Chapter 67 – The Shadowmane

  Ezra felt it in his bones first. A prickling across his skin, like the moment before lightning strikes. His breath caught as the mist parted in front of him, curling away from the trees like it wanted no part of what was coming.

  The Shadowmane stepped through the veil of fog.

  Its body emerged piece by piece from the treeline, as if reality itself hesitated to reveal it all at once. First the paws, massive, padded, tipped with curved claws that left deep gouges in the sodden ground. Then the bulk of its body, muscle rippling beneath purple-black fur, sleek as ink, each movement as fluid as mercury.

  Its head followed, low and deliberate, like a predator already certain of its kill.

  The mane flared around its neck like a crown of thorns, but it wasn’t just hair. Tendrils writhed through the thick fur, long, sinuous strands that pulsed and flexed like living things. Some brushed the ground, others waved lazily in the air, tasting it. They shimmered faintly with a translucent sheen, almost like jellyfish trailing venom behind them.

  Ezra didn’t dare breathe too loudly.

  The creature looked like a lion carved from nightfall, then dipped in bruised violet and set ablaze with something ancient. Its eyes caught the weak light, two molten bronze orbs that didn’t glow, exactly, but seemed to absorb and reflect thought. Intelligence. Hunger. Lust.

  Blood clung wetly to the corners of its mouth, thick and black-red, sticky against the pale curve of its fangs.

  Ezra’s stomach turned.

  That wasn’t old blood. Not animal blood.

  Shit, that must be from... Lenny.

  The thought came like a knife, fast and sharp.

  Behind his stillness, his mind churned.

  This thing shouldn’t exist.We need to take it out. Make sure there aren’t any more in the area.

  The Shadowmane moved slowly into the clearing, each footstep measured, deliberate. It didn’t glance around nervously like prey, it strode like it owned the forest, as though every tree, every stone, every breath of mist answered to it.

  Ezra crouched motionless in the underbrush, cloak damp and clinging to his back. He resisted the urge to look toward Marcel’s position, trusting his friend had found a good perch. If Marcel fired now—if either of them moved now—the whole plan would collapse. The Shadowmane wasn’t fooled. Not completely. But it was curious.

  It sniffed the air again, low and growling, and turned its head toward the bait.

  A snarl bubbled in its throat, and then, from the deepest part of its chest, it roared.

  The sound split the forest like a knife through hide. Ezra flinched despite himself. It wasn’t just volume, it was horrifying. The tone sat somewhere between a lion’s bellow and a man’s scream, distorted by some unnatural echo. It vibrated in his chest, made his bones ache.

  And still the thing didn’t charge. It just kept walking forward, drawn to the bait with disturbing calm.

  Ezra raised a hand, palm flat, arm locked, and held it toward the trees where Marcel was waiting.

  Not yet. Please, not yet.

  The Shadowmane was almost close enough to reach the rocks now. It paused again, the tendrils around its mane twitching. A few flicked toward the baited container like antennae testing the air. Ezra didn’t know if they could smell, see, or feel the pheromones, but they reacted with unsettling awareness.

  In the fog, the air had thickened. The musky, metallic scent of the bait coiled between the trees, but underneath it was something worse.

  The Shadowmane’s own scent.

  Ezra hadn’t noticed before. It came in waves, thick, coppery blood and scorched earth. It smelled like something burned and buried had clawed its way up through loam and rot.

  What are you?

  His pulse quickened. A hundred possibilities ran through his mind, none good. It hadn’t gone for it yet. That was almost worse. It was waiting. Watching. The same way he was.

  Maybe it recognizes the bait. Maybe it’s seen this trick before.

  Ezra’s hand trembled slightly, but he forced it still.

  If it turned now, bolted back into the mist, there might not be another chance. It moved like something that didn’t fear traps. That didn't fear anything. But more likely, it wasn’t intelligent enough to recognise its own fear. Being the top of the foodchain dulled one’s senses.

  But it should fear you.

  That voice didn’t sound like his. It was cold, cutting. He shoved it aside, tightening the fingers of his raised hand.

