The forest did not welcome them.
It did not resist either. It simply existed, dense and old, branches tangled overhead like a roof built by accident rather than design. The ground was soft with rot and needles, each step muffled, each breath tasting of damp earth. Light filtered through in thin, uneven strips, never enough to see far ahead.
Rath kept moving.
He did not set a pace so much as refuse to stop. The road behind them might as well have been a blade at his back. He felt it even now—the memory of it, the certainty that if they lingered too close to anything straight or traveled, something would follow.
Not hunt.
Follow.
Edrin broke the silence first, voice low. "This forest isn't on the trade maps."
"Most forests aren't," Lyessa said. She walked with one hand brushing the charms at her belt, fingers counting without looking. "Kings draw lines where they want people to go. Everything else gets left blank."
Rath didn't turn. "Blank doesn't mean empty."
"No," she agreed. "It usually means old."
They moved for hours, angling away from the road, deeper into the trees. The horse snorted now and then, uneasy, but it followed Rath without protest. He'd noticed that before—animals trusting him when they shouldn't. He didn't like thinking about why.
When they finally stopped, it wasn't because they were safe. It was because even Rath knew pushing farther would break something.
They made camp in a shallow dip between roots the size of stone walls. No fire. No smoke. Edrin ate dry bread without complaint, tearing it with his teeth like he didn't trust it to stay solid. Lyessa set wards—not real ones, not the kind that stopped demons or curses, but the kind that told you when something crossed a line.
Sometimes warning was all you got.
Rath sat apart, back against a tree, sword across his knees.
He didn't sleep.
He closed his eyes anyway.
—
The dream wasn't fire this time.
It was quiet.
He stood in a wide, empty place, the ground smooth and dark, stretching too far in every direction. No sky. No walls. Just space, heavy and waiting. The sword was in his hand, but it felt different here—lighter, almost eager.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
Not rushed. Not loud.
Measured.
"You're late," a voice said.
Rath turned.
There was no shape. No wings. No crown. Just a presence, vast and close, like standing too near the edge of a cliff in the dark.
"I didn't come," Rath said.
A pause.
"You always do."
Rath woke with his hand clenched so tight his fingers ached.
The forest was still dark, but dawn pressed at the edges now, pale and uncertain. Lyessa sat across from him, watching. She didn't pretend otherwise.
"You were standing," she said quietly. "Talking."
Rath swallowed. "Did I say anything?"
She shook her head. "No. You listened."
That was worse.
They packed quickly after that.
—
By midday, the forest thinned into broken hills and scrubland. Old stone markers lay half-buried, their carvings worn smooth by time and weather. No king's marks. No gods named. Just shapes and lines that once meant something to someone.
Edrin paused beside one, crouching. "This was a border," he said. "Long ago."
"Between what?" Lyessa asked.
Edrin shrugged. "Doesn't matter. It didn't last."
They followed a dry ravine south, careful to stay off the higher ground. Rath felt eyes on them more than once—not the sharp, hungry attention of demons, but something slower. Watchful. Patient.
He didn't mention it.
Late in the afternoon, they found the bodies.
Three soldiers. King Halvar's colors, torn and dirt-stained. One lay face down in the ravine, neck bent wrong. Another leaned against a rock, chest split open as if something had climbed out instead of in. The third was missing his head.
Edrin swore under his breath.
Lyessa knelt, touching the ground near the bodies. "This wasn't the thing from the road," she said. "Different."
Rath studied the wounds. "But related."
"How do you know?"
He didn't answer right away. The sword pulsed once, faint but certain.
"They're spreading," he said finally.
Lyessa looked up at him. "Demons don't spread. They rise where they're called."
"Then something's calling louder," Rath said.
They didn't bury the bodies. Time didn't allow it. Rath closed the dead man's eyes anyway. Habit, not mercy.
As they moved on, Edrin spoke, voice tight. "Kings won't ignore this."
"No," Lyessa said. "They'll blame each other."
Rath listened to the wind move through dry grass. "And while they argue," he said, "the ground keeps opening."
—
They reached a small settlement just before nightfall.
It wasn't much—half a dozen buildings, mostly wood, clustered around a shallow well. No walls. No banners. People watched them arrive with the guarded looks of those who had already learned not to ask questions.
An old man met them near the well, hands empty but steady. "Road's not safe," he said. "Hasn't been for weeks."
"We noticed," Edrin replied.
The man's gaze flicked to Rath's sword, then away again. "You passing through?"
