Morning after the attack did not arrive with the sun—the sky hid it beneath heavy clouds that pressed over the forest like a coffin lid, letting no ray pierce the gray shroud. The light was dim, blurred, as if the world itself had become an extension of the Ash Zone, where colors vanished, leaving only shades of gray and violet. The air was heavy, steeped in the scent of damp soil, rotting bark, and something sweet—remnants of the night’s decay, clinging to skin like sticky sweat. The group had not slept—the fire had burned down to a heap of gray ash, faintly glowing but giving no warmth. They sat in silence, each trapped in their own world of pain: bodies aching from tension, muscles stiff as if after a night in icy water, and the taste of ash lingering in their mouths—not from the fire, but from the air itself, poisoned by the Crown’s sick breath.

  Ren sat on a log, leaning on his sword. He rubbed his temples, trying to shake off the whispers that had haunted the night—whispers of Eliza, of fire in the square, of the day he carved the crest from his own skin to forget. But the whispers clung, rooted in his mind like the Crown’s thorns, and Ren knew: this was only the beginning. His long hair, loosed in the night, was now frosted by morning mist, his beard stiff with ice, sharpening his face further. He did not complain—he only stared into the ash, as if searching for answers there.

  Torren sat nearby, eyes red from sleeplessness and tears he had not wiped away. The old warrior looked older than yesterday—shoulders hunched, armor creaking with every move, as if the weight of the night had settled upon it. He stared into the ash as if seeking his daughter’s face, fingers trembling on his sword hilt. “I heard her,” he whispered again, voice hoarse, throat dried by the night. “It was her, Ren. The Crown… it gave them her voice. I saw her eyes in the dark… she blamed me. For not saving her.”

  Mira stood apart, sharpening her dagger against stone—the sound harsh, like bones grinding in the silence of dawn. Her face was pale, scars on her arms gleaming with sweat, but she showed no fear—only tightened her grip, as if pain kept her steady. She licked a drop of blood from her finger—a habit that spoke louder than words—and her eyes were cold, shadowed by a fear that would not leave. Aelin sat on the ground, her fingers still cracked from magic, silent, gazing into the forest as if listening to its whisper. Blood seeped slowly from the fissures, mingling with soil, and she ignored it—magic always took its price, leaving her skin like dry bark. Caleb sat wrapped in his cloak, skin paler than before, eyes hollow, the Crown dimly glowing as if drained by the night. He did not speak—only trembled, as if the cold reached deeper than flesh, his fists clenched to keep himself from unraveling.

  Ren rose first, joints cracking loud in the morning hush, like a branch breaking. “Enough. We need to scout the ground. If they left tracks, we’ll know what we’re dealing with—and how to avoid them next time.”

  The group moved in silence, stepping over earth slick with dew and something else—viscous, gleaming faintly in the dim light. The forest looked different by day—the pines stood bare, bark peeled as if eaten by acid, the ground layered with ash that crunched beneath boots like brittle bones. They found the first tracks a few steps from camp—where Aelin had tied her knots in the grass. The grass was crushed, as if something heavy had crawled across it, leaving furrows in the soil. But not simple furrows—irregular, marked with strange impressions: footprints, but with too many joints, as if limbs bent at unnatural angles. In places, the earth was smeared with slime—transparent, yellowish, reeking of rot and sweet blood. Ren bent, touched it with his dagger—the slime clung, stretching like something alive, leaving a faint violet sheen like the Crown’s glow. He rubbed it between his fingers—it was warm, fresh as from a wound, sticky like honey mixed with decay.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “Twisted,” Torren muttered, staring at the tracks. His voice rasped, throat raw. “But not ordinary. These… are smarter. They knew who to call. They… they used my Lizzie to break me.”

  Mira crouched, touching the slime with her finger—unafraid, as if her scars shielded her from poison. “They crawled. Not walked. And this slime… it’s warm. They were here recently. Watching us now, waiting for weakness. And the smell… like meat rotting under the sun.”

  Aelin stood apart, fingers cracking wider from constant contact with soil, ignoring the pain—leaning close, listening. “The earth remembers them,” she whispered. “They are not of the forest. They are of the Crown. It birthed them—or changed them. They drink its light as roots drink water. These tracks are veins, pulsing beneath the skin.”

  Caleb stepped closer, legs trembling but refusing to falter. He looked at the tracks, and something flickered in his eyes—not fear, but revulsion mingled with horror. He crouched, touched the slime with his finger—and flinched, as if burned. “They… they called me brother,” he whispered. “In my head. Said I am one of them. That the Crown makes us kin. That I… am summoned.”

  Silence fell—long, heavy, as if the forest itself held its breath. The group froze. Torren gripped his sword until his knuckles whitened, eyes fixed on Caleb not with pity but suspicion, as if the boy had already become part of what hunted them. Mira rose slowly, daggers gleaming, grip tightening as if preparing to strike—not at the forest, but at the boy. Her gaze was sharp, weighing risk. Aelin said nothing, but her fingers split wider, earth answering, and she turned her eyes away, as if seeing something foreign in Caleb. Ren stood unmoving, face a mask, but inside rage boiled—at the Crown, at this world, at Marcus. His eyes glinted cold, measuring whether the boy was now a threat.

  “Brother?” Ren repeated at last, voice low, restrained like a blade held back. “Then why didn’t they take you at once? Why play with us?”

  Caleb swallowed, a black vein pulsing at his neck. “Because… the Crown… said I’m not ready. That I must wait. That I will become… like them.”

  The pause lingered, heavy as lead. No one moved. Torren’s grip did not loosen, Mira’s daggers stayed poised, Aelin whispered to the soil. Ren finally nodded, as if deciding.

  “Then we move,” he said. “To the Lake’s Edge. If they left tracks, we’ll find a way around. If they wait—let them come. But we won’t give them time.”

  The group walked in silence, as if the night had branded them. Torren led, steps heavy with more than armor—the shadow of his daughter weighed him down. Mira kept apart, daggers ready, eyes flicking to Caleb, measuring. Aelin walked beside Ren, her fingers still bleeding, whispering to the earth for aid. Caleb trudged in the center, shoulders hunched, fists clenched, holding himself together.

  They marched toward the Lake’s Edge, where water waited—black, impenetrable as night. But Ren knew: the true darkness followed behind. And it was hungry.