The land changed as he approached.
Stone gave way to soil. Soil gave way to moss. Then came the vines — black, coiled, pulsing like veins. Trees leaned inward, gnarled and screaming silently, bark etched with spiral marks that looked disturbingly like faces.
The air here was thick, choked with pollen and rot. Every breath tasted like something once-living and long-dead.
The Warden stepped carefully, cane in hand. It glowed now with two inner lights — Sol's golden steadiness, Nyx's velvet cunning — and with them came instinct, clarity.
But this place...
It didn't care who he used to be.
It only knew what he was now: prey.
The forest of Verrox Hollow had been alive once — vibrant, sacred, feared. Now it was corrupted. Twisted by something primal and wild. The vines didn't grow. They reached. Roots didn't rest. They hunted.
And at its center waited Thorn — the Echo of wrath and instinct. The part of him that answered violence with more violence. The part he had once buried deep beneath logic and control.
"This will not be like the others," he muttered.
The cane responded with a low growl — then morphed, briefly, into a heavy axe-blade pulsing with green veins.
He passed under a canopy of bone-white thorns, each long as a sword, each dripping with something thick and red.
Ahead, a clearing.
At its center: a figure seated on a throne of roots, eyes closed, head tilted back like he was listening to a sound no one else could hear.
Thorn.
He wore no armor.
Only a mantle of vines and bark across his broad shoulders. His chest was bare, crisscrossed with scars — old and fresh. A long scythe rested beside him, its blade rusted with dried blood. His arms were massive, carved like stone. His hair had grown wild, matted with moss.
But his face... it was the Warden's own. Younger. Fiercer. Eyes burning green beneath heavy lids.
"You reek of light and lies," Thorn said without opening his eyes.
"You've become the forest," the Warden replied.
"I've become the part of us that stopped pretending."
Thorn opened his eyes. They were feral.
"You came to reclaim me?"
"Yes."
"Then bleed."
The ground exploded.
Vines erupted upward, aiming for the Warden's legs, throat, chest — fast, sharp, coordinated.
He jumped back, cane shifting instantly into a curved dual-blade. He sliced cleanly through the first wave — then rolled forward as three thorns the size of spears launched from the treeline behind him.
Thorn stood now, scythe in hand, walking calmly.
"You still hesitate," he said. "You still talk like a man."
The Warden summoned his birds — five razorbills, wings laced with red fire. They shot through the air, slicing vines, burning roots.
But Thorn laughed. He spun the scythe in a wide circle, sending a shockwave of green energy outward. The ground ruptured. The birds screamed as vines impaled two midair. The rest dispersed, regrouping overhead.
"They're clever," Thorn admitted. "But I am the instinct they came from."
The Warden moved in.
Fast. Controlled.
The cane shaped itself into a chain-sickle, spinning as he ducked under a swipe from Thorn's scythe. He lashed out — catching Thorn's arm and yanking — but Thorn used the pull to close the distance.
His fist crashed into the Warden's ribs like a hammer.
Crack.
The Warden staggered.
Pain shot through his side.
But he used the momentum, twisted, drove the butt of the cane into Thorn's chin — then extended the blade upward into a spear, stabbing into Thorn's shoulder.
Green ichor sprayed.
Thorn grinned.
"Better."
They fought across the clearing, a blur of strikes, counters, roots, and rage. Every time the Warden struck, Thorn adapted. Every time Thorn attacked, the Warden redirected.
It was not elegance.
It was war.
Eventually, both stood panting, bloodied, the earth around them shredded.
"You still hold back," Thorn spat.
"I still remember mercy."
"Then you don't deserve me."
The Warden's eyes narrowed.
He raised his hand.
A new glyph burned across the cane — part golden, part violet — and the blade ignited with red-black flame.
He launched forward, faster than before.
Stronger.
The cane shattered vines before they touched him. The birds returned — seven now — diving in perfect formation. He unleashed a domain — crimson rings snapping into place.
Thorn stepped into the center of it.
"Then show me your truth."
The Warden met him mid-strike.
Their weapons clashed.
The scythe cracked.
The cane split into four blades and pierced the throne behind Thorn, anchoring him in place.
"Enough," the Warden growled.
"Then take it."
He stepped forward and pressed his hand to Thorn's chest.
The Echo's body shuddered.
Green light poured upward, thick, painful, alive.
Thorn screamed.
But did not resist.
When it ended, the forest stilled.
The vines stopped moving.
The rot halted.
The roots retracted.
The Warden stood alone in the clearing, stronger than before. His cane pulsed with green energy, layered now with three Echoes.
His breath was ragged.
But his eyes were clear.
From the edge of the forest, a pale blue mist rolled in.
Soft.
Chilling.
Familiar.
"Nocturne..." he whispered.
The last Echo.
And the deepest wound.
End of Chapter Four
Next: Chapter Five – Nocturne of the Mind Fog