"Yes," Rath said. "If we can."
The man nodded once. "Best do it quiet."
They were given a place to sleep in a barn that smelled of hay and fear. Rath took first watch without discussion.
The night was restless.
Somewhere beyond the hills, something roared—not close, but not far enough to ignore. The sound rolled across the land, deep and layered, like stone grinding against stone.
In the village, a child cried. A dog barked once, then went silent.
Rath stood, hand on his sword, and felt the answer settle in his chest before the question finished forming.
This wasn't about demons anymore.
It was about preparation.
Below the soil, below the old borders and forgotten gods, something was arranging pieces. Roads. Kings. Men like Rath who could walk between.
He stared out into the dark and wondered—not for the first time—whether he had ever been walking away from anything at all.
—
At dawn, the village woke to the sound of riders.
Not one patrol.
Many.
Steel flashed in the early light. Banners snapped in the wind—different colors, different marks. Kings who did not agree on gods or borders, united only by fear.
Rath watched from the barn door as soldiers spread through the settlement, asking questions, demanding answers.
The world was moving now.
And it was moving toward him.
The soldiers did not ride like men expecting a welcome.
They came in staggered lines, horses sweating, armor dulled by long travel. Banners snapped above them—three different marks, three different kings, none of them friendly to one another. Rath counted without meaning to. Too many for a simple patrol. Too few for war.
Fear made up the rest.
The village stirred under their presence. Doors opened a crack, then shut. Smoke rose from cooking fires put out too late. Rath stayed where he was, half-shadowed by the barn door, the sword resting against his thigh like a quiet warning.
Edrin joined him, jaw tight. "That's Halvar's men," he murmured. "And those—south colors. King Verran, I think."
Lyessa appeared on Rath's other side. "Two kings in one place," she said softly. "That doesn't happen unless something's gone very wrong."
A horn sounded. Short. Sharp.
Orders followed. Soldiers spread out, boots thudding against packed dirt. One group moved straight for the well. Another toward the edge of the settlement, where the land dipped and twisted toward the ravine they'd come from.
Rath felt it then—the same pressure as before, faint but unmistakable. Not a pull. A recognition.
"They're tracking," he said.
Lyessa glanced at him. "Us?"
"No," Rath replied. "The ground."
As if in answer, a shout rang out from the far side of the village. A soldier stumbled back into view, one hand clutching his arm. Blood streamed between his fingers, blacker than it should've been.
"Captain!" he yelled. "The earth—"
The ground buckled beneath him.
It didn't split this time. It collapsed.
The man vanished mid-scream, swallowed whole. The soil closed over him with a wet, final sound. Silence followed, stunned and absolute.
Then chaos.
Horses reared. Men shouted. Spears leveled at nothing. A priest in red robes began shouting prayers that tangled over one another, his voice cracking with panic.
Rath stepped forward before he could stop himself.
"Pull back!" he shouted. "Get away from the ground!"
Too late.
The earth heaved again, further out, then again, closer. Shapes pressed up from below—not fully formed, not yet free. Hands. Faces. Claws clawing at daylight.
Demons.
Plural.
Edrin drew his sword. "How many this time?"
Rath felt the pulse surge, sharp and eager. "Too many."
The first demon broke free with a scream like tearing cloth. Another followed, then another. Smaller than the one on the road, but faster. Hungrier. They rushed the nearest soldiers without hesitation, tearing into armor and flesh alike.
Steel rang. Men died.
Rath moved.
The sword was in his hand, and he was already running. He cut through the first demon in a clean arc, blade slicing through neck and shoulder in one motion. Black blood sprayed, hissing as it hit the dirt. The creature fell apart mid-fall, collapsing into ash before it struck the ground.
He didn't slow.
Another demon lunged at him from the side. Rath pivoted, driving the blade through its chest. It shrieked, claws scraping uselessly at his armor, before the sword tore free and the body followed the first into nothing.
Around him, the village burned.
Soldiers fought bravely, desperately, but they were outmatched. Spears glanced off hide. Swords bit deep and stuck. Panic spread faster than the demons.
Lyessa stood near the well, hands raised, voice steady as she chanted. Her wards flared to life, thin lines of light marking a boundary the demons hesitated to cross. Not fear—confusion. As if the rules had changed and they hadn't been told.
Edrin fought beside her, blade flashing, blood streaking his arms.
Rath cut his way toward them.
