They ran beside the river’s bend and foam, as swift as water over stone. Thorn’s dire-wolf paws ate the distance, Suraia balanced low across his broad back, fingers buried deep in the thick ruff of his fur. Wind tore her curls behind her shoulders. The little arctic fox darted just ahead, blue-tipped tail streaming, loosing yips of unguarded joy that rang like silver until the trees swallowed the sound again.
The trading post fell behind, a smear of smoke and muted clamour. Before them stretched only the living green, the rush of brown water, the glimmer of light through leaves. They stopped at bends and crossings where smaller streams bled in. At each, Thorn lowered his head, Suraia leaning from his back to scoop water into a broad leaf. The fish that drifted there were the same: dull-eyed, lifeless. Always the same. Then Thorn surged forward again, Vasha bounding in his wake.
The land rose steadily. The air grew cooler, thinner. Roots thickened and stones knuckled through the soil, ferns giving way to heather. At last the river widened into a still, dark body: a lake folded between hills, ringed with pine and alder. Evening light struck the water into molten bronze. It should have been beautiful, and it was, but the stillness carried a weight that pressed low on the chest. No bird skimmed the water. No trout broke the surface.
Thorn slowed to a halt at the bank. The great wolf stood still, muscles taut beneath his pelt, green eyes fixed on the water that lay spread before them. The lake mirrored the late sun in broad, molten swathes, but it was too still, too silent. No insects skimmed the surface. No fish leapt for flies. Pines leaned close around its edge, their reflections dark bars across bronze. Even the air smelled wrong—pine and resin, yes, but with an edge of something sour, as if the water itself exhaled a breath it should not.
Suraia slid down from Thorns back, clutching the bundles of clothing close to her chest. The wolf shook himself once, a ripple of fur, and then the air itself seemed to fold. Bone cracked, fur sank, limbs stretched and reformed. Where the dire beast had stood, Thorn straightened into the towering form of the Ee’dornil, bark-brown skin gleaming near the water, breath steaming faintly in the cool air. He was utterly unashamed of his own nakedness.
Suraia however flushed crimson, quickly turned around and whipped her gaze to the ground.
“My clothes, Silverbell,” Thorn said gravely, though the faint curve at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
She thrust the bundle out blindly. He accepted it with unhurried dignity, drawing on his trousers, then the loose shirt, then casting his pelt across one broad shoulder.
Beside them, the little arctic fox took her own bundle out of Suraia’s hands, then padded behind a reedbed. Fur gave way to flesh, spine and limbs lengthening, face reshaping.
Moments later Vasha strode out, tugging the last laces of her tunic and settling bracers on her forearms. Her fox ears twitched, catching every ripple of sound, her tail swished once before curling loosely behind her. She adjusted her bow-strap over her shoulder with the easy grace of someone long used to fitting armour and went to braid her hair again.
Suraia swallowed, forcing her gaze away from the ground. Her eyes caught on the lake’s surface, and the unease there settled heavy in her chest. “The lake…” she murmured. “It feels wrong.”
“It is wrong,” Thorn said simply. His light-green eyes glowed faintly, reflections shivering in the water. “Still water should teem. This is hushed.”
A sound carried from the tree line—a low whimper, thready and pained. All three turned at once.
From the shadows staggered a stag, young, antlers still sheathed in velvet. Its flank bore a wound that should have bled bright but instead oozed sluggish, dark fluid. Flies buzzed but would not land. Its eyes were clouded, unfocused, as if it no longer remembered what it was. It swayed, ribs showing with each shuddering breath.
Suraia’s heart clenched. She dropped her bundle and ran forward, palms raised. “Easy, easy now,” she whispered. She pressed her glowing hands to its side. White light with a blue hue spilled across torn hide, knitting flesh, pulling at the sickness that clung like oil. For a moment, the stag stilled. Its ears twitched, and its breath eased as clarity returned to its gaze. The smell of crushed grass rose under her palms, mingled with the sharp tang of rot she was fighting to draw out.
