The northwestern road narrowed into a corridor of trees, their branches woven so tightly overhead that the afternoon sunlight only slipped through in thin, wavering columns. Moss softened the dirt beneath their boots, and the air carried the faint scent of pine and distant rain. Arden adjusted the strap of the pack across his shoulder, staff held loosely in his right hand. The polished oak felt familiar—warm, balanced—its etched runes faintly pulsing with passive mana.
Beside him, Miran's heavy steel-headed staff rested across his broad shoulders. The weapon looked more like something a siege crew would lift with two hands, not something a man swung in fluid combat. Yet Miran carried it effortlessly, humming under his breath, the metal head catching stray sunbeams and sending them flickering along the ferns.
They had been walking since dawn, following the northwest route Rhyden had marked with careful precision. The forest was quiet, too quiet for Arden's liking. He slowed, adjusting his stance without thinking, scanning the undergrowth.
"You're doing that thing again," Miran muttered. "The look-around-at-every-leaf thing."
Arden kept his gaze ahead. "I'm being cautious."
"You're being Arden." Miran grinned, though there was tension beneath it. "If a leaf sneezes, you'll have your staff drawn."
"I'd rather draw it for a leaf than for something worse."
Miran's grin faded a little. "Rhyden's warnings again?"
Arden nodded.
They walked a few more steps before Miran spoke, voice quieter. "I can still hear his tone. He wasn't afraid, but... he was concerned."
"He's never concerned," Arden replied softly. "Not unless there's reason."
The memory rose easily—each of them standing inside the north hall, Rhyden leaning against his staff, runic light dancing along the floor as he spoke. His voice had been steady, but a weight had settled behind his words.
"Violet stones exceed the blue ones in strength, but they are deeply unstable and unpredictable. If you encounter them, do not approach carelessly. Their mana no longer follows natural flow."
"Second—be mindful of strangers wearing the sunburst mark. There have been sightings of Sun Church agents moving without banners, some along the coast. They ask too many questions about the stones. And corruption itself has spread strangely these past two years… as if fed by something new.
If you are in danger, survive first and return. Any of you. No mission is worth losing Vaelorian blood.
Arden exhaled slowly. "He's never warned us like that before."
"He warned all of us," Miran said. "Even Lira and Nale. Especially them."
A quiet fell between them. The forest swallowed the sound of their steps until only the wind breathed through the treetops.
Arden broke the silence. "Do you feel it?"
Miran's brow furrowed. "Feel what?"
"A shift. Like the forest's listening."
"…Yeah," Miran admitted. "I thought I imagined it."
Hours passed before the path widened near the river valley. A lone scout outpost stood between pines, smoke drifting weakly from its chimney.
Arden slowed. "Should be a watch post."
"Should be," Miran echoed, shifting his grip on his heavy-headed staff.
The door sat half open. No lamps burned inside.
Miran nudged it open with the blunt end of the steel weight.
Silence.
The interior lay overturned—furniture broken, crates shattered, papers scattered. A lantern lay smashed on the floor, dried oil staining the wood.
"No blood," Arden said, scanning. "They left in a hurry."
Miran crossed the room, lifting fallen parchment with his foot. "Or were taken before they could blink."
Arden crouched near the desk, gathering scattered papers. A supply log. A map. And a sealed letter bearing the crest of a nearby settlement—Hollowmere.
He opened it carefully.
Bandit activity escalating. Three merchants missing. Requesting support.
—Captain Rennel
Arden folded it back into his pocket.
"This is the area we're assigned," he said.
Miran nodded grimly. "Then we start moving."
They walked another hour, the path twisting through old roots and stone, the distant cry of ravens echoing overhead. Arden focused on the rhythm of his steps, but unease tugged at the edge of his senses. He stopped once, placing his palm against a tree, feeling the faint hum of mana beneath the bark.
"Something's off," he murmured.
Miran turned, staff sliding off his shoulder and into his hands. "Corruption?"
"No. Something else."
Miran shifted to a defensive stance. "How far until the settlement?"
"Another half-day at least."
Miran grimaced. "Plenty of time for trouble to find us."
They moved again, slower now, weapons ready.
The forest opened suddenly into a narrow clearing. The road should have continued straight, but deep gouges lay across the path as if something heavy had been dragged through. Broken carts littered the grass, smashed into splinters. One wagon wheel hung from a branch fifteen feet off the ground.
Miran let out a low whistle. "Well. This wasn't done by hungry rabbits."
