The forest at the edge of the western frontier was unnaturally still.
No birds called.
No insects buzzed.
Even the wind avoided the place, as if afraid to disturb the shadows beneath the trees.
The silence broke only when five figures stepped into the clearing.
The Red Talons.
Varkos's deadliest hunters.
His personal blade in the dark.
Each one was said to have killed a sword master alone—something even armies struggled to do.
They moved like predators, each step silent, precise. Their armor was matte black, trimmed with streaks of deep crimson resembling claw marks. Their weapons varied, but each bore the same sigil on their gauntlets:
A red, painted talon.
The mark of death delivered swiftly.
At their head walked Serik the Raven-Eyed, the Talons' commander. He was tall and thin, wrapped in a cloak of raven feathers that never shed a drop of dust. His eyes were faintly luminous, a pale silver that seemed to see through the trees themselves.
He raised a hand.
The Talons halted instantly.
Serik knelt and placed his palm upon the earth.
A faint pulse rippled outward—barely visible, a shimmer like heat on stone.
He drew in a slow breath.
"He was here," Serik said, voice cool and melodic. Too calm for killing. "Hours ago."
One of the Talons stepped forward. "How do you know?"
Serik lifted two fingers.
"Because the forest remembers him."
The Talons exchanged uneasy glances. They were killers, not mystics. But Serik needed neither magic nor gods to track prey. He needed only the echoes left behind—the subtle vibrations of footfalls, the faint warmth of a disturbed branch, the shift in air where breath had passed.
Aeron, cursed immortal or not, left traces like anyone else.
Serik stood.
"The Deathless One has grown careless. He thinks he walks alone. He thinks time favors him." A small smile tugged at his lips. "But this time, time works for us."
A second hunter approached. "He had contact with Iron Monastery monks, Commander."
"Yes," Serik murmured. "Interesting, isn't it? Even the blades of discipline find him important."
He turned to the others.
"Spread out. Keep spacing. Do not attack alone. If you encounter him, stall him, wound him—but do not engage fully until we surround him."
One of the Talons frowned. "Is he truly that dangerous?"
Serik's silver eyes met the soldier's.
"Yes," he whispered. "And far more. If he were easy prey, the gods wouldn't bother cursing him."
A chill slid down the soldiers' spines.
Serik pulled a thin, curved blade from his belt. It shimmered with a faint, unnatural red glow—the color of blood illuminated by flame.
"This blade," he said softly, "was forged in Blackspire's deepest furnace. Blessed by the Seer of Embers herself."
He let the blade catch the dying sunlight.
"It is the only weapon that can sever the tether between the Deathless One's soul and his cursed body… momentarily."
The Talons stiffened.
Momentarily.
That meant Aeron could be hurt—maybe badly—but not killed.
Not yet.
Serik slid the blade back into its sheath.
"Varkos will have his key," Serik whispered. "And we…"
He smiled darkly.
"…will have our hunt."
He snapped his fingers.
The Red Talons vanished into the forest like smoke in a gale—silent, merciless, eager.
Far Ahead — Aeron Felt It.
He paused mid-step, hand drifting to the hilt of his sword.
The forest air grew heavier.
Tighter.
As if watching him.
"Someone's coming," Aeron muttered.
His stomach tightened—not with pain, but with dread.
He didn't know who.
But he knew one thing:
They were not ordinary soldiers.
Aeron exhaled, shaking his head.
"Of course," he said bitterly. "Why walk in peace for more than a day? That would be too easy."
He took another step.
Branches shifted.
The wind died.
And somewhere behind him—
—a raven cawed once.
A warning.
Aharon's eyes narrowed.
"They've found me."