abruptly, leaving an unnerving silence. Once, they skirted a small pond whose surface wasn't water, but a pool of quiescent, silvery liquid metal that rippled slightly as they passed, emitting a low, resonant hum that made Elara’s teeth ache.
Her latent sensitivity, which had been a background hum or an occasional spike within the city, flared here almost constantly. It was like trying to listen to a single flute melody in the midst of a cacophonous orchestra playing out of tune. A low-level thrumming persisted behind her eyes, a baseline of discordant energy that ebbed and flowed with their proximity to unseen concentrations of Shard power embedded within the landscape. Sudden spikes of resonance would lance through her skull without warning, causing momentary dizziness, flashes of disturbing, hallucinatory imagery – landscapes melting like wax, impossible geometries shifting in her peripheral vision, the fleeting sensation of immense pressure as if the sky itself were bearing down on her. It was exhausting, painful, disorienting.
"Ambient resonance," Kaelen explained gruffly during one brief halt, noticing her rubbing her temples, her face pale and drawn. He offered her his waterskin; the water tasted faintly metallic, charged. "Place is saturated with it out here. Countless Minor Shards scattered through the rock, the water table, even coalescing in the damn air sometimes after a big Flux storm. Mostly background noise if you don't linger too close to a hot spot or try to actively mess with 'em." He nodded towards a cluster of boulders nearby, fused together at unnatural angles, their surfaces warped into glassy, iridescent swirls. "But that resonance can build up in folks sensitive like you. Gives you headaches, nosebleeds, messes with your dreams, makes you jumpy. Ignore it if you can."
He then pointed towards a more dramatic landmark: a massive, ancient oak tree, split cleanly down the middle as if by a lightning strike, but the wood wasn't merely splintered; it was blackened, charred, and vitrified, fused into jagged obsidian-like shards. The ground radiated outwards from its base in a wide circle, similarly scorched and glassy, interspersed with patches where the earth had seemingly crystallized into bizarre, razor-sharp formations. The air around it still felt unnaturally hot and carried a sharp, ozone tang. "And sometimes," Kaelen continued, his voice hardening, "that ambient energy gets unstable. Gets agitated. Or some poor fool Weaver tries drawing too much power from a volatile node nearby without proper shielding. Or maybe just two conflicting Shard resonances cross paths at the wrong time." He gestured towards the ruined tree with grim emphasis. "Either way – *Fluxburn*. Magic goes wild. Unpredictable. Can fry you from the inside out like meat on a spit, turn you inside out, scramble your brains permanent-like, or just vaporize you altogether leaving nothing but scorched earth and maybe your boots." He met Elara’s wide, horrified gaze. "That's the main reason the Guild keeps such a tight leash on things back in the city, why they preach control above all else. Out here? There's no Guild, no Wardens, no safety nets. You learn the signs, you learn respect for the power humming under your feet, or you learn how to be fertilizer for glowing mushrooms."
His words were harsh, blunt, delivered without inflection, but Elara heard the deep undercurrent of bitter, firsthand experience. The puckered burn scars on his forearms seemed to stand out more starkly against his skin. She found herself wondering, with a shiver of empathetic dread, what kind of Fluxburn incident he had witnessed, or perhaps survived. What price had he paid for his knowledge, his cynicism, his scars?
As they pressed onward, Elara struggled immensely. The relentless physical exertion, far beyond anything her sedentary life had prepared her for, left her muscles screaming, her lungs burning. The constant, low-level fear gnawed at her stamina. The disorienting sensory input from the Shard-infused environment frayed her nerves raw. Her scribe's boots, already soaked, began to rub painful blisters on her heels. Several times, she stumbled badly on uneven, root-tangled ground or slick patches of mud, earning only an impatient grunt and a brief, grudging pause from Kaelen before he pushed onward again. Yet, despite his gruff exterior and relentless pace, she noticed small things. He seemed to instinctively choose paths that, while still challenging, avoided the very worst of the terrain. He checked on her more frequently after she nearly twisted her ankle in a hidden hole. And once, during a brief halt to refill his waterskin from a stream he deemed safe (after cautiously testing its resonance with a small, metallic device Elara hadn't seen before), he silently offered her another strip of tough, heavily salted dried meat from his pouch without comment when her stomach rumbled with embarrassing loudness.
The attack, when it finally came, erupted with terrifying suddenness, shattering the relative monotony of their desperate trek. They were crossing a shallow but fast-flowing stream that cut through a patch of denser, gloomier woods, the water swirling cold around Elara’s already numb ankles. One moment, there was only the rhythmic gurgle of the stream over smooth stones, the drip of lingering rainwater from shadowed leaves, and the rasp of their own breathing. The next, the air temperature plummeted, mist instantly condensing their breath into white plumes, and the shadows beneath the ancient, gnarled trees on the far bank seemed to deepen, writhe, and *coalesce*.
Figures began to resolve from the unnatural gloom. Not the grey-cloaked assassins from the city. These were smaller, more hunched, disturbingly bestial, shambling forward on mismatched limbs that seemed assembled from shadow, decaying leaves, river mud, and sharpened bone. Their forms flickered, indistinct, as if reality struggled to contain their wrongness. Their eyes – multiple, randomly placed – glowed with the same sickly, malevolent green Void-light Elara now recognised with a surge of visceral horror. Three of them, moving with an unnerving, jerky gait that was somehow both clumsy and terrifyingly fast, converged on their position mid-stream, emitting low, guttural hisses that felt like ice scraping against the inside of Elara’s skull.
"Void-Spawn!" Kaelen spat the word like a curse, his sword clearing its worn sheath in a single, fluid, almost instantaneous motion. The practical steel gleamed dully, hungrily, in the faint, filtered light penetrating the dense canopy. "Behind me, Archivist! Get down! Stay low!"