Arden crouched near one of the ruts, fingers brushing the dirt. Mana residue clung to the groove—thick, clotted, dark.
Not corruption.
Not natural mana.
Something twisted between.
"Arden," Miran said, voice tight. "Look."
Arden rose.
There were footprints—human—scattered among the debris. A dozen at least. And all headed northwest.
Bandits.
But the mana residue didn't match any bandit. It pulsed uneasily beneath the soil like an old heartbeat.
Miran swung his staff onto his back. "Maybe we should circle around."
"No." Arden's voice hardened without thought. "If this settlement is under attack, we can't waste time."
Miran studied the tracks. "Still thinking like a Sentinel-in-training."
Arden met his eyes. "We chose Sentinel, Miran. This is what we're for."
Miran hesitated, then nodded.
They followed the tracks.
The forest grew darker. The canopy tightened, branches knotting overhead until the light thinned into dim gray. The deeper they walked, the more the air shifted—heavy, charged, thick with the faint metallic tang of wild mana.
Miran cleared his throat. "Arden?"
"Yes?"
"If something jumps out of the bushes, you're taking the first hit. I'm too pretty for forest monsters."
Arden almost smiled. "Pretty isn't the word I'd use."
"Powerfully handsome," Miran corrected.
"Terrifying?"
"Acceptable."
Their laughter—brief, strained—cut through the tension for a moment.
Then something snapped in the brush ahead.
Both froze.
A figure stumbled into the path—a young man, clothes torn, face streaked with dirt and dried blood. He collapsed to his knees, gasping.
Miran reached him first, kneeling. "Easy, hey—easy. What happened?"
The man clutched Miran's armm. "They came from the cliffs. They… they took the whole settlement."
Arden knelt opposite him. "Who?"
"They call him Keldor," the man said, trembling. "Ruthan Keldor. He leads them. He—he uses magic. Not normal magic. Purple. Wrong. It burns the ground."
Arden's blood chilled.
Violet.
Miran swallowed. "Bandits with violet stones?"
The man nodded frantically. "They brought stones. Big ones. They glow in the dark. They… they killed my brother."
Arden placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "Where is Keldor now?"
"He's… he's still at the settlement. They're forcing people to mine the cliffs."
Arden stood slowly. The forest seemed to still around him.
Miran rose beside him. "Arden."
"I know."
"This is too close to what Rhyden warned us about."
"I know."
"Two Vaelorians alone against a stone-enhanced mage is—"
"We don't have a choice."
Miran exhaled sharply. "I hate when you say that."
Arden tightened his grip on his staff. "We move. Now."
They left the survivor with a ration pouch and instructions to follow the road back toward Vaeloria. The man tried to protest, but Arden shook his head.
"You'll slow us down," he said. "And you've done enough. Go."
The man staggered north, vanishing between the trees.
Arden and Miran pressed forward.
The deeper they went, the more wrong the forest became. Trees leaned unnaturally toward each other, their trunks twisting, branches bowing as if warped by sudden force. Birds remained silent. The wind carried no scent of life—only a faint, acrid smell like burnt metal.
When they reached the overlook above the settlement, the last threads of sunlight had faded, leaving only dim twilight.
What lay below tightened Arden's chest.
The settlement had been transformed into a prison. Houses burned. Fences broken. Villagers huddled in clusters under armed watch. At the far end, near the cliffs, a pit had been dug into the stone. Violet glow pulsed from within, beating like a slow, malignant heart.
Miran whispered, "Arden… that's no ordinary stone."
"No," Arden said quietly. "It isn't."
Figures moved around the pit—bandits, a dozen or more. And at their center—
Ruthan Keldor.
Lean, long-limbed, draped in scavenged armor and a cloak stained dark with dust. Violet light flickered along his fingertips, webbing across his skin like veins of living stone. His eyes glowed faintly.
"He's using the stones," Miran murmured.
"More than using," Arden replied. "He's letting them bleed into him."
Miran gripped his steel-headed staff. "So what's the plan?"
Arden studied the settlement. "We wait for dark. Then we draw them away from the villagers."
"And Keldor?"
Arden met Miran's gaze.
"We take him down together."
Miran exhaled. "Good. Because if you say 'I'll distract him while you run,' I'll throw you off this cliff."
They waited as night settled thick and heavy.
Stars hidden. Air still.
Somewhere below, a scream echoed.
Arden felt the decision settle like stone in his chest.
"Time," he whispered.
Miran nodded once.
They descended the slope without another word.
The forest swallowed them.
And the first true mission of their chosen paths began.