The uniformity of the Crooked Forest weakened as they approached the mountain range, and the ancient stone road — the same one Micah had followed when he first arrived in this world — now led to the only opening that impenetrable barrier allowed to exist.

  The sun did not reach the Valley of Witnesses.

  Night ruled the land like a warlord, except at the tail end of morning, when the forest’s vegetation fought for the fleeting relief that sunlight provided. Grass did not exist there, replaced instead by countless tiny fungi that released bioluminescent spores at regular intervals, forming a low-lying mist and giving the place a permanently ghostly air.

  The trees were enormous, their thick roots driven into soil and mountain alike like skyscraper foundations. Their canopies were titanic umbrellas of foliage, ready to unfurl at the faintest sign of sunlight. And their trunks were covered in round mushrooms the size of coconuts.

  While trying to distract himself from the biting cold of the place, Micah vaguely noticed bats perched near a tree’s crown, feeding on fruits that looked like elongated pears.

  Then his mouth went dry.

  — Why didn’t we bring any canteens again?

  Sorfeu made a fart noise with his mouth.

  — Canteens for what?

  He promptly tore one of the round mushrooms from a trunk, sliced the top off with a knife, and handed it to Micah.

  The fungus had a velvety texture, like a peach, and