A demon leapt for Lyessa, claws outstretched. Rath intercepted it midair, blade cleaving through spine and ribs. The impact drove him to one knee. The pulse roared, flooding his senses, drowning out screams and steel and prayer alike.
For a moment, he wanted it.
The clarity. The certainty.
Then a voice rose above the din—not in his head this time, but carried on the air, deep and layered.
"Hold your ground!"
A new group of soldiers pushed into the village, armor darker, heavier. Their banner bore a white sigil split down the center—King Morren's mark. They moved with discipline, shields locking together, forming a wall between the demons and the civilians.
For the first time, the demons hesitated.
Rath used the opening.
He drove forward, striking low, then high, cutting tendons, severing limbs. Each kill fed the curse, the pulse rising and falling in time with his breath. The world narrowed again, but this time he forced it wider, kept track of where Lyessa and Edrin were, where the soldiers were breaking.
A demon reared back from him, face twisting. "You shouldn't be here," it hissed. "You weren't meant to walk above this long."
Rath didn't answer. He took its head off.
The ground shuddered one last time, then stilled. The remaining demons faltered, forms destabilizing, bodies unraveling as if a signal had been cut. One by one, they collapsed into ash, sinking back into the soil that had birthed them.
Silence returned, broken only by groans and the crackle of small fires.
Rath stood amid the wreckage, chest heaving, sword dripping black.
A captain approached him, helmet tucked under one arm. His face was pale, eyes sharp with calculation. "You," he said. "You led the counter."
Rath said nothing.
The captain looked at the sword. Then at the ground. Then at the bodies. "You're coming with us."
Lyessa stepped forward. "On what authority?"
"On survival," the captain replied. "This is bigger than any one road or village. Kings are calling councils. If you're tied to this—"
"I am," Rath said.
The word landed heavy.
The captain studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "Then you'll answer to them."
Rath glanced at Lyessa and Edrin. They didn't argue. There was nowhere left to run—not from this.
As the soldiers began to secure the village, Rath felt the pulse slow, settling back into that patient rhythm. Satisfied.
Somewhere far below, something adjusted its plans again.
And for the first time, Rath understood the truth he'd been circling since the road, since the forest, since the village burned years ago.
The world wasn't reacting to the demons.
The demons were reacting to him.
Rath woke to the sound of breathing that was not his own.
It rasped through the darkness like a dull blade dragged across stone—slow, deliberate, patient. His hand went to his sword before his eyes fully opened, instincts outrunning thought. Pain flared in his chest as he moved, the brand beneath his ribs burning as if something had pressed a hot thumb into it from the inside.
The breathing stopped.
Rath sat up, back against cold stone, scanning the ruined chapel where he'd taken shelter. Moonlight spilled through the shattered roof, silvering broken pews and the collapsed altar. Dust hung in the air, unmoving. No footfalls. No presence he could see.
Yet the sense remained. Not threat—worse. Attention.
"You can stop pretending," Rath said into the dark. His voice sounded hoarse, scraped raw by sleep and memory. "I know when I'm being watched."
A soft sound followed. Almost a chuckle. Not mocking. Curious.
Good, Rath thought. Let it speak. Let it make the mistake.
Nothing answered.
The brand pulsed again, slower this time, like a heartbeat out of sync with his own. Rath gritted his teeth and forced himself to breathe through it. This was how it worked now. Pain without wound. Pressure without weight. A reminder that whatever had been woven into him was alive in a way no blade could sever.
He pushed himself to his feet and crossed the chapel, boots crunching over fallen stone. Near the altar, he found what he'd missed earlier: a thin line carved into the floor, half-erased by age. Symbols curled along it—binding marks, old and precise. Not demon work. Not entirely human either.
"Priestcraft," Rath muttered. "Or something that wanted to pretend it was."
He knelt, tracing one symbol with a careful finger. The moment he touched it, the world tilted.
For an instant, he stood somewhere else.
The chapel was whole. Candles burned along the walls. The air smelled of incense and iron. Figures stood in a circle around him—no, not him. A younger man. Unscarred. Unbroken. Knees pressed to the stone, head bowed, hands bound behind his back.
Rath recognized the posture before he recognized the face.
It was his.
Not a memory. A reflection.
The figures began to chant.
Rath tore his hand away with a gasp, stumbling back as the vision shattered. He hit the wall hard, breath leaving him in a sharp bark. The chapel returned to ruin and silence, but the echo of the chant lingered in his skull like an afterimage burned into the eye.
