Arvey woke with his cheek pressed against rough bark. His neck felt stiff from sleeping in the crown. His ribs pulled when he drew a deeper breath, and his forearms still carried dull ache from the fight against the Broodmaster. He blinked twice and focused his vision on Kozlo.

  Kozlo slept with his head tucked under one wing. His talons stayed hooked into the branch, but his body had drifted into a loose slump. Arvey stared at him for a second, then exhaled through his nose. “You fell asleep,” Arvey said quietly, keeping his voice low.

  The memory of the egg returned before Arvey moved. He thought about the pull in his forearm. He remembered the black veins forming between the shell and his skin. He remembered the heat running into his chest, then the pain that made his breathing break. “What was that ...,” Arvey said, staring into the canopy.

  He placed his hand on his chest and held it there for a moment. His breathing stayed steady, and the tight feeling from last night was gone. His mana felt normal again, moving clean through his core.

  Arvey let the circulation run for a few breaths and watched for any spike. Nothing caught or pulled, so he guided mana into his fist. Heat gathered in his knuckles, and his grip felt stronger for a short moment. He released it and looked at Kozlo.

  “We move,” Arvey said, deciding to postpone it. He leaned forward and poked Kozlo’s side with one finger. “Kozlo,” Arvey said louder, giving the poke more force.

  Kozlo snapped awake and flared both wings wide. He lifted his chest and raised his head high, trying to look as large as possible. His eyes looked sharp, and his feathers puffed along his neck. Arvey laughed, a short sound that made his ribs complain.

  “Be happy nothing attacked us,” Arvey said. Kozlo kept his wings spread for a moment longer, then folded them slowly. He stared at Arvey in a steady way, like he had planned to stay awake the whole time. “Kozlo watch,” Kozlo said, sounding confident.

  “Sure,” Arvey said, still amused. He pushed himself up and tested his balance on the branch. Then he climbed down with controlled movements, keeping his weight close to the trunk.

  They reached the ground and Arvey rolled his shoulders again. He checked his forearm where the cut had been, then paused. The skin had already sealed, and only a faint mark remained. He ran a thumb over it once, then let his hand drop. “We go to the green barrier,” Arvey said, looking down the slope.

  Kozlo hopped onto his shoulder and turned backward without being asked. “Barrier,” Kozlo repeated, voice calm. Arvey walked with steady pace, keeping his mana circle active as always.

  After walking for a while, the green barrier appeared between trees as a faint line. Arvey slowed when he reached it and kept his eyes on the surface.

  They stopped one step before it. “Alright,” Arvey said quietly, keeping his tone controlled. “Let’s head to Duskmire.”

  He stepped through with Kozlo on his shoulder. The barrier resisted for a split second, then gave way. Arvey felt the air change on the other side. The smell shifted first. It smelled more of forest, plants, and earth. The second change hit his skin, a subtle pressure change.

  He drew a breath and felt mana density in the air behave differently. The flow around him felt thinner. The difference was not dramatic, but it was clear. “Mana is thinner here,” Arvey said, scanning the trees.

  Kozlo rotated his head and stared into the forest ahead. “Feels strange,” Kozlo said. Arvey nodded once, feeling the difference but not understanding it yet. “Something changed,” he said quietly, keeping his eyes on the path. He adjusted the pace and started moving toward the direction the mercenaries had gone.

  The forest inside the barrier felt more traveled. Arvey saw older footprints and broken branches at knee height. He saw traces of carts along a dirt path that had been pressed into the ground. He moved along that path for a while, using it as a guide.

  Kozlo stayed backward-facing and tracked behind. Arvey kept his breathing low and listened for any sounds.

  After half an hour of movement, Arvey saw a faint glow in the distance. He stopped behind a thick trunk and narrowed his eyes. Smoke drifted up in a thin line, then spread through branches. Firelight flickered low, hidden by undergrowth.

  Arvey lowered his body into a crouch and moved toward the smoke. He kept each step light, placing his feet on firm patches of ground. Kozlo shifted on his shoulder and stayed quiet.

  As Arvey closed distance, he heard murmurs. The sound carried in a rhythm that repeated. The voices sounded trained and unified, not like a casual conversation. He moved to a cluster of bushes and looked through them.

  A caravan moved through the forest clearing. Torches lined the perimeter, held by robed figures in a tight formation. The robes were dark, and the fabric carried painted symbols. Arvey focused on the crest at the center of the lead banner.

