The forest of Haldrith was colder this morning, and Rowen couldn't decide if it was the lingering mist or the fifteen eyes that trailed him from the shadows.
The Wardens had not spoken much since leaving the village. Elys rode ahead, her spear strapped to her back and her expression unreadable. The others flanked him, some on horseback, others on foot, spreading through the woods in practiced silence. They were not a unit of soldiers. They were something older, leaner—ghosts with blades.
They followed trails only Elys could see: subtle bends in bramble, scratch marks too shallow for beasts, the unnerving absence of sound where birds should sing. It was Rowen who first saw the broken tree.
"Here," he said, kneeling.
A fresh wound split the pine. Deep grooves, too clean for natural claws. Whatever made them had talons—and strength.
Elys joined him, crouching beside the splintered wood. "Good eye," she said. "North, maybe another hour. It's circling. Not wounded. Curious."
Rowen rose and glanced at her. "What are we tracking?"
"Manticore, likely," she replied. "Or a variant. Rumors from a logging camp say it's winged. Tail like a whip, face of a lion with a jaw too wide."
"That's no rumor."
She gave him a look. "You've seen one?"
He nodded slowly. "Smaller than the old tales. But fast. Smart."
"Then let's hope this one isn't larger."
They moved in a pattern, weaving through dense pines. Every so often, Rowen noticed how the Wardens watched him—not just to see what he'd do, but how he did it. They noted how he read the land, how he held his bow, how he stayed quiet without being asked. Elys wasn't the only one testing him.
The trail veered near a creek, its edges trampled and wet. One of the Wardens, a broad-shouldered man named Darnel, knelt and touched the mud. "Too many prints," he muttered. "But some drag. Something heavy."
Another, a wiry scout named Lyra, pointed to a rock formation across the bank. "Scratch marks. Claw to stone. It's nesting up there."
Elys gestured. "Two groups. One from the left. One with me from the right. If it takes flight, drop it."
Rowen hesitated only a second before following her.
They climbed the ridge slowly, boots silent on stone. The forest breathed below them, thick with sap and mist. At the peak, the nest came into view.
It was no den of twigs and leaves. This was a hollowed cairn of bones and branches, wide enough to cradle a full-grown bull. The stench of rot clung thick in the air.
And there it was.
The manticore uncurled from its nest like a nightmare waking. Its fur was mottled gold and black, wings veined like parchment. Its tail flicked like a whip, and when it opened its maw, four rows of teeth gleamed.
It saw them.
It screamed.
Elys shouted, "Now!"
Arrows flew from both ridges, striking true—shoulder, flank, wing. The creature roared and leapt, wings flaring wide. It lashed out with its tail, sending Darnel crashing against a tree below.
Rowen moved on instinct. He rolled beneath a swipe, drew his hunting knife, and slashed at the beast's underbelly as it landed. It buckled, roaring in fury.
Lyra struck next, a short sword in both hands, her movement precise and practiced. Another Warden followed—Talen, young but quick, distracting the beast long enough for Rowen to draw his bow and send an arrow straight into its throat.
The manticore collapsed, twitching.
Breathing hard, Rowen stood back as Elys approached the corpse. She knelt and placed a hand to its chest, murmuring something in a tongue he didn't know.
A ritual. A rite. A warning.
She rose. "Not a pure beast. Something warped it. Its mind was... scattered."
"Veil-sickness?" Rowen asked.
"Or worse."
The Wardens regrouped. No one smiled. Two were wounded, but standing. Darnel limped, but waved off help. Rowen looked at the faces—grim, silent, worn.
This wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last.
As they moved to burn the body, Elys fell in step beside him.
"You fought well," she said. "You didn't freeze. You didn't hesitate."
"I didn't have time to think."
"That's when we learn who we are."
They returned to camp beneath fading light. A fire crackled in the center, smoke trailing like fingers into the dusk. The Wardens sat in silence, sharpening blades, tending wounds.
Elys handed Rowen a flask.
"Three days," she reminded him. "You still have time to walk away."
Rowen took a long drink and stared into the fire. The image of the manticore burned behind his eyes—not the teeth, not the wings, but the way it looked at them. Intelligent. Terrified.
Something was crossing the veil that didn't belong.
He handed the flask back. "I'll stay. For now."
Elys didn't smile. But she nodded.
And somewhere far off, deep in the trees, another scream echoed.
Not beast.
Something older.
Something waking.