The human woman opened her eyes upon cold ground. Darkness pressed around her, thick and shapeless. She couldn’t see walls, a door or even the edge of the floor beneath her knees. For several heartbeats, she didn’t know where she was or how she had come to be there.
Then the pain arrived.
Her right arm throbbed as though burning needles were being dragged beneath her skin. The pain ran from her wrist over her shoulder and down her back. Her breath caught as she forced herself to look in the dim faint light that was barely there.
The sleeve was ruined. Its fabric had burned away in thin black strips, curled at the edges and barely clinging to her shoulder. The skin beneath was raw and red, with blisters rising between swirling lines seared into her flesh. They began around her wrist and climbed upwards in an intricate, unnatural pattern.
She carefully touched her shoulder, her red curls brushing across her hand. Pain flared so violently that she gasped. There were no voices, no warmth and no wind. The only sounds were the ringing in her ears and the frantic beating of her heart.
The darkness gave her nothing. There was only the cold ground, the pain and the sickening certainty that the marks had been burned into her skin.
She was completely alone.
Suraia woke with a small cry. Her hand clutched her right arm before she understood where she was, and her breath came too quickly. The living shelter above her blurred into shadow and branch. For one terrible moment, the moss beneath her felt like cold stone.
Thorn reacted instantly. His arm tightened around her waist, not enough to trap her, but enough to steady her. His body shifted behind her, alert at once.
“Miss Silverbell,” he said, low and calm. “You are safe.”
Across the shelter, Vasha stirred and pushed herself upright, blinking hard against sleep. Her fox ears angled towards Suraia with immediate concern. “Suraia?” she asked.
The Oakhai reached for the borrowed lantern and carefully relit it. A small circle of light spread through the shelter, allowing Suraia to see the worried faces beside her.
Suraia swallowed and nodded, though her hand remained locked around her arm. “I… I was dreaming.” Her voice trembled. “When I…”
She worked her sleeve upwards as far as it would go. The healed burn marks showed pale against her skin, the old pattern still clear where it curled from her wrist and disappeared beneath the fabric.
Thorn studied the scars in silence. His eyes were serious, but he didn’t recoil.
“I... I still don’t know where I was,” Suraia whispered. “Or... how I got there... or what happened.” Her fingers tightened in her sleeve. “I... I only remember waking up with these... And I remember being alone.”
The last of sleep left Vasha’s face as she shifted closer. Thorn moved more slowly, settling one large hand around Suraia’s forearm, warm and careful over the scars.
The redheaded woman looked down at his hand and then slowly raised her eyes to him.
“You are not alone now,” the Ee’dornil said. The simple words settled somewhere deep within her.
Vasha took Suraia’s other hand between both of hers. “We’re both here.”
The human woman’s mouth trembled into a faint smile. The tightness in her shoulders loosened, and after a while she lay back down. Thorn remained close while the woman with the fox ears stayed awake until Suraia’s breathing evened. When sleep returned, it came gently.
By morning, the camp had already begun to stir.
Quintra’s light filtered through Lyonne Forest in pale, broken shafts. The hunters packed with the practised noise of people used to leaving comfort behind. Garrick muttered over the map, Rendall complained about his damp boots and Kaelen laughed until her brother snapped something back at her. Malrik watched with mild interest before returning to his book.
Suraia moved quietly through the morning, searching the moss, roots and ferns for anything useful enough to take. When the group set out, they continued north into a part of the forest where roots curled across the uneven ground, ferns brushed against cloaks and boots, and the trees pressed closer together.
They had not walked much farther when Garrick’s voice cut through the trees ahead. “Hold.”
The group slowed as the forest opened into ruin.
At first, Suraia saw only shapes beneath moss and ivy. Then she recognised collapsed roofs, broken fences, old stone walls and the dark mouth of a well half-hidden beneath creeping plants. A village had once stood there. It hadn’t been grand or filled with temples and towers. These had been ordinary homes, now leaning into the earth like tired bodies.
No birds sang. The air smelled of wet wood, rot and something sour beneath it.
Garrick unfolded the map and tapped one of its crude marks. “Ruined village. We’re on the right path.”
Rendall gave a low whistle. “Cheerful.”
Elira stepped forwards, her calm sharpening into something colder. “Don’t disturb anything.”
Kaelen glanced back at her. “Don’t disturb what?”
“The dead,” Elira replied. “The homes. Whatever remains here.”
Rendall grinned. “They won’t complain,” he said.
“No,” the Veilwarden answered. “I’m afraid they may answer.”
Rendall’s smile slipped for a heartbeat.
Elira looked across the village. “The Veil is strained here. Not broken, but thin. If people died here and were never properly laid to rest, grief can cling. Fear can cling. And where death is left untended, Ghor’s corruption finds places to settle.”
Thorn studied the trees surrounding the ruins. “The forest avoids this place.”
Even Garrick fell quiet for a moment. Then the dwarf folded the map. “Fine,” he said. “We pass through. Touch nothing unless it bites.”
They moved carefully between the ruins. Suraia remained near Thorn, but her attention caught upon the small things left behind: a cracked cup beneath leaves, a rusted hinge and a child-sized shoe half-buried beside a collapsed doorway. They made the silence worse.
Then Kaelen laughed.
Suraia turned towards the remains of a cottage, where part of the wall had fallen away to expose old bones tangled in rotted cloth. Rendall had lifted a skull and angled it towards his sister, making its jaw clack with his thumb.
“Look,” he said. “Still prettier than Garrick after drinking.”