  Wait. Just a little longer.

  The Shadowmane stepped closer to the rocks.

  Closer.

  Now.

  Ezra dropped his arm.

  The forest didn’t react, there was no immediate thundercrack, no bolt from the trees. Just the silence between choices.

  But within Ezra, the world changed.

  He reached inward, threading his will through the Time strand. It was like pulling open a floodgate inside his chest. Magic surged through him, not a roar, but a steady stream, like a bolt of electricity. The sensation was immediate. His heartbeat slowed in his ears, but his limbs became liquid lightning.

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  The forest stilled. Everything moved in syrup.

  The Shadowmane twitched its head toward him, alerted by the faint shimmer of activated threads, but Ezra was already moving, blurring from cover, feet gliding over the ground.

  He felt everything.

  His coat flaring behind him. The damp spring of moss beneath his soles. The way mist clung to his skin like cold fingers trying to drag him back.

  Time became a companion. The forest, a backdrop. The Shadowmane, the only thing that mattered.

  It turned fully to face him now, leaving the bait behind.

  Ezra’s heart pounded, but not with fear. Not anymore. That emotion was too far away, dulled by the second thread he called on: Mind.

  It snapped into place like a brace around his thoughts. Focus crystallized. Every worry, every hesitation fell away like leaves in winter. He was steel now. Hardened and honed.

  He didn’t need to win. Just survive.

  He dashed left, wide of the creature’s bulk, forcing its attention away from the rocks. The tendrils in its mane snapped toward him, coiling with curious, snake-like interest. Its golden eyes locked onto his, not with the mindless hunger of a beast, but the assessing glare of something intelligent.

  Ezra's grip tightened on the hilt of his dagger.

  Not yet. Don’t engage. Just keep its attention. Don’t give it time to think.

  He circled wide again, kicking up wet leaves. His breaths were shallow but controlled. The world blurred around the edges, distorted by the twin magics coursing through him.

  The Shadowmane tracked him in perfect silence, lips pulled back in a low, silent snarl. It moved not like a cat, no pouncing, no bounding, but like a machine given purpose. Each step was clean, purposeful. Its muscles rippled in ecstasy. It had some new prey.

  Ezra knew he couldn’t outrun it. Not for long. Even with magic.

  He didn’t need to.

  He just needed to lead it far enough out that Marcel had a clear shot. Then he needed to survive the time it took to fire.

  You’re bait, he reminded himself. Nothing more.

  He caught a flash of movement from above, only the faintest glint of crossbow metal through a break in the mist.

  Good. Marcel was in position.

  Ezra stopped dead in the clearing, standing straight now, arm low at his side, dagger drawn.

  The Shadowmane’s ears twitched. Its legs tensed.

  It knew this was the moment.

  Ezra braced himself, flooding his legs with more time-thread reinforcement. Mind-thread focus carved away the terror again, dulling everything but the now.

  The Shadowmane snarled.

  And then it charged.

  The Shadowmane charged like a living avalanche, silent, swift, and horrifyingly precise. Its paws barely made a sound on the soaked forest floor, but each impact left deep furrows in the loam.

  Ezra darted left, weaving between gnarled roots and slick stones, his breath steady only because of the Time threads burning through his veins. Every muscle in his body was tuned, accelerated, working at peak capacity. His vision blurred at the edges, but his reflexes were sharp, honed by the unnatural stillness of the moment. But even with magic, the thing was fast, faster than anything its size had a right to be.

  Then came the sharp whistle of an arrow through the air.

  It came through the trees and buried itself with a wet crunch into the Shadowmane’s neck. The beast let out a fractured snarl, its gait faltering just slightly. Ezra didn't look back. He knew that shot.

  Marcel.

  Another arrow came an instant later, this one punching straight into the creature’s left eye with a sickening crack. The Shadowmane shrieked and reared back, tendrils thrashing violently around its mane. Blood—thick, dark, and nearly black—poured from the ruined socket like oil, matting the creature's fur in thick streams.

  "One more!" Ezra hissed under his breath, veering wide and circling back.

