His eyes lifted toward Ash, "It was you. You drove it back. I owe you my life."

He tried to straighten, but faltered, then realized with a frown, "I never even asked your name."

Kaelen stepped forward from the gathered Kin, his voice clear, "His name is Ash."

Salken blinked, then bowed his head with as much strength as he could muster, "Ash… thank you."

Tholn's gaze flicked between them, his expression thoughtful. Rhavri also stood in silence, her brow furrowed with deep worry.

Finally, Tholn asked, "Sister, Salken… have the beetles always been in those ridges?"

"Not to my knowledge," Salken rasped, "Never have I seen them there."

Rhavri's eyes darkened, "Druven never mentioned such creatures either. This is new."

"Then we must find out more," Tholn decided grimly.

Salken shook his head quickly, fear flashing in his eyes. His hand shot out suddenly, seizing Tholn's wrist as he tried to force himself upright.

"No," he rasped, breath shaking, "Whatever you do, do not go near them. Not again."

His voice cracked on the last word, his chest heaving with the memory.

Kaelen leaned in swiftly, placing his other hand gently over Salken's, steadying him.

"Easy, brother," he whispered, his tone firm but soothing, "You're safe now. Rest."

But the hall knew better. Safety had only been borrowed, not won. The air itself seemed to thicken, weighted by the knowledge that something vast had stirred beyond the ridge.

Rhavri finally rose, her height imposing as the firelight traced the bark-like patterns across her skin. "If what Salken says is true," she said, her voice calm but carrying through the hall, "then we may be facing more than just beasts straying from the Hollow."

But the hall knew better. Safety had only been borrowed, not won. The air itself seemed to thicken, weighted by the knowledge that something vast had stirred beyond the ridge.

Rhavri finally rose, her height imposing as the firelight traced the bark-like patterns across her skin.

"If what Salken says is true," she said, her voice calm but carrying through the hall, "then we may be facing more than just beasts straying from the Hollow."

A murmur ran through the Kin, fearful and uncertain.

Ash remained silent, though his eyes narrowed. His body remembered the surge of shadow, the moment he had stepped forward without hesitation. He had been forged in chaos and betrayal, but this was different. These people—these children—looked to him now with gratitude, fear, and hope all tangled together.

And in the pit of his chest, he felt the shadow stir. Riven's words echoed faintly, Survival does not negotiate.

Ash straightened slowly, his gaze sweeping across the hall, "We need to prepare. At this point, we know far too little about them. The thought of what could happen… we need to find an answer to that."

The hall stayed quiet, but his words lingered in every ear. One by one, the Kin found themselves remembering the last beast tide—the screams, the flames, the walls falling. The children had only heard the stories, but the elders still carried the scars in their eyes. None of them knew if these insects could unleash such ruin, and that uncertainty gnawed at them more than silence ever could.

Tholn broke the silence then, his tone cutting through the tension. "That is exactly what we must decide now—what comes next."

Before any elder could answer, a small tug pulled at Ash's arm. Mela, her cheeks wet with tears, looked up at him with wide, frightened and pleading eyes, "Ash… you'll protect us, right?"

The hall fell quiet again, the weight of the child's words echoing louder than any debate. Other children peered at him too, their gazes pleading, trembling but hopeful. Tiny hands clutched at his fur and tunic, as though the act itself could anchor them to safety.

Even the older Kin turned towards him as their eyes held expectation, as though they were already weighing him not just as a savior of the children, but as a leader of what was to come.

Ash stiffened. He had faced death countless times, had borne betrayal and chaos without faltering. Yet here, under the eyes of children, the weight felt heavier.

In that heartbeat, he measured the cost. He could tell them what they wanted to hear and leave the burden to Tholn and the elders.

He could keep moving as he always had—blade in the dark, promise to no one, survivor of his own storms. Or he could bind himself with a few plain words and let them become a vow, allowing himself to carry the expectations and the role of protecting.

He had barely been able to save himself and drag himself out of a life or death situation recently, was he ready to take on such a heavy responsibility so soon?

His conscience gnawed at him. He could see the helplessness of the Glade—their thin defenses, their tired elders, the fragile walls of their hall.

