The silence after the battle was heavier than the fight itself. No birds returned to the trees, no breeze stirred the leaves. It was as though the forest itself held its breath.
Aric sat on the ground, his sword across his knees, his breath ragged. The whispers in his veins still hummed faintly, like embers refusing to die. He glanced at his arm—the scar glowed faintly, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
The scarred man spat into the dirt, wiping black smoke from his axe. “Those things weren’t natural. They didn’t bleed, they didn’t break. They only whispered.” He turned to Aric. “And they whispered to you.”
Aric looked up, his face pale. “They knew me. They called me like I was one of them.”
The girl clutched her shard tightly, her small body trembling. Her glow had faded, leaving
