Miles followed Lysara beneath the canopy, each step more uncertain than the last. The forest swallowed sound—too effectively. The air grew cooler, the shadows deeper, the light shifting into watery shafts that cut between massive, twisting trunks. The leaves overhead shimmered in muted hues, catching glimmers of the glowing bay behind them.
Lysara moved effortlessly ahead of him, barely disturbing a single branch. Miles, on the other hand, felt like a bag of clanking metal every time his foot brushed a leaf.
"Try to place your feet with intention," Lysara murmured without turning. "Walk as though the ground may betray you."
"That's… encouraging," Miles whispered.
She glanced back, golden eyes faintly amused. "You are loud. But teachable."
He wasn't sure if that was praise or an insult. Maybe both.
They continued deeper, the air thickening with damp earth and faint floral notes. Strange, pale vines draped from branches, their tips pulsing with soft phosphorescence—like the entire forest breathed slowly.
Miles kept his head on a swivel. Everything here felt alive in ways that didn't make sense. Foliage shifted slightly even when the wind didn't blow. Trees leaned minutely toward or away from him as he passed. His skin crawled at the sensation of being watched.
Not just watched. Measured.
"Does the forest usually… look at you?" he asked.
Lysara paused mid-step, eyes narrowing as she assessed their surroundings. "The Glades are… aware. They do not attack without reason, but they do notice."
"Oh, good," Miles muttered. "Glad I'm not imagining things."
"You are not imagining anything," Lysara said quietly. "It notices newcomers most of all."
He didn't like the way she said that.
Before he could push further, the System flickered.
[Environmental Anomaly Detected]
[Biological Scanning Attempt: Failed]
[Warning: Unknown Neural Pattern Signatures]
Miles grimaced. "Does the forest have… neural patterns?"
"Yes," Lysara said simply.
He inhaled sharply. "I hate everything about that."
"You will adjust."
They pressed on.
After several minutes of winding through thick underbrush, Lysara stopped abruptly and raised a hand for silence. Miles halted, heart thudding.
"What?" he whispered.
She tilted her head, listening. Her ears twitched slightly—subtle, elegant movements. Then she drew an arrow from her quiver, the motion fluid and silent.
"Shadehounds," she murmured.
Miles felt the blood drain from his face. "Already? Weren't we on the beach like five minutes ago?"
"They travel quickly," she said. "And they track disturbance."
Miles swallowed hard. "The relic."
"Or you," she said. "Or the thing that brought you. They do not know which, so they investigate all."
That was somehow worse.
A faint vibration trembled through the soil under his feet—like distant, low thunder muffled by earth. Miles crouched instinctively.
Lysara nodded approvingly. "Good. They sense vibrations before scent."
He wasn't comforted.
He peered through the dense foliage, seeing only layered shadows… and then—
A shape moved.
Low to the ground, silent as smoke.
A Shadehound emerged from between twisted roots—a wolf-like figure with fur that blurred into the shadows around it. Its outline fuzzed at the edges, as if its body couldn't fully decide whether it wanted to exist in this lighting or not.
Silver-reflective eyes locked onto him.
The creature didn't snarl.
Didn't growl.
Didn't make a sound.
"Lysara…" Miles whispered.
"Do not run," she replied calmly. "Running is an invitation."
Miles froze, every survival instinct screaming at him to sprint.
Another shade shifted behind a trunk.
Then another.
Three.
Lysara's posture shifted from alert to predatory stillness. She drew her bowstring taut, the barely audible creak sounding impossibly loud in the quiet.
"They are testing us," she murmured.
"Testing… like studying us?"
"Yes." Her voice dropped into an even lower whisper. "If they commit, they will circle and drive us into each other."
Miles felt sick. "How do we make sure they don't commit?"
"Confidence," Lysara said, "and clarity."
She stepped slightly ahead of him, shoulders squared, posture tall. Her expression was cool and emotionless, hunter to hunter.
Miles mimicked her stance… badly.
"Not like a stiff tree," she hissed. "Like a creature ready to strike."
He had never been ready to strike anything in his life, but he tried anyway, tilting forward and narrowing his eyes. He was ninety percent sure he looked like a constipated meerkat.
But something unexpected happened.
The nearest Shadehound hesitated.
The blurred edges of its form rippled, its weight shifting backward.
Lysara shot him a sharp, approving look. "They expected prey. You showed uncertainty instead of fear."
"I'm still afraid," he said through clenched teeth.
"Fear is allowed. Panic is not."
More shapes circled the shadows. Miles counted them by shimmer and subtle distortion.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
His breath tightened. Lysara inhaled slowly, almost ritualistically, then exhaled with absolute control.
"They will push again," she warned. "Be ready."
"Be ready for what?"
"For them to see if you break."
As if on cue, a Shadehound lunged from the right—not fully attacking, just leaping close enough to snap at empty air.
Miles flinched violently—
The creature drew back instantly, sensing the weakness.
Miles's heart slammed in terror.
Lysara moved like water.
In a single fluid motion, she stepped between him and the hound, releasing her arrow. It sliced through the air and buried itself in the ground inches from the hound's muzzle, a precision warning shot.
The beast halted, frozen.
Golden eyes blazing, Lysara drew another arrow, her voice low and dangerous.
"Enough."
For a moment, the forest held its breath.
The Shadehound lowered its head, assessing her. Its blurred body quivered—not in fear, but indecision.
Then a soft series of clicks echoed through the trees.
Miles stiffened. "What was that?"
"Their communicator," Lysara murmured. "They decide as a pack."
The hounds paused, heads turning toward an unseen signal.
Then, as one, they melted backward into the shadows, dissolving into shifting dark. Their bodies blurred until they became indistinguishable from the forest floor.
Within seconds, the glade was silent again.
Miles collapsed to his knees, breath ragged.
Lysara lowered her bow and approached him carefully. "You did well."
"I nearly peed myself."
"Then you did better than most." She offered her hand to help him up. "Shadehounds rarely retreat unless they believe the cost outweighs the reward."
Miles took her hand shakily. "And what convinced them the cost was too high?"
"You showed spine," she said simply. "And I showed teeth."
Miles exhaled shakily, adrenaline burning through him.
"Are there more of them?" he asked.
"Yes," Lysara said honestly. "But they will not follow us now. They have tasted your fear and your resolve—rarely do they get both from one prey. It confuses them."
"Great," Miles muttered. "I'll confuse every predator we meet. New life goal."
A hint of a smile tugged at her lips. "Come. There is a safer place ahead. A ranger's hollow where the Glades do not meddle."
He followed her shakily, brushing sweat from his forehead. Every step felt like borrowed time.
As they moved through the shifting trees, the System flickered again, smoother this time—as if the Shadehound encounter had somehow stabilized it.
[Hostility Avoided]
[Survival Progress +2%]
[Skill Resonance Detected]
[Choose a Skill to Unlock]
Miles stumbled.
"Lysara."
"Yes?"
"The System wants me to… unlock a skill."
She slowed, curiosity tightening her features. "Show me."
The interface pulsed, options flickering into clarity.
[Unlocked Skill Slots: 4]
[Select One:
• Adaptive Crafting
• Situational insight
• Instinctive reflex
• Material Sense
Miles's heart raced.
Lysara watched the projection with unblinking intensity.
"Choose carefully," she said. "Skills shape fate here."
Miles swallowed.
And reached toward the option that felt like the difference between living… and dying.