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Chapter: The Forest That Watches
The forest did not let him rest.
Even as Sabre staggered out from the scorching breath of the geothermal vent, heat still humming along the seams of his bones, the world felt tilted—warped by the clash of frost and fire still echoing through his senses. His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven pulls, each breath scraping like he had swallowed smoke. The veins along his arms still glowed faintly, carrying the last traces of the geothermal flare that had saved his life—and nearly burned him alive too.
For a moment, he just stood there in the trembling quiet. The night wind brushed past him, cold but not cruel, nothing like the living frost that had almost swallowed him whole. His clothes steamed as the leftover heat drifted out, and the once-lush moss beneath his boots had turned into a dark patch of damp soil.
He was alive. Barely. But alive.
He wiped sweat—no, condensation—off his brow, and the touch of his own fingers reminded him of the chaos he had just crawled out of.
He could still hear the princess's fury echoing through the forest.
The roar of frost as it clashed against the earth.
The snapping of frozen trees as her power surged out of control.
Sabre breathed out, the air shaky.
She didn't expect me to survive that.
He replayed the moment—the ice spear, alive and hungry, twisting in the air like a serpent of winter, reaching for his skull with deliberate intent. Not spreading randomly like natural frost. Not expanding outward. No—it pulled. It hunted. It chose him.
His instincts, honed through a lifetime of running from death far stronger than himself, had saved him by a heartbeat. Dodging had been luck, but using the geyser beneath the earth? That had been desperation sharpened into genius. Feeling the ground tremble, hearing the faint hiss beneath the frozen crust… Sabre followed the smallest vibration and gambled. A suicidal move, but the only opening he had.
The geyser's eruption had blasted the approaching frost apart and hurled him through the trees like a ragdoll—straight into survival.
He touched the ground again, kneeling as he let his breath steady.
But he didn't have long.
Branches shifted overhead.
Leaves whispered.
The forest was not silent.
They were still here. The knights. Watching. Hidden.
Just as they had been from the start.
Their discipline was unnerving—no clanking armor, no angry shouting, no reckless pursuit. They hadn't chased him earlier because they believed the princess's frost alone would finish the job. They were hunters raised on patience, not haste.
And now that he had survived something they believed impossible…
They would take him seriously.
Sabre forced himself upright, rolling his shoulders to shake off the lingering numbness. The frost wound across his left arm pulsed with a cold ache, exactly where the spear's living frost had grazed him before the princess slapped him into the air. Even now, it crept slowly under his skin in thin spidering threads, refusing to melt entirely despite the geothermal heat he endured.
He hissed through his teeth.
Not lethal. Not yet.
But dangerous.
He needed time—something he did not have.
Branches snapped somewhere behind him.
Sabre's heart clenched tight. His hand moved instinctively to the small dagger strapped against his thigh. A pathetic weapon against frost and steel—but better than nothing.
Then he saw it.
A glimmer.
Faint. Almost invisible.
A reflection on steel between two branches.
A knight. Watching him. Perfectly still.
And if Sabre could spot one, it meant dozens were already positioned.
He swallowed hard.
So… this is the game now.
He didn't need anyone to shout "pursue." They would come when they were ready. These knights were trained under the princess—of course they would move with the same controlled ruthlessness.
Sabre turned and began moving deeper into the forest. Not running—running would signal panic. Not walking too slowly either—that would suggest confidence he didn't have. He kept a steady, calculated pace, eyes tracing every shadow, every shift in the canopy, every rustle that didn't match the wind.
But every step he took, the woods answered back with something that made his chest tighten.
This forest wasn't natural anymore.
He saw it plainly now—subtle markings carved into tree bark. Not random scratches. Not animal-made.
Symbols.
Tracing lines.
Flow patterns written in old runes.
And all of them pointed inward—toward him.
A trap.
A territory claimed.
A hunting ground prepared long before he arrived.
That was the tiny, dangerous detail he had sensed earlier—barely noticeable under the chaos of frost and fear. The ecosystem of this forest had been altered intentionally. It funneled movement. Restricted escape. Every natural path narrowed to hidden choke points.
