The moon was little more than a silver scratch against the clouds when Sylas and Alira reached the threshold of the Wraith Paths.
Before them stretched a gash in the forest, a narrow trail where the trees grew twisted and gnarled, their branches clawing at the night sky. A mist clung to the ground, thick and cloying, swallowing the roots and rocks beneath their feet. The air smelled different here—wet stone, old blood, and something older still.
Sylas tightened his grip on the salt pouch Merith had given him. His gut told him to turn back. His mind reminded him he no longer had the luxury of fear.
Alira stepped forward without hesitation. Her silhouette was sharp against the mist, her cloak billowing like a banner.
"You're sure about this?" Sylas asked, his voice low.
"If we take the long road, you might not have the time," she said. Her eyes, catching the moonlight, seemed almost luminous. "We move fast. No stopping. No speaking unless necessary."
Sylas nodded. The rules of ancient places were simple: respect them, or die.
They entered together.
The Wraith Paths lived up to their name almost immediately. The mist thickened, swirling in strange patterns, and the trees leaned inward as if listening. Sound felt muted, the normal night noises—crickets, distant wolves—smothered by an unnatural hush.
Sylas kept his eyes forward, refusing to look too long at the shifting shadows in the corner of his vision. He could feel the shard at his chest, pulsing softly, almost in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time stretched thin in the mist.
At one point, they crossed a shallow stream where the water ran dark as oil. Alira knelt at its edge, tracing a rune in the mud with her dagger. Only when the symbol flared briefly with blue light did she gesture for Sylas to follow.
"Wards," she said quietly. "Old ones."
Sylas wondered where she had learned such things—but now wasn't the time for questions.
Deeper they went.
Sometimes the mist seemed to shape itself—half-glimpsed figures drifting at the edges of perception. Sylas caught a glimpse of a boy once, small and barefoot, standing among the trees. When he blinked, the figure was gone, leaving only a faint, childish giggle that sent chills up his spine.
Another time, he thought he saw his father's face, stern and disapproving, floating just beyond the mist. Sylas shook his head and kept walking.
It was the Path testing them. Or the shard. Or both.
They reached a fork where two trails twisted away into the gloom. One path was wide and inviting, lined with crumbling statues of knights and priests. The other was narrow and half-hidden by fallen branches.
Alira didn't hesitate. She veered toward the narrow path.
"Why not the wide one?" Sylas asked, already knowing the answer.
"Easy paths are traps," she said grimly.
They pressed on, the mist growing colder. The sigil-stone in Sylas's pouch warmed slightly, a sign that something nearby didn't belong to the living world.
Ahead, something loomed.
A broken archway rose from the earth, tangled in vines. Strange runes crawled across the stone, shifting slightly when Sylas tried to focus on them. Beyond the archway, the mist thinned slightly, revealing the first glimpse of Surnhall's outskirts—crumbling towers and shattered walls swallowed by the forest.
They were close.
But so was something else.
From the shadows beyond the arch, shapes stirred. Figures—at least five—emerged, their forms indistinct, cloaked in the mist. They carried no torches, no banners. Only the glint of metal flashed in their hands.
Alira drew her dagger with a soft whisper of steel. "Bandits," she muttered. "Or worse."
Sylas felt the shard hum in warning. These were no ordinary thieves. Their movements were too coordinated, too silent.
"How do you want to play this?" he asked, keeping his voice steady.
Alira's eyes narrowed. "Avoid if we can. Fight if we must."
But the figures were already fanning out, cutting off the path forward.
"Looks like we must," Sylas said grimly.
The first figure lunged, a sword arcing toward Sylas's head. He ducked, drawing his own blade in a smooth motion. The clash of steel rang through the mist like a tolling bell.
The fight was brutal and quick. The attackers were skilled, but disjointed—as if something clouded their minds. Sylas fought defensively, using the mist and the trees to his advantage, while Alira moved like a shadow, her strikes precise and lethal.
When the last enemy fell, gasping into the mud, Sylas knelt beside him.
Up close, the man's face was wrong—too pale, his eyes milky and unfocused. No words escaped his lips, only a soft hiss as he died.
Alira wiped her blade clean on the man's cloak. "Thralls," she said darkly. "The Path twists those who linger too long."
Sylas shivered.
They didn't linger to search the bodies. Every moment spent here was a risk.
Without another word, they passed under the broken archway, stepping out of the Wraith Paths and into the silent ruins of Surnhall.
Ahead, the skeleton of the old city stretched into the mist. Towers broken like snapped bones. Marketplaces drowned in ivy. The past hung here like a heavy cloak.
Sylas tightened his grip on his sword and followed Alira into the ruins.
The shard against his chest pulsed harder now.
It could sense something close.
Something it wanted.