Eliza slipped her knife free of the wolf's throat in one smooth motion. The beast's blood steamed against her glove in the chill night air. She didn't bother to check if it was dead. It would be.

She straightened, rolling her stiff shoulders, and looked past the dark tangle of pines. The trees pressed so close together it felt like they were all crammed into a coffin. A coffin reeking of rot and aether, thick with fog that never quite went away.

Somewhere behind her, Matilda let out a broken, hitching sob. She'd been crying for hours, off and on, but that was preferable to the times she went silent. The silence was worse.

Darius crouched over another wolf corpse, blade dripping, his breath coming ragged. He looked up and met her eyes. For a moment, neither of them spoke. There was no need.

She tilted her head in silent question: Any more?

He shook his head, and she could see the strain in his movements. His dark hair clung to his brow, plastered there by sweat and old blood. She wasn't sure which of them was in worse shape.

Behind them, Jonah and Ben sat on a fallen log, their forms dim in the murk. Ben leaned his head back, eyes shut, a hand on Jonah's knee. Jonah tried so hard to keep him calm, keep all of them calm, but Eliza could see the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking.

She scanned the clearing one more time, instincts honed by years of Uncle's training. Uncle, the Lost Ones. She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. They were gone. All of them.

And here she was. Alive.

Because of Thorne.

Her mouth twisted. He always had a way of ruining her plans, even when he wasn't here.

She sheathed her knife and turned to Arletta. The woman was sitting against a moss-choked boulder, her fine cloak thrown over her shoulders like she still thought she was in the damn estate, waiting for Uncle to snap his fingers and make the world do what he wanted.

Arletta met her stare without blinking. Pale hair. Pale skin. Eyes like cold glass.

Eliza didn't trust her. Probably never would.

"Stay here," she said, her voice hoarse from hours of fighting. "We need to clear the edge of the trail. If anything else is watching, it'll come before dawn."

Arletta inclined her head. As if Eliza worked for her.

Matilda didn't even look up. She was curled around her belly, arms wrapped tight, rocking ever so slightly. Eliza tried, she really tried, not to feel the tiny crack of pity that opened in her ribs.

They'd all lost something in Alvar.

And none of them should have survived.

If it hadn't been for Thorne's message, cryptic, urgent, she would have stayed. She remembered it too clearly to pretend otherwise: Jonah stumbling into the hall with Ben at his side, both of them wide-eyed and breathless.

"Thorne says we have to go," Jonah had rasped.

She'd shaken her head, furious and sick in equal measure. "We can't. Darius is half-dead, the city's in chaos..."

Ben had met her eyes and signed, hands trembling: We leave. Now.

Jonah's voice broke when he added, "I trust him. If he says we run, we run."

When Darius heard, even through the haze of pain and fever, he'd forced himself upright. He'd looked at her with that same quiet resolve that had carried him through a hundred bloody jobs and simply said, "If he thinks we should go, I'm not arguing."

And that was it.

She hadn't had a choice, not really. She'd shouldered Darius's weight, gathered her knives, and followed them out into the night.

They'd barely reached the city's edge when the sky turned red. She'd watched in stunned horror as the stars fell, burning, screaming, and leveled everything they'd ever known. The fires rose so high they lit the road for miles. They heard the screams, distant but unmistakable.

And through it all, some small part of her prayed that Thorne was alive. That he hadn't been swallowed by the same ruin he'd warned them to escape.

Later, when Darius had made some dry comment about how Thorne always had a talent for being at the center of disasters, Jonah had laughed. Actually laughed.

"It's Thorne," he'd said. "He's probably the one who started this."

Eliza had bitten her lip, because deep down, she was almost certain he was right.

The next morning, before they reached the edge of Ebonwood and left the last traces of Alvar behind, Arletta and Matilda had found them.

Eliza never understood how. She'd stood there in the road, blades ready, watching the two women approach, Matilda white-faced and clutching her belly, Arletta composed as ever.

They'd asked if the group was going to look for Thorne.

She hadn't said a word.

But Ben, being Ben, had nodded.

Arletta hadn't argued. She'd only inclined her head, like some unspoken contract had been settled.

Since then, their plan hadn't changed: keep north. Reach White Harbor. Pray there was still a way to reach Aetherhold.

She'd always thought the place was a myth. Some gilded sanctuary the nobles whispered about to make themselves feel superior.