In Mela's eyes, wide and desperate, he had glimpsed more than a child's fear. It was a plea for someone to stand between them and the dark. But it was not just her. Other children clutched each other, their voices trembling. And beyond them, even the older Kin had looked to him, their eyes heavy with scars of the last tide, yet expectant still.

Should he make the vow, it could also mean living with the faces he could not save. Promises had failed him before.

Rhavri watched him closely, noting how their youngest looked to him with unguarded trust. Even Tholn's stern gaze softened slightly, waiting to see how Ash would answer. The room seemed to lean toward him.

In that fragile silence, another voice stirred—not from the hall, but from within.

'You feel their eyes, don't you?' Riven's cold tone slid into his mind, 'This is what expectation tastes like. Heavy. Binding.'

Ash's jaw clenched, 'I never asked for it.'

'And yet here it is,' Riven answered, his tone flat, stripped of warmth, 'You think survival is only claw and tooth? No. Survival is chains too—theirs upon you, yours upon them. Chains slow you down. Just like when you were on the streets of Xylos.'

Ash's mind blurred, the hall dissolving into another time.

Back to when he was a child— ragged, thin, darting through the alleys of Xylos with a knot of smaller orphans stumbling behind him. Their small feet couldn't keep pace, their sobs sharp in the cold night. He remembered shielding them from beatings, remembered slipping stolen scraps of bread into their hands. Each time he slowed for them, each time he stood between them and harm, his own hunger deepened, his body weakened. Yet he carried them anyway. And in the end, he alone had survived.

'They are just like them back then… just like me, when I was a child…'

Ash's thoughts flickered to Mela's eyes, then to the other children, to the older Kin staring at him with hope they dared not voice, 'They're weak, he thought. If they face another tide, they'll break.'

'And so they cling to you,' Riven murmured, unyielding, 'Chains, Ash. Every hand on you is weight. You must ask yourself—can you still run when they all hold on? Can you still survive if you carry them? It may not be like back in Westreach where you managed to protect Lucas…'

Ash exhaled, the shadow inside him pulsing with unease, 'What do you think I should do?'

Riven's voice lingered, calm but detached, 'Whether you shoulder them or leave them makes no difference to me, so long as you keep breathing. But if you take this weight, understand—it will slow you. The burden will be yours, and so will the cost. Survival or responsibility, Ash. The decision is yours alone.'

Hearing that, Ash's mind drifted again.

Another memory surfaced—of the time he and the party saved a small village from bandits. That night, Raegan had spoken to him, eyes fixed on the stars.

"Search," Raegan had said, "Look for answers and ask questions."

Even now, those words echoed now with a quiet force.

He had protected that village, even the frail orphans from Xylos. And now, looking back at Mela, at the Kin, he felt the same pull.

He wanted to protect Glowfen Glade too.

And in that moment, a quiet certainty settled over him. He decided that he would acceot the responsibility of savior—not because he believed himself worthy of the title, nor because he thought destiny had chosen him, but simply because he wanted to.

Because he could not turn away.

For the first time, consciously instead of instinctively, he chose to accept the burden.

Ash lowered himself to Mela's height, so she did not have to look up through tears to find his eyes. He set a steady hand over the small fists bunched in his tunic and let the shadow inside him settle, not surge.

"I'll do everything I can," he said at last, his voice low but steady, "I can't promise no one will ever be hurt. But I can promise this: they will have to go through me first. We'll all work together to make sure that these guys are not a danger to us."

As he said that, something in the hall eased—not fear, but the helplessness beneath it. The children pressed closer, some nodding through their tears, others clinging tighter to his side.

And then, one by one, voices began to rise. Soft at first, but growing.

"Thank you, Ash," whispered a child. Another echoed it, then another, until the hall filled with a chorus of gratitude. The older Kin bowed their heads, the off-duty hunters, and even the youngest pressed close, repeating his name like a promise.

Across the room, Tholn and Rhavri exchanged a brief look that said the same thing without words: a mantle had just settled on Ash's shoulders, and he had not shrugged it off. The fragile spark of hope that had flickered earlier grew a little brighter, even in the shadow of fear.

'Thank you," the two of them also said as they bowed.

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