Kaelen snorted.
Elira’s face went pale with anger. “Put that down.”
Rendall looked towards her. “Lighten up.”
“That was a person,” the elven woman said.
“Well now it’s just bones,” Kaelen replied.
The skull jerked in Rendall’s hand. He swore and dropped it as the bones beneath shifted. Fingers scraped against the earth, and a ribcage pulled itself together with a dry series of clicks. The skeleton rose in pieces, its jaw hanging open in soundless rage.
More movement answered from the village. Another skeleton lurched from beside the well. A heavier corpse dragged itself through a doorway, grey flesh clinging to old bones, followed by another with its mouth split open around a wet snarl.
Then a ghoul crawled from beneath the roots of a tree. It moved too quickly.
Thorn stepped in front of Suraia. “Behind me, Miss Silverbell. It is faster than the others.”
She obeyed at once.
Vasha’s bow was already raised. Her arrow struck the first skeleton and spun it sideways without stopping it. Darron shot beside her, his expression tight. Garrick met one of the large zombies with his axe, while Kaelen and Rendall drew their swords with all humour gone.
“Elira in the middle with the other casters,” the dwarf barked. “The rest around them, protect our damn Veilwarden!”
The ghoul came for Thorn. Roots burst from the ground at his command and wrapped around its limbs, but it tore through them with a shriek. Its claws raked across his chest, tearing cloth and flesh in four dark lines.
Suraia’s breath caught, but Thorn didn’t fall. His jaw tightened as thicker roots dragged the ghoul down long enough for Vasha to drive an arrow into its neck. The creature barely seemed to notice.
Elira moved to the centre of the old path and traced runes through the air. “Suraia. Malrik. I need you.”
Suraia ran to her without thinking. “What do I do?”
“Hold this rune with your magic,” Elira said as she took Suraia’s hand and let the magic flow into Suraia. “Do not force it. Steady it.”
The rune slowly changed from purple to pale blue and then to white with a blue hue. Malrik stumbled to Elira’s other side, muttering as she drew another rune. He caught it between both hands, its colour deepening from purple to dark blue.
The others formed a circle around the three casters, warding off the dead as the creatures suddenly turned their attention towards the Veilwarden. Elira began to chant, her voice low and precise beneath the clash of weapons and the ghoul’s shrieks. Slivers of magic seeped from the two runes into her hands as she wove them together into a spell.
The dead faltered. Skeletons staggered, zombies slowed and the ghoul’s next scream broke halfway through.
“Now!” Elira shouted.
Thorn drove a root through the ghoul’s chest and pinned it to the earth. Vasha’s next arrow struck through its open mouth. Garrick shattered one skeleton with his axe, Darron and Rendall brought down the other, and Kaelen hacked through the last zombie’s neck until it collapsed into rotted stillness.
Silence fell hard. Suraia’s hands trembled as Elira stopped chanting and the circle faded.
Elira exhaled and looked at Suraia and Malrik. “You two did well.”
Suraia wanted to reply, but her gaze had fallen upon Thorn. Blood soaked the torn front of his half-open tunic.
She hurried towards him. “Thorn, you’re… you’re hurt.”
He glanced down at the wounds. “It is not deep.”
“That’s not...” Suraia began. She blushed deeply before continuing. “I… I need to see the wound… properly.”
Thorn nodded. He pulled the fur pelt from his shoulders before loosening his tunic and removing it. He was broad, muscular and imposing, with the fresh claw marks crossing his fully exposed, bark-brown chest. When he turned slightly, the owl tattoo upon his back showed clearly, its wings spread from shoulder to shoulder.
“I… euhmm… can… can you sit down… please,” Suraia stuttered, blinking rapidly and clearly unable to keep her eyes from his exposed torso. “I need too… Euhmm…” Her voice trailed away.
Vasha’s ears lifted as she chuckled softly. Kaelen laughed loudly and nudged her brother, while Malrik watched with an amused expression.
Thorn’s face softened slightly as he sat down. He gently took Suraia’s hand and placed it against his chest. “There, it is alright.”
The healer’s cheeks burned. “Right… yes… Of... of course.”
She pressed her shaking hands near the wound. Warm, pale blue magic rose beneath her palms and sank into the torn flesh. Thorn remained still while the cuts closed beneath her touch.
One of the hunters asked about the tattoo. Thorn ignored him completely.
Around them, the others had already begun searching the ruins again. Broken doors were pushed aside and old containers opened. The dead had barely fallen, and already the village was being disturbed once more.
Elira turned sharply towards them. “Don’t touch anything else.”
Rendall waved her off. “Do your rites if you must. Make yourself useful.”
Vasha’s gaze narrowed. “You said Ghor’s corruption can settle in places like this.”
Elira looked towards the exposed bones. “The twin goddesses banished the god of Chaos Ghor to the red moon, yes,” the Veilwarden explained. “But banished does not mean gone. His corruption still reaches where it can. Places. People. Death left untended, all give it something to cling to.”
“And Veilwardens can stop it?” Vasha asked.
“When we can,” Elira explained. “We help the dead, if their passing was sudden or traumatic, they linger. I can help them safely cross the Veil to reach Jin’til.”
Suraia finished healing Thorn and drew her hands back. Her face was still hot, but her voice was steady as she looked up to the female elf. “Can we… help you with that?”
Thorn also nodded.
Elira looked at the trio. For the first time since they had entered the village, the Veilwarden’s expression softened. “Yes,” she said. “Yes you can. Thank you.”