Sabre cursed under his breath.
He had escaped death once—but now he was trapped in someone else's strategy.
The princess's.
His mind replayed her expression after he vanished in the vent's explosion—the shock twisting into fury, the icy pulse radiating from her feet, the knights stiffening at her rising anger.
Her voice still echoed faintly in his head, dripping with cold venom.
"Find him. Now."
A command meant for war-hardened hunters—and Sabre was bleeding, limping, exhausted, and half-frozen inside.
But he wasn't done.
He pushed forward, weaving between trees thicker than castle pillars, moving through hanging roots that formed shadowed arches over the forest floor. The deeper he went, the darker it became—not because of absence of light, but because fog drifted in, thin and silver, reflecting the moon like a phantom veil.
His vision blurred momentarily. His head swayed.
The frost wound was spreading faster.
He grabbed a tree to steady himself, fingers trembling slightly. Pain burned cold and sharp along his forearm.
Keep moving… Just keep moving…
The forest floor sloped downward, and Sabre followed the incline, hoping lower ground would give him more cover. But halfway down the slope, he stopped—because the air changed.
A faint tremor.
A deep rumble.
Not from the ground this time.
From the air.
Heavy. Slow. Rhythmic.
Footsteps.
Large ones.
And not singular.
The knights were repositioning, tightening the circle around him.
Sabre clenched his jaw. He had no chance against them face-to-face. He needed something else—an advantage, a distraction, anything.
Then something flickered in the distance—a soft, pulsing red glow between the trees.
He narrowed his eyes.
Fireflies?
No. Wrong color. Wrong rhythm. Fireflies didn't beat in waves.
Sabre moved closer, drawn by instinct. The deeper he went, the hotter the air became—not like the geothermal vent, not explosive, but a contained, steady heat.
He stepped into a clearing and stopped dead.
At the center of the clearing was a crack in the earth—thin but glowing—like a wound pulsing with quiet fire.
A residual geothermal fissure.
A second one.
Smaller.
Less violent.
But still alive.
Sabre breathed out a shaky laugh.
Another chance.
He approached the fissure slowly, feeling its warmth lick at his chilled skin. He knelt and dipped his fingers cautiously toward the light. Heat radiated upward, not enough to burn instantly, but enough to push away the creeping frost in his arm.
This was perfect.
He pressed his wounded arm above the fissure and gritted his teeth as the heat surged into his body. Pain flared, bright and brutal, tearing a strained groan from his throat. The frost hissed under his skin, cracks of steam rising as the invading ice retreated violently.
He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth hurt.
It worked.
The frost receded—not gone entirely, but pushed back.
Then the forest screamed.
A roar of frozen air surged through the trees, ripping leaves from branches, coating trunks in sudden frost.
The temperature plummeted.
Sabre's breath fogged instantly.
She's close.
He looked up as the fog around him trembled—shivering in the presence of her power. The princess's aura reached the clearing like a tidal wave. And the knights… their silhouettes appeared between the trees as they closed in from every angle.
Sabre's pulse hammered.
He was surrounded.
The fissure glowed beneath him, casting an eerie red light across his face.
He looked at the closest knight—helmet visor reflecting Sabre's exhausted but defiant stare.
"Move," the knight growled.
Sabre didn't.
He stepped backward instead—one boot heel hanging directly over the glowing crack.
The knight stiffened.
Sabre felt the heat licking at his calves. If he dropped into the fissure, he wouldn't survive long. The heat would cook him alive.
But with the princess closing in, he would die anyway.
So he smiled.
Not bravely. Not arrogantly.
Desperately.
Recklessly.
The way someone smiles when the world tries to corner them and they decide to bite back.
"Don't!" the knight barked, stepping forward.
But it was too late.
Sabre let himself fall.
He dropped into the narrow fissure—heat engulfing him instantly, light swallowing his vision—and the world vanished in a flash of roaring fire.
Above him, he heard a voice—furious, disbelieving, ragged with rage.
The princess.
"SABRE!"
Her scream cracked through the forest, splitting frost across the earth in sharp, jagged lines—
And then everything went silent