But after years of knowing Thorne, she wasn't even surprised he'd found a way to get there.

She turned away before the thought could fester. Darius fell into step beside her as she slipped into the undergrowth.

"You know," he rasped after a moment, "most people would've tried to sleep by now."

"Most people would be dead by now," she said, not unkindly.

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He let out a quiet laugh, short and humorless. They walked in silence, checking for tracks, blood, more eyes in the dark. Her hands moved automatically, testing branches for weakness, searching for trails, feeling the air.

This is what I am, she thought. Not an orphan. Not some broken child scrounging for crusts in an alley. Not a pawn in Uncle's games. Not even really an assassin, anymore.

She was just…someone who survived.

Eliza moved silently through the dense underbrush, Darius a step behind her. Despite everything, the exhaustion etched into her bones, the taste of old blood on her tongue, she felt alive in a way she hadn't since Alvar burned.

Here, with a blade in her hand and danger breathing down her neck, she could forget the ruins behind them.

She reached the edge of the clearing, scanning the shadows. Her instincts pricked a half-second before the world erupted.

The thing burst from the trees in a roar that rattled her ribs. For an instant her mind couldn't make sense of it, a massive bulk of fur and muscle, too many limbs, jaws that split in two directions, hooked talons sprouting from a bear's forearms. Its eyes glowed dull green.

Aether corruption.

"DOWN!" she snapped.

Darius hurled himself to the side as the monster's claw smashed into the earth where he'd been. Dirt exploded around them. Eliza rolled under the next strike, twin daggers flashing.

The creature pivoted faster than something that size had any right to. One of its mouths snapped at her, she felt the rush of fetid heat as she ducked, raking her blade across its lower jaw. Viscous black blood spattered the leaves.

It didn't even flinch.

Darius roared and charged in, greatsword raised in both hands. The blade wasn't just a weapon anymore; it was part of him. He swung in a brutal arc, and the impact made the monster stagger.

"Eliza!" he barked.

She didn't need more prompting. She pivoted around the creature's flank, channeling her focus into her daggers.

Phantom Reaping.

The weapons shimmered and vanished.

The creature shrieked as invisible gashes split open along its shoulder. Phantom wounds. It twisted to face her, too slow. She sidestepped, her blades reappearing in her grip slick with its blood.

The beast slammed its forelegs down, making the earth lurch. Darius grunted, skidding back a step, but he didn't fall. Instead, he planted his feet, the sigils Eliza had taught him blooming faint blue along the fuller of his blade.

He drew a deep breath, then spoke the name of the technique.

"Cleaving Horizon."

The air shimmered. His greatsword swept out in a wide arc, so fast it blurred and struck the beast across the chest. A shockwave burst outward. Bark ripped from trees, and the monster stumbled back with a howl, bleeding freely from a massive diagonal gash.

Eliza didn't let it recover. She pressed in, her daggers flickering in and out of existence. Every step she took, the creature lashed out, every strike a fraction too slow.

It lunged, jaws gaping, and she dropped into a low slide, her right hand flicking up.

Quickdraw Throw.

The dagger left her grip in a snap of motion, burying itself in the monster's secondary eye.

It shrieked. The sound turned her stomach.

"Eliza move!"

Darius charged again, but this time the beast's claws caught him mid-swing. He tried to wrench free, but it pinned him against a tree, the trunk cracking under the pressure.

For an instant, panic flashed through her. She shoved it aside. She wasn't that girl anymore.

Her hand closed around the leather-wrapped hilt of her other dagger. Her breath came steady.

Time to try it.

She shifted her stance, gathering every ounce of focus. The second high-level technique she'd mastered, the one that didn't rely on phasing or trickery.

Wraithstep Assault.

She exploded forward in a blur. Not vanishing, but moving so fast she might as well have. Her outline doubled, then tripled, phantom afterimages trailing her motion as she struck.

One. Two. Three. Four blows in the space of a heartbeat, each cutting deep into the creature's flank.

It reared back, keening in pain and Darius seized his chance. His voice was ragged as he bared his teeth.

"Ruin Breaker!"

His sword ignited in silver light. He planted his foot against the trunk and shoved himself forward, blade first.

The greatsword drove into the creature's chest with a sound like tearing canvas.

For an instant, everything stilled. The monster let out a wet, shuddering exhale and collapsed in a heap.

Eliza stood panting, her vision swimming. The world smelled of rot and aether and blood.