Then the corruption surged back. It writhed beneath her hands, twisting against the light. Suraia gasped, pouring everything she had, but it was like trying to hold water in a cracked bowl. The light faltered. The stag shuddered, lowered its head, and a guttural growl rose from its throat.
Thorn stepped forward, his voice falling into the rolling cadence of the language of animals. Deep, thrumming syllables rolled out, almost words, almost growls. For a heartbeat, the stag’s ears flicked as if listening. Vasha’s fox ears strained, head tilted, almost catching the meaning—but it slid past, like trying to hold smoke. The Oakhai felt the words in her bones even if she could not understand them. The stag answered slowly.
Then it screamed and lunged. Thorn caught it by the antlers, muscles bulging as he locked it in place. Hooves tore furrows in the earth, snapping twigs beneath their weight. Mud and moss churned under its flailing weight.
The bowstring thrummed. Vasha’s arrow flew true, burying deep into the chest. The stag froze, shuddered once, and toppled heavily into the moss. Its last exhale rattled out like wind through a hollow reed.
Silence rushed in, deafening.
Vasha lowered her bow with a shuddering exhale, ears flat. “I… had to.”
“You did,” Thorn said, meeting her eyes. “Swift. Nearly painless. You showed it mercy.”
Suraia knelt by the stag’s head, tears brimming. “I… I couldn’t”
“You gave him a moment of clarity,” Thorn said softly, crouching beside her. “Enough for him to choose. He asked me not to let him go on if the corruption returned. You gave him that.”
He rested one bark-brown hand on the healer’s trembling shoulder.
Suraia’s breath hitched. She looked up at him, startled by the certainty in his voice. Her cheeks burned brighter still. Thorn’s hand lingered for a moment longer before withdrawing.
When she glanced aside, Vasha was watching them. Her head tilted slightly, fox ears pricked high, tail flicking with a thoughtful swish. Her pale eyes gleamed, her mouth quirking in a half-knowing smile. Suraia dropped her gaze quickly, cheeks crimson.
For a long moment, the three of them stood together in the hush: grief, mercy, and the faint comfort of having done what little they could. The lake lapped faintly at the bank as if in mockery of their silence.
At last Thorn turned back to the water. He spread his hands to the ground. Vines stirred, roots shifting beneath the soil. His voice fell into the cadence of ritual. Power spread, threading through soil and reed, calling the living world to listen. The air grew heavy, expectant. Even the reeds leaned as if bowing.
Vasha crouched beside him, ears angled forward, eyes wide as she tried to mimic his stance. She closed her eyes, forced her breath steady, and stretched her senses. At first—nothing. Only her heartbeat, the ache of her shoulders. She frowned, frustration curling tight in her chest.
Thorn’s hand slid over hers, large and steady. His voice was low, a murmur meant only for her. “Open your senses, do not force it, just let it in.”
Magic seeped from his touch like slow water, filling her veins. The world sharpened. She felt the moss beneath her knees breathe. She heard the alder roots drink. She smelled the pulse of resin beneath bark. And then—beneath it all—something vast and coiled in the lake, heavy as silt, sour as rot. It was not merely lying there. It was waiting.
Vasha’s eyes snapped open. She gasped. “There.”
Thorn’s jaw set. He nodded once. Rising, he stripped to his trousers. His gaze fixed on both women. “Stay here. Be ready.”
Without hesitation, he dove. The surface closed over him with barely a ripple.
The stillness that followed pressed hard. Seconds lengthened. The lake gave nothing back. The ripples faded, leaving only a smooth bronze sheet.
Suraia clasped her hands tight, knuckles white. “He’s… he’s been too long,” she whispered, her breath shaking.
Vasha crouched low, tail stiff, ears flicking anxiously. She forced calm into her stance, but her eyes never left the water. “He’ll come,” she said firmly, though her own voice quivered at the edges.
The lake broke. Thorn surged up, gasping—but not alone. Something clung to him, coiled about his limbs, dragging him under. He struck for the bank, teeth bared, but the weight pulled him back. The water churned white around him, froth spattering the bank.