  A third arrow flew wide, skimming off a tree trunk as the beast jerked its head. The distraction worked, the Shadowmane pivoted, half-blind, in the direction of the trees. It caught sight of Marcel up in the branches, bow drawn again, his cloak billowing like a shadow.

  Marcel didn’t shoot this time. Instead, he dropped a shimmer of light, an illusion, a false image of himself leaping away through the canopy. The Shadowmane lunged after the mirage, its claws tearing into bark as it scrambled up the nearest tree with terrifying speed, its mane of tendrils whipping around to stabilize its ascent.

  "Marcel! Get ready!" Ezra called, backing away into the thick brush.

  While the Shadowmane clambered higher, its body tense and predatory, Ezra dipped into the undergrowth. The moss-covered forest floor sucked at his boots as he crouched low, vanishing from the creature’s direct line of sight. He unslung the quickbow from his back—a compact weapon of dark wood and tempered string. Not as powerful as Marcel’s longbow, but perfect for speed and agility.

  He nocked a short arrow, drew, and waited. The creature was nearly level with Marcel now, halfway up the tree. Its tendrils curled around branches like extra limbs, gripping and pulling with unnatural coordination.

  Ezra exhaled.

  Then released.

  The arrow soared upward and slammed into the Shadowmane’s flank. It wasn’t a fatal shot, but it did its job. The creature shrieked again, an enraged, guttural cry that reverberated through the clearing. It dropped back to the ground with a heavy thud, shaking the earth beneath its paws. All attention snapped to Ezra.

  "Yeah," Ezra muttered, stepping into the clearing again, cloak soaked and clinging to him. "Come on then."

  The Shadowmane roared, a guttural, warbling sound like a broken horn, and charged.

  Ezra held his ground, Time threads humming louder now, speeding the beat of his heart, sharpening every sense. The world around him blurred as he focused only on the charging mass of fury and muscle. He could see everything: the blood trailing from the beast’s wounded eye, the tensing of its shoulders before impact, the twitch of its left foreleg favouring the side where the arrow had struck.

  He sidestepped.

  The Shadowmane barreled past him, missing by inches. Ezra turned with the movement, jumped, and drove his dagger into the creature’s neck, aiming for the base where the tendrils writhed. The blade plunged deep, hot blood gushing over his hand. The dagger caught between bone and sinew.

  "Now!" he bellowed. "SLAM IT!"

  Above, Marcel was already in motion.

  He leapt from the tree, wind whistling past his cloak like a falling blade. As he descended, he reached for the dagger embedded in the Shadowmane's throat.

  Fingers closed around the hilt.

  Marcel dropped with gravity's vengeance, pulling the blade with him.

  The dagger tore a long, deep gash through the beast's neck, half a meter of shredded muscle, severed tendrils, and spraying blood. The Shadowmane screamed, but the sound died mid-growl, choked by its collapsing throat.

  Marcel hit the ground in a roll, blood streaking his arms, landing with the grace of someone who'd done this before. He came up in a crouch, bow still strapped across his back, his breath ragged but eyes alert.

  The Shadowmane stumbled.

  Then collapsed.

  Its legs twitched once.

  Twice.

  Still.

  Ezra stood, breathing hard, eyes locked on the carcass. His skin tingled with leftover energy from the Time threads, and the Mind magic that had braced his thoughts now whispered of the emotional weight beginning to crash over him.

  Marcel straightened beside him, panting, gripping the bloodied dagger.

  "Told you that would work," Marcel muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Ezra didn’t answer immediately. He just stared at the body, chest rising and falling, the echoes of magic still humming in his bones. He could feel the ache settling in, the toll of channelling two branches of magic in tandem, the exhaustion curled deep behind his ribs.

  He took a step closer, crouching beside the Shadowmane’s massive frame. The tendrils in its mane had gone slack, some twitching faintly, others limp and coiled like dead vines. He reached out, hesitating before touching one. It was cold already.

  They had won.

  But it hadn’t felt like victory.

  Not after all he had seen.

  They should’ve gotten there earlier. Maybe they could have helped.