  A radiant light symbol sat in the middle. Four branching arms extended from it, each arm ending in a different mark. Fire, water, earth, and air signs were painted in clean strokes along the cloth. The banner moved steady with the march.

  Arvey’s brow tightened. He had seen that crest before. The memory surfaced, dragging the heavy, suffocating sensation of the slave house with it. “That symbol,” Arvey said, keeping his eyes on the banner. “I saw it in a slave house.”

  Kozlo made a small sound. “Bad people,” he whispered. Arvey did not answer. His eyes moved past the banner and found the slaves.

  They walked behind the caravan, shackled in pairs. Chains bound wrists and ankles, forcing a shortened stride. Their heads stayed bowed, and their shoulders sagged under fatigue. Their clothes hung in torn strips, and ribs showed under thin skin. Some stumbled and caught themselves with chained hands.

  Arvey felt his stomach tighten. His jaw locked, and his hands curled into fists. “Scum,” he said quietly, keeping his voice low.

  Arvey studied the caravan. The pace remained slow, deliberate, and ritualistic. The people did not joke or speak to one another. They murmured in a rhythmic pulse, each syllable landing with a heavy step. The procession appeared rehearsed.

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  “This isn’t a market march,” Arvey said quietly, keeping his eyes on the leader. “This seems like a ceremony.” He watched the crest again and felt the memory tighten in his throat. “They are probably cult followers,” Arvey said, keeping his voice low. “But where are they taking the slaves?” Kozlo shifted on his shoulder and let out a soft trill.

  Arvey shadowed them from the tree line. He kept his body low and matched their speed. He avoided dry twigs and sodden ground that would snap or hiss under his boots. He watched the robed figures, analyzing their posture and the spacing between them.

  No one broke formation. The leader walked at the front and held himself perfectly upright. His steps remained measured. He did not turn his head once.

  Arvey’s focus drifted to the slaves. One thin man in a torn, sleeveless tunic moved with a different cadence. His steps stuttered. He lifted his head once, then dropped it just as quickly.

  Arvey recognized that stance. He had seen it in cage bars and transport lines. He had used it himself during his own time as a captive. “He is planning to run,” Arvey said in a controlled voice, keeping his eyes on the man’s feet.

  The slave stole a glance toward the tree line. His shoulders tensed, signaling a sudden urge to bolt. Arvey shook his head once, keeping the movement small. “Not yet,” Arvey whispered, barely moving his lips.

  The slave hesitated a second too long, and his chain made a louder clink than the others. One robed figure turned its head, then adjusted its stride to cut toward him. The movement looked trained, like the cultist had been waiting for the first mistake. The slave saw the angle too late and tried to recover his step. His ankle chain caught, and he stumbled into the dirt.

  “NO, PLEASE!” the slave shouted, voice cracking. “I’ll do anything! Don’t..!”

  The cultist moved closer, head tilted at a sharp angle. “You filthy slave,” the cultist hissed in a thin, dry voice. He raised one hand, palm facing the man on the ground.

  The slave gagged and grabbed his own throat. His body locked into place, then folded as if his joints had failed. He hit the dirt and convulsed, legs kicking against the packed earth. His mouth opened wide, pulling in air that failed to fill his chest.

  Arvey’s breath stalled. He watched the slave’s back arch and then flatten into the dust. The convulsions slowed until the body ceased all movement. The slave lay still.

  “Weakness is not tolerated,” another cultist murmured as he kicked the corpse. He continued walking without a second glance. The caravan maintained its pace. The remaining slaves kept walking, their heads lower than before.

  Arvey clenched his jaw and stared at the cooling body. “They did not even acknowledge him,” he whispered, keeping his eyes on the trail. Kozlo shivered on his shoulder, feathers flattening against his skin.

  The chanting continued and carried them forward. The forest thinned as they moved. Trees gave way to a wide clearing. The ground looked blackened and scarred.

  Arvey smelled burning flesh. Smoke hung low and clung to the throat. He stayed near the edge of the trees and watched the cultists enter the open space.

  A massive pit sat at the center of the clearing. Its edges were jagged and irregular. The shape looked torn, as if something had ripped the ground open from below. Mist churned in the depths of the hole.

  Arvey watched the mist and felt a wrongness in it's movement. The fog did not drift with the wind. It pulsed in slow, rhythmic waves. It expanded and tightened in a consistent pattern.

  “That pit is deep,” Arvey thought to himself, eyes fixed on the dark center. “What are they planning?”

  The cultists gathered around the pit. They pulled the slaves forward one by one. Metal chains clinked with each hesitant step. The leader raised his hands and spoke in a loud, fanatic voice.