“We need to help him!” Suraia cried.
With clawing fingers Thorn reached for the bank, grasping at the roots already knotted deep in the soil. At his call they twisted and stretched, thickening into living cords that lashed across the water like ropes slick with lake-moss. Vasha dropped her bow and seized them, bracing her boots against the earth. Her fox ears flattened with effort, tail lashing as she strained. Suraia scrambled forward, grabbing hold as well, digging her heels in until her legs burned.
“They will not hold!” Thorn roared. “Vasha, strengthen them!”
The Oakhai clenched her jaw, pouring her will into the vines. Magic burned her palms, but the fibres thickened, green and living, rooting deep into the soil. The smell of crushed fern rose sharp and bitter as her magic fused with his. “Now! Pull!”
Together they hauled. Thorn broke the surface again, clawing for the bank. Inch by inch, the mass came with him, heavy, unwilling. The water seemed to fight them, dragging at their ankles as though the lake itself resisted.
At last it spilled onto the shore—a tangle of roots and vines blackened at the core, dripping lake water that hissed where it touched moss. It stank of resin gone sour. Where it touched soil, the ground withered black.
Thorn staggered upright, chest heaving. “It’s clearly corrupted. We must cleanse it,” he rasped. He caught Vasha’s hand again, guiding her palms. “With me.”
They pressed their magic into the mass, Thorn started chanting, voice rumbling, Vasha tried to follow the best she could. For a heartbeat, nothing. Only dead weight, cold and unyielding as stone. Then a tremor went through it, subtle at first, then stronger. The roots shuddered as though remembering they had once been alive long before the corruption of Ghor had taken hold.
Vasha sucked in a breath. Through Thorn’s grip she felt his power—ancient, steady, like deep roots burrowed into bedrock—flowing into her, coaxing hers to follow. It was overwhelming and yet strangely natural, as if her own magic had been waiting for this shape all along. Green light threaded from her fingers, uneven at first, but steadied by his.
The tangle groaned. Sap hissed, toxic and sweet, seeping from its seams. Where their cleansing touched, blackness blistered and pulled back, but only for a moment before knitting shut again, more stubborn than before.
“Do not force it,” Thorn growled, voice taut. “Breathe. Let the earth move through you.”
Vasha closed her eyes, grit her teeth, and tried. She pictured fox-paws sinking into loam, the way roots flexed when she had hidden beneath them as a child. She opened herself wider, letting Thorn’s current draw hers into rhythm. The combined power flared brighter, spilling green veins across the twisted bulk.
For an instant, it worked—the surface cracked, rotten sap boiling away into smoke. But the Ghor corrupted thing bucked hard against them. Roots lashed and reknit, forming tendrils that clawed at the ground. Vasha cried out, the backlash burning through her arms like nettles made of fire.
Suraia stumbled back, horror twisting her gut. She could see their joined magic, green and alive, trying to pierce the corruption, but the darkness writhed like oil, pushing back with every heartbeat. The stench rolled over her, thick and choking, like smoke mixed with blood. Her own light itched at her fingertips, desperate to be used, but she knew it would gutter here. This was not her battle.
Above the clearing of the lake the red moon of Ghor appeared, just reaching over the treetops as though it was summoned. It was as though the long-ago banished god of chaos himself was trying to intervene.
The mass lifted, as though their cleansing had not destroyed it but roused it. Limbs shaped from twisted tendrils, dripping lake-water and sap that smelt of resin turned sour. Hollow eyes flared with the same dark red glow as the red moon itself, and the half-corporeal bulk dragged itself upright, towering above them.
Its gaze turned—empty, searching—until it fixed on the red curls of the human woman.
Thorn shoved Suraia behind him, teeth bared. Vasha’s fox ears pinned flat as she snapped her bow back, arrow nocked in one fluid motion.
The Ghor corruption screamed—a sound like wind tearing through broken reeds—and lunged.