Darius staggered free of the corpse, wiping a shaking hand across his mouth. His face was pale, but his eyes were bright.

She met his gaze.

They didn't say a word.

A moment passed.

Then she sheathed her blades, ignoring the tremor in her fingers, and turned back toward the camp.

"We need to move before the smell draws worse," she said.

"Agreed," he managed, voice rough.

They started walking. And despite the ache in every muscle, despite the weight of everything they'd left behind, she felt something close to pride.

They were alive.

And stronger than they'd ever been.

They circled back to the camp an hour later, drenched to the elbows in black, half-clotted gore. She barely noticed it anymore. The smell of acrid bood was just another stench to tolerate.

Jonah was standing near the dying fire, clutching his short sword so tight his knuckles gleamed pale against the shadows. He swallowed when he saw them, his gaze flicking over the blood splattered across their chests and faces.

Ever since Alvar, Jonah had insisted on learning how to fight. He'd practiced with Darius in stolen hours, awkward drills, wooden swords, the sort of hesitant motions that made it clear his heart wasn't really in it. But he kept at it all the same, like sheer determination could forge a blade out of soft iron.

Eliza respected him for that. She doubted she would have done the same in his place.

A few paces behind him, Arletta and Matilda were standing close together. Matilda's face was pale and slack, her gaze fixed on the lumpy pot bubbling over the fire. She stirred it in listless circles, as if she'd already forgotten she was holding the ladle.

Ben was crouched near the tree line with his back to them, sorting bundles of green and purple leaves across his knee. He looked up as they approached, eyes bright with curiosity.

"You won't believe what I found," he signed, almost beaming. "Look, muskshade. And I'm pretty sure this is sunthistle. If we dry them right, I can..."

Eliza raised one hand. Not now.

He blinked, but didn't look offended. Just thoughtful, as if already cataloguing other specimens in his mind. Ben was the only one who seemed to be enjoying their time in this gods-forsaken forest, always poking through brambles for something rare to test in his potions.

Matilda made a small, choked sound. The ladle slipped from her fingers and clattered against the edge of the pot. A broken sob cracked the stillness.

Arletta didn't hesitate. She stepped forward, took Matilda gently by the shoulders, and guided her a few paces away to sit against the wide bole of a tree. She murmured something Eliza couldn't catch, soft, calm, and when she returned to the fire, she picked up the ladle without comment and began stirring the stew herself.

Eliza sat cross-legged by the fire. Her muscles were screaming, but she forced herself to stay alert.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Darius cleared his throat. "We killed it. Whatever it was."

Arletta didn't look up from the pot. "I heard."

"Are we safe?" Jonah asked quietly.

Eliza met his gaze. "Safe enough for tonight." She looked at Arletta. "Unless you disagree?"

"No," Arletta said, her voice as measured as ever. "It'll take time for the other things in the forest to notice. If we move again by first light, we should stay ahead of them."

Darius exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. He sank down onto a flat rock and pulled his greatsword across his knees to clean it.

"How much further until White Harbor?" he asked, scrubbing at a streak of black filth.

Arletta frowned, brow creasing. "I can't be certain. With the pace we have…ten days. Maybe eleven."

Jonah made a strangled noise, part horror, part disbelief. "Ten more days of this?"

His voice cracked on the last word. He sounded nothing like his old self, like the Jonah she remembered from before, always ready with a mischievous grin, a lewd joke, some teasing that edged just past what was polite.

But that boy had been left behind in Alvar, she thought. Like everything else.

"Yes," Arletta said simply. "After that… "You really think he went to Aetherhold," she said. Not a question.

Eliza didn't reply.

Arletta studied her a moment longer, then nodded, as if she'd heard an answer anyway. She had that way about her, like she could read a person's ledger of sins just by looking.

Eliza didn't trust her. But she believed Arletta wanted to find Thorne as much as she did. For now, that would have to be enough.

The woman sighed. "I'm not sure how we'll get to Aetherhold. We'll have to ask around. Secure a passage north, or find a smuggler willing to risk the coast."

She paused, stirring the stew. "The young master is a long way ahead of us."

Eliza's gaze sharpened. Peculiar, she thought, that Arletta still called him young master. Even now, with Uncle's network in ruins, with the Lost Ones nothing more than a memory scorched into the stones of a dead city, she spoke of Thorne like he was still at the center of their world.

Maybe he was.

Maybe she wasn't ready to let go of that either.

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