  “We return what was taken,” he declared, his voice carrying through the smoke. “A gift to the Heavens, so the balance may be preserved.”

  The chanting rose in volume, locking into the cadence of the leader’s words as the pit’s mist churned with sudden, violent force. Something massive shifted far below the surface, obscured by the swirling haze. Arvey leaned forward a fraction, his pulse quickening while he forced his breathing to remain shallow and quiet. Kozlo stayed perfectly still, his feathers pressed tight against his body.

  A sudden, cold pressure clamped against Arvey’s throat. A sharp edge bit into the skin just beneath his jaw, and Arvey froze, recognizing the contact as too controlled and precise to be an accident. The metal stung his skin, a warning that silenced the protest in his chest. Kozlo reacted instantly, a low rasp building in his throat as his talons dug deep into Arvey’s shoulder and his wings tensed for flight.

  “Don’t,” a voice whispered behind him, the tone calm and absolute.

  The blade’s pressure increased just enough to draw a bead of blood, and a second movement followed, so fast Arvey barely perceived it, as a thin throwing spike materialized, angled directly toward Kozlo’s head.

  “One wrong move,” the voice murmured, “and your owl dies first. Then you.”

  Kozlo went rigid, his wings relaxing as the sound in his throat died into a hollow silence.

  “Who are you?” the voice demanded, the question sharp against Arvey’s ear. “Are you with them?”

  Arvey swallowed carefully, keeping his throat stable against the edge of the blade. “No,” he said, his voice controlled despite the metallic tang of fear in his mouth.

  “I don’t believe you,” the voice replied, the blade unmoving. “Prove it. Don’t interfere.”

  Arvey kept his eyes fixed on the clearing, forcing his body to remain a statue. He gauged the person behind him through the deliberate weight of the grip and the flawless placement of the steel, concluding that the stranger was a professional. Below them, the cultists forced another slave toward the edge, and the leader drew a curved dagger, leaning in to whisper something that Arvey could not hear.

  Arvey’s stomach twisted in revolt, his hands tightening into fists, yet he did not reach for his weapons. He felt Kozlo go rigid against his neck.

  Suddenly, a voice cut through the ritual, sharp and mocking enough to shatter the atmosphere.

  “You call this balance?”

  A towering man in heavy chains stepped forward from the line of slaves, his broad shoulders rippling with muscle and his forearms marred by jagged scars. Iron cuffs bit into his wrists, drawing fresh blood, but he ignored the pain, lifting his head to glare at the leader. The man pulled his arms apart with a grunt of exertion, and the heavy chains snapped with a metallic crack. Links scattered across the dirt, ringing like bells in the sudden stillness.

  Gasps rippled through the gathered cultists, and the chanting broke.

  “IN THE NAME OF DUSKSTONE,” the man roared, his voice shaking the trees. “YOU WILL TAKE NO MORE LIVES TODAY!”

  Chaos erupted instantly. The cultists pivoted into combat stances, their torches jerking through the air as their grips tightened on concealed weapons. Slaves recoiled, stumbling away from the pit in a desperate scramble for the treeline. Arvey remained still, his focus locked on the scene, though the blade at his throat eased pressure for a fraction of a breath. The person behind him let out a quiet, rhythmic hum.

  “Well,” the voice murmured, “that was quick.”

  Arvey seized the slight shift in tension to speak. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice low and firm.

  The stranger chuckled, a dry sound without warmth. “I ask the questions. Right now, you’re in no position to argue.”

  “I’m not with them,” Arvey insisted, keeping his voice steady to avoid the edge of the steel.

  “You keep saying that,” the voice replied. “I still don’t believe you.”

  “Then what do you want?” Arvey asked, his jaw tight.

  “I want nothing,” the voice said. “But we’ll see what the boss says.”

  The mention of the "boss" triggered a flash of recognition in Arvey’s mind, linking the term to the mercenaries he saw. Arvey started to turn his head, but the blade tightened instantly, biting deeper into his skin.

  “You ask too many questions for someone who doesn’t know anything,” the voice said, sounding annoyed. “Maybe the boss will have a use for you.”

  Just when Arvey wanted to speak, the hilt of the dagger struck the side of his head with sickening force. A flash of white pain exploded behind his eyes, shattering his balance. His vision smeared into gray streaks, and his knees buckled as gravity took hold. The last thing he heard was Kozlo’s piercing, panicked screech before the darkness surged forward, erasing the noise of the clearing and pulling him into the void.