The river had dropped since last week.

  Not by much—just enough that Ethan noticed the exposed stones along the bank, the slick dark shapes where water had retreated and left the smell of wet earth behind. Autumn was doing what autumn did. Quietly. Without asking.

  They moved carefully along the shoreline.

  Not sneaking—just alert.

  Maurik and Krill ranged ahead, checking the fish traps they’d sunk deeper after the first frost warnings. Two others followed with spears, watching the treeline. No one joked anymore. Not out here.

  That, Ethan thought, was the real change.

  Not Big Mama. Not the rituals.

  This.

  They’d learned when to be quiet.

  The traps were half-full. Better than yesterday. Worse than last week.

  Ethan crouched, adjusting one of the weighted lines, eyes flicking to the current as he did rough math without meaning to.

  If the river freezes early, this won’t hold.

  If it freezes late, we buy time.

  Either way—winter’s going to test us.

  He straightened, wiped his hands on his trousers, and opened his mouth to speak—

  Heat screamed past his ear.

  The firebolt shattered against a rock behind him, spraying sparks and steam.

  “Down!”

  The goblins didn’t need the order. They scattered instantly—into cover, into angles, into the practiced chaos they’d learned the hard way.

  Ethan rolled sideways, came up low, heart hammering.

  A man stood on the rise above the riverbank.

  Tall. Armored. Confident.

  A sword in his hand burned faintly along its edge, fire clinging to the metal like a living thing. Not a torch effect. Not decoration.

  Aura.

  The man looked at Ethan, then at the goblins, and smiled like he’d solved a puzzle.

  “Right,” he said. “That tracks.”

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  Another firebolt formed in his palm, small and tight and fast.

  “You’re a dark mage,” the man continued conversationally, “with a few pests for slaves. Building yourself a nest. Trying to become something you shouldn’t.”

  Ethan ducked as the second bolt shrieked past, heat peeling bark from a tree.

  “I’ve seen your type,” the man went on. “Monster lords always start small.”

  That certainty in his voice—that was the problem.

  Not arrogance.

  Conviction.

  Ethan moved through brush, keeping trees between them, breath steady even as his pulse spiked.

  He doesn’t care what’s true, Ethan realized. He’s already decided what I am.

  The sword flared as the man leapt down from the rise, landing hard enough to crack stone. Heat rippled outward with the impact, an invisible pressure that made the air feel thick.

  One goblin arrow struck his shoulder and burned midair.

  Another glanced off his leg, diverted by a shimmer of heat.

  “Run if you want,” the man called. “I’ll finish the mage first.”

  Ethan threw a dagger.

  The man knocked it aside with the flat of his blade, sparks flying. He advanced immediately, aura flaring brighter as he swung.

  Ethan barely blocked.

  The impact rang through his arms like a struck bell. His dagger snapped in half under the force, fragments spinning away.

  Too strong.

  Too fast.

  Ethan retreated, heart pounding, mind racing.

  No armor. No sword. No ranged spells.

  Just terrain.

  Just timing.

  A fireball bloomed in the man’s hand—larger this time, slower, crackling with heat.

  Ethan dove as it detonated behind him, ground erupting, the shockwave slamming him forward hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.

  He rolled, came up coughing, vision swimming.

  Okay, he thought grimly. That’s bad.

  The man stalked forward, boots crunching on gravel.

  “You should’ve stayed a rumor,” he said. “Now you’re just another thing that needs killing.”

  Ethan ran.

  Not blindly.

  Sideways. Into thicker brush. Down toward the bend where the river curved and the ground dipped unevenly.

  Branches clawed at him. Roots caught his boots. Another burst of fire scorched past, close enough to blister his sleeve.

  Think.

  Gu. Potions. Enhancements. Traps. Better weapons. Better positioning. I should already—

  He cut the thought off.

  Later.

  Survive first.

  He slid behind a fallen log and went still, forcing his breathing down.

  The man slowed.

  Not cautious.

  Confident.

  The sword’s heat washed over the clearing, shadows stretching and twisting unnaturally in its light.

  The man stepped forward.

  And didn’t notice his own shadow move.

  It didn’t rush.

  It didn’t flare.

  It simply rose—a thin, impossible edge forming where darkness overlapped darkness.

  Ethan waited until the man lifted his sword for the next strike.

  Then he let it finish.

  The shadow blade slid through the man’s throat in absolute silence.

  The fire died instantly.

  The sword fell from nerveless fingers.

  The man collapsed, eyes wide with confusion rather than fear.

  Ethan didn’t watch him die.

  He stood, shaking slightly, chest heaving, and forced himself to look around instead.

  The goblins emerged one by one.

  No one was hurt.

  No one spoke.

  Ethan bent, picked up the fallen sword, and tested its balance.

  Too good.

  Far too good for someone who thought this fight would be easy.

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “Figures.”

  They didn’t linger.

  They gathered traps, checked each other, and headed back toward the tunnels as the light shifted toward evening.

  As they walked, Ethan’s thoughts stacked again—no panic this time, just grim clarity.

  Food first.

  Storage second.

  Weapons third.

  Better blades.

  Better plans.

  And if spells like that are common…

  He glanced at the sword again.

  …I need answers.

  The tunnel mouth swallowed them, cool and familiar.

  Ethan let out a slow breath.

  Whatever this was becoming—it wasn’t stopping.

  Which meant neither could he.