Mia woke to smoke.
Not thick, suffocating smoke—but a soft, perfumed kind that tickled the senses and made her eyes sting slightly. The scent of wild herbs and old magic filled Neyra's hut. Somewhere near the fire pit, charms were burning—wards for protection, warnings of danger.
Olcan stood in the corner, sharpening his blade.
Not his usual blade—the ceremonial one.
That meant one thing.
"We're leaving," Mia said, sitting up.
Her father nodded.
"They'll come for us now," he said, voice low. "The moment that mark appeared on your skin, they knew you were alive."
Mia rubbed her arm where the spiraling red runes still glowed faintly beneath the skin. It no longer itched, but it burned inside her chest. Like a flame had been lit beneath her ribs and refused to go out.
"Lucien's shadows will track your scent through the trees," Neyra said, handing Olcan a vial of bloodroot oil. "Rub this into your skin. It will mask you for a day, maybe two. After that—"
"They'll find us," Olcan finished.
"And the white witch?" Neyra asked, her sharp eyes on Mia. "Will he return?"
Mia looked away.
"He said he would."
Neyra frowned. "He's more dangerous than the king."
Olcan gave the old witch a hard look. "We'll handle it."
"You think you will," Neyra snapped, "but prophecy doesn't care what you're ready for."
She turned to Mia and pressed a charm into her hand. It was a silver coin, etched with vines and thorns.
"What is this?"
"An anchor," Neyra said. "If the mist ever leads you too far from yourself, hold it and remember who you are. Dreams and visions can lie."
Mia clutched it tightly.
They left before dawn.
The forest beyond Avalon was thick with secrets. Trees grew too tall, their roots twisted like claws reaching from the earth. Strange birds called from above, and somewhere deep in the woods, wolves howled—not Olcan's kind. These were wild.
Mia walked in silence, boots crunching softly against dead leaves, cloak drawn tight. She could feel her father's tension—every step was calculated, every glance a sweep for danger.
But her thoughts weren't on the shadows.
Unconscious They were on him.
Lysander.
Why had he come?
Why her?
A part of her wanted to see him again. Another part wanted to run far away from all of it—from the mark, the prophecy, the name Elvarin that felt like a crown she hadn't asked to wear.
"Father," she said after a long silence, "did you love my mother?"
He didn't answer immediately. The path curved upward, toward an old stone bridge covered in moss.
"I did," Olcan finally said. "With everything I had."
"Did she love you back?"
He stopped walking.
The wind stirred, brushing through the trees like a cold breath.
"Yes," he said softly. "But love didn't save her."
They reached the edge of the Blackwood by nightfall. It was the border between Avalon and the no-man's lands that led toward Echelon.
The forest here was cursed.
No birds sang.
No wind blew.
Even the trees seemed afraid to move.
Mia shivered. "Is this where she died?"
Olcan nodded. "The ambush happened near the Wyrm Stones."
"How many came for her?"
"Too many. Vampires. Wolves. Even rogue witches from Avalon who had sold themselves for power."
Mia looked at him. "And you survived?"
"I ran."
The shame in his voice stunned her.
"I was carrying you," he said. "She begged me to go. She stayed behind and made them think she had the child with her."
Mia's throat tightened. "So she died… to save me."
Olcan looked away. "She didn't die. She chose. There's a difference."
That night, as they camped beneath twisted oaks, Mia dreamed again.
She was in Echelon—a castle of obsidian and snow. Blood dripped from the walls. Mirrors lined the halls, all cracked, all whispering her name.
In the largest mirror, she saw herself—older, crowned in crimson. Her eyes were silver and glowing, just like Lysander's.
And beside her stood two figures.
One was Lysander.
The other was a boy with black wings and eyes like fire.
"Choose," the mirror said.
Mia woke with a scream, drenched in sweat.
Olcan was at her side in seconds, sword drawn.
"What happened?"
"A dream," she whispered. "But it felt like… a choice."
By morning, the mist had thickened again.
And when they reached the ancient Wyrm Stones—massive black pillars cracked by time—Mia felt it.
A pulse.
A heartbeat beneath her feet.
Then—
Lysander appeared.
He wasn't smiling this time.
"There's no time," he said. "Lucien's shadows have passed into Avalon. They've found Neyra's hut."
Mia gasped. "She's—?"
"She's alive. For now. But she sent me to warn you. They want you captured alive. But they won't be gentle."
Olcan stepped forward. "Why are you helping us?"
Lysander's expression darkened. "Because if she dies… everything dies."
The wind rose suddenly. Leaves flew into the air, spinning into a spiral.
Lysander looked at Mia.
"They're coming."
Then the trees behind them screamed.
Not in sound—but in feeling. An explosion of shadow swept through the woods. Shapes flickered between trees—cloaked figures, crawling on all fours, eyes gleaming red.
"Deathbinders," Olcan growled.
Mia grabbed her father's hand.
"What do we do?"
Lysander turned, cloak billowing.
"We fight."