"So that's it," he said quietly. "You didn't curse me. You anchored something to me."
The breathing returned—closer now.
"You're learning," the voice said at last.
It came from everywhere and nowhere, layered as if spoken through several throats that did not agree on tone. Male and female, young and ancient, calm and amused all at once.
Rath didn't raise his sword this time. "You're late," he said. "I already figured out it was meant for me."
A pause. Then, approval. "Few do. Most break first."
"Then you picked the wrong man."
A shape began to form near the altar—not stepping out of shadow, but condensing from it. Tall, vaguely humanoid, its outline unstable, as though the world itself was unsure how much of it should be allowed to exist at once. Its eyes were points of pale fire, not hostile, not kind.
Interested.
"You think this is about strength," the demon said. "That is a common mistake."
Rath's jaw tightened. "Then explain it."
"No."
The demon tilted its head. "Understanding must be earned. Pain accelerates the process."
The brand flared again, hotter than before. Rath dropped to one knee, a low growl tearing from his throat despite his effort to swallow it. He felt the pull then—not physical, but directional. As if something deep within him was being gently, inexorably turned toward a destination he could not see.
"Where does it lead?" Rath demanded.
The demon smiled, and the expression did not belong on anything with a face. "Not where. When."
That got his attention.
The pain receded, leaving behind a dull ache and a colder truth. Rath pushed himself upright again, slower this time. "You bound me to a future."
"Yes."
"And if I refuse?"
The demon's eyes brightened. "Then the future comes anyway. It simply arrives without your consent."
Rath laughed once, sharp and humorless. "You don't know me very well."
"I know you better than you know yourself," the demon replied. "You have always walked toward the blade, Rath. Even before we gave it a reason."
Something in that phrasing lodged deep and unpleasant in his mind. We gave it a reason.
"How many?" Rath asked.
The demon's smile widened. "Enough."
The chapel shook—not violently, but decisively. Dust fell from the ceiling. The symbols on the floor flared briefly with dull red light before fading completely, as though their purpose had been fulfilled.
"You'll feel it more clearly soon," the demon continued. "The pull. The narrowing of choices. Paths closing without your noticing."
"And if I find whoever started this?" Rath said.
"You already have."
Rath's grip tightened on his sword. "You're lying."
"No," the demon said softly. "We are waiting."
The air folded in on itself. The shape unraveled, shadow bleeding back into shadow, leaving the chapel empty once more.
Silence returned—but it was thinner now, stretched over something vast and patient.
Rath stood alone among the ruins, chest rising and falling, the brand beneath his ribs cooling to a faint, persistent throb. He stared at the place where the demon had stood, then down at the faded symbols on the floor.
A future without consent.
He sheathed his sword and turned toward the broken doors. Whatever had been bound to him was not content to remain dormant, and Rath had no intention of letting it choose the battlefield.
As he stepped out into the night, the moon dipped behind the clouds, and for just a heartbeat, Rath could have sworn he felt something else watching—not the demon, not the curse.
Something older. Far more precise.
Somewhere very far away, a name was spoken—not aloud, but with intent sharp enough to cut through worlds.
Azrael had noticed the disturbance.
And Rath, walking forward with no idea how narrow his path had already become, had just taken his first step into a war that had been waiting for him far longer than he'd ever known.
Rath did not stop walking when the chapel vanished behind him.
The road ahead was little more than a suggestion carved into dirt and frost, winding east through dead fields and leaning fence posts. He followed it without thinking, not because it was familiar, but because the pull beneath his ribs tightened whenever he tried to slow. Not pain this time—guidance. Subtle. Insidious.
He hated it more than the agony.
By the time dawn threatened the horizon, the sky bruised purple and gray, Rath understood the truth he'd been circling since the first mark burned into his flesh: the curse did not force his steps. It simply ensured that every other direction would eventually fail him.
That was its elegance.
He stopped at the crest of a low hill and looked back once, only once, at the land he was leaving behind. Somewhere beyond the ruins, beyond the chapel and its lies, something watched and waited, satisfied that the wheel had begun to turn.
Rath placed a hand over the brand, fingers curling as if he could crush it through skin and bone.
"You should've killed me," he said to the empty morning.
The brand answered with a steady, patient thrum.
Below the hill, the road bent sharply out of sight, vanishing into fog and consequence alike. Rath exhaled, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward—into a future that had already chosen him, and a reckoning that would not care whether he was ready.
Behind him, unseen and untouched by dawn, the world held its breath.