He met the creatures' shambling charge head-on, his entire demeanor transforming in an instant. Gone was the weary mercenary, the cynical guide. In his place stood a focused, lethal predator, his movements economical, precise, utterly without wasted energy. He didn't employ flashy techniques or elaborate parries; he relied on brutal efficiency and an intimate understanding of his monstrous foes. He sidestepped a clumsy, swiping claw swipe from the first creature – a limb seemingly made of knotted roots and solidified shadow – letting its momentum carry it past him, then pivoted sharply, his blade shearing cleanly through its insubstantial limb near the torso. Greenish-black ichor, thick and foul-smelling, sprayed outwards, sizzling and steaming where it contacted the cold stream water, leaving patches of black frost on the wet stones. The creature emitted a high-pitched shriek of pain and surprise.
Before the first Spawn could fully react, Kaelen parried a lunging attack from the second, using the creature's own forward momentum to spin it off balance into the deeper part of the current. As it struggled for purchase, Kaelen drove his sword downwards, plunging it through the flickering, indistinct mass of its torso. The creature convulsed violently, its green eyes flaring, then dissolved with a final, despairing hiss, leaving behind only a rapidly dissipating cloud of oily black smoke and the lingering, soul-chilling stench of decay and the Void.
The third Spawn, however, slightly larger and seemingly possessed of a more focused malice, ignored Kaelen entirely. It skittered sideways through the shallow water with unnerving speed, its multiple void-eyes fixed directly, unnervingly, on Elara. Kaelen cursed, turning to intercept, recognizing the immediate danger, but the creature was surprisingly fast, its movements erratic and unpredictable.
Elara scrambled backwards instinctively, crying out, her feet slipping on the slick, moss-covered stones. She tripped over a submerged root, falling backward into the icy water with a splash, the shock stealing her breath. The Void-Spawn loomed over her, hissing, its chilling aura washing over her like a physical wave of nausea and despair. Its presence felt like a drain, pulling at her warmth, her vitality, her very sense of self.
As it raised a clawed limb seemingly woven from shadow and sharpened bone, ready to strike, that familiar, agonizing pressure spiked behind Elara's eyes, more intense than ever before. This time, however, fueled by raw terror and a desperate, primal rejection of the creature's encroaching Void-taint, it wasn't just passive resonance. It felt like something brittle inside her, stretched taut by fear and the constant environmental pressure, finally *snapped*. Without conscious thought, without any knowledge of technique or control, a pulse of raw, untamed energy – invisible but incredibly potent – erupted *from* her. It wasn't aimed, wasn't shaped, wasn't woven; it was a blind, instinctual flare of *something* fundamental, a desperate 'NO!' screamed by her very essence against the encroaching negation.
The effect was instantaneous and dramatic. The Void-Spawn recoiled as if struck by a physical blow, its flickering form stuttering violently, the green light in its eyes dimming for a crucial instant. It stumbled back, hissing in confusion and pain, momentarily disoriented by the unexpected Aetheric backlash. That single, vital instant was all Kaelen needed. Moving with blinding speed, he closed the distance, his sword flashing in a clean, powerful arc that plunged deep into the creature's back, severing its connection to whatever dark energy animated it. The Void-Spawn shuddered, its form wavered like smoke in a strong wind, and then it dissolved utterly, leaving behind only the lingering cold and the foul stench of its unmaking.
An abrupt, profound silence fell over the stream crossing, broken only by the gentle gurgle of the water over stones and Elara’s ragged, choking breaths as she pushed herself upright, soaked and trembling, in the shallow water. Kaelen stood panting slightly, sword dripping ichor that sizzled faintly as it hit the stream, his eyes scanning the surrounding woods with fierce intensity, searching for any further threats. After a tense, drawn-out moment in which Elara felt suspended between heartbeats, he seemed satisfied they were alone again. He methodically wiped his blade clean on a handful of damp leaves, the practical, almost ritualistic gesture a stark contrast to the supernatural violence just concluded.
He turned then, his gaze settling on Elara, who was still sitting numbly in the icy water, staring at the spot where the creature had dissolved. He waded over, his expression grim, unreadable, and offered her a hand, pulling her roughly but not unkindly to her feet. Her legs felt weak, shaky.
"Alright, Archivist?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral, betraying none of the shock or surprise he must have felt.
Elara could only nod mutely, unable to form words, still feeling the phantom echo of that terrifying, uncontrolled energy pulse receding within her, leaving behind a profound sense of emptiness and bewildered fear. What *was* that? What was *she*?
"Good," Kaelen said curtly, though his eyes remained narrowed, studying her face with an unnerving intensity that went beyond mere concern for her well-being. "That last Spawn… it flinched. Before I could finish it. It flinched away from *you*." He paused deliberately, letting the observation hang heavy in the damp, cold air between them. "Like something hit it." He took a half-step closer, his voice dropping slightly, losing its neutrality, gaining an edge of demanding suspicion. "You got something you're not telling me, Elara Vanya? Something more rattling around in that scholarly head of yours than just finding an old, dangerous scroll?"
The direct question, the deliberate use of her full name, sent a fresh jolt of fear through her, colder than the stream water soaking her clothes. He had seen it. He knew, unequivocally, that something unnatural, something potent and inexplicable, had happened. The carefully guarded secret of her latent sensitivity, the terrifying possibility of her connection to the very forces described in the scroll, was no longer entirely hers. It lay exposed between them, another layer of complication, another layer of danger, on a journey that had barely begun. The path ahead suddenly seemed infinitely longer, infinitely more perilous, demanding answers she didn't possess about forces she couldn't comprehend, starting with the power unexpectedly stirring within herself.