The road was supposed to be safe.

  That was the lie people told themselves when they traveled during daylight, when the sky was clear and the wind carried nothing worse than dust.

  Joren heard the screaming before he saw the caravan.

  It cut through the trees ahead—sharp, panicked, human.

  He broke into a run.

  The road curved downhill into a narrow pass, stone rising on both sides like the land had decided to funnel whatever came through it. A merchant wagon lay overturned near the bend, one wheel snapped clean off. Crates were split open across the road, cloth and grain scattered like offerings no one had meant to give.

  People ran.

  Two guards were already down.

  One wasn’t moving.

  Demons poured out of the brush—lean, fast things with bone-hooked limbs and eyes that glowed dull and hungry. Not high-ranked. Not clever.

  But there were enough.

  One of them leapt—

  And never landed.

  Joren crossed the distance in a breath.

  His Aether blade took the creature midair, severing it cleanly. The body dissolved before it hit the ground, ash scattering across the road.

  The others turned.

  Too late.

  Joren didn’t charge.

  He cut.

  Step. Strike. Turn. No wasted motion. No flourish.

  A demon rushed from the left—he pivoted and ended it. Another from behind—he ducked under the swipe and drove the blade upward through its core.

  Ash fell like snow.

  The guards stared.

  The remaining demons hesitated.

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  That was their last mistake.

  When it was over, the road was quiet again—broken only by ragged breathing and the soft hiss of fading corruption.

  Joren stood still as the last demon’s essence unraveled into nothing.

  Something tugged at him.

  Souls.

  Not human.

  Jagged. Ugly. Feral.

  They drifted toward him instinctively.

  He didn’t resist.

  He didn’t revel.

  He let them in.

  The Shard inside him tightened—not flaring, not consuming wildly—but ordering. Power settled where it belonged, stripped of rot and rage.

  When it was done, the road felt lighter.

  The screaming had stopped.

  A woman sat against the overturned wagon, clutching a child to her chest. Her hands shook so badly she could barely hold him.

  “…Are they gone?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” Joren said.

  His voice startled her more than the fight had.

  She looked up.

  He wasn’t glowing.

  He wasn’t bloodied.

  He just stood there, blade dimming as he let it fade back into nothing.

  “You’re hurt,” Joren said, nodding toward her arm.

  She glanced down as if noticing it for the first time. “I— I didn’t—”

  He tore a strip of cloth from one of the spilled bolts and handed it to her. “Wrap it tight.”

  She obeyed without thinking.

  One of the guards—young, shaken—managed to push himself upright. “By the Gate,” he breathed. “What are you?”

  Joren met his eyes.

  “Someone who was nearby,” he said.

  The guard laughed weakly. “That’s not an answer.”

  “It’s the only one I have.”

  They didn’t want to stay on the road.

  No one did.

  The caravan was bound for a small riverside village less than an hour away—barely more than clustered homes and a dock, but it had walls. A watch bell. People.

  Joren walked with them.

  Not in front.

  Not behind.

  Beside.

  He didn’t speak much. Neither did they. But the closer they got, the more shoulders loosened, the more breathing slowed.

  When the village came into view, someone started crying again—this time from relief.

  At the gate, a tired-looking watchman squinted at the group, then froze when he saw the broken wagon and bloodied guards.

  “Demons?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the woman said quickly. “On the road.”

  The watchman swallowed. “Again.”

  His gaze shifted to Joren.

  “…Did you bring them?”

  “No,” Joren replied. “I stopped them.”

  The watchman studied him for a long moment, then nodded once and waved them through.

  Inside, the village buzzed with nervous energy—doors barred too early, weapons kept too close, conversations cut short when strangers passed.

  Someone brought water.

  Someone brought food.

  No one asked Joren to stay.

  No one asked him to leave.

  Eventually, an older man—broad-shouldered, gray-bearded—approached him near the well.

  “You headed somewhere?” he asked.

  Joren shook his head. “Just moving.”

  The man nodded slowly. “That’s how it’s been lately. Things moving where they shouldn’t.” He hesitated. “You came from the north?”

  “Yes.”

  The man exhaled. “Then you should know—villages along the low ridge have gone quiet. Traders stopped coming back. Patrols don’t return on time.”

  Joren felt the weight of it settle—not fear, not urgency.

  Direction.

  “Which way?” he asked.

  The man pointed.

  Joren nodded once.

  That was enough.

  He left before dawn.

  No goodbyes.

  Just the road stretching ahead, thin and uncertain, leading toward places where screams didn’t always reach walls in time.

  Behind him, the village woke to another day still standing.

  Ahead of him, something waited.

  And Joren walked toward it—not because he was chasing power—

  But because power had finally given him the chance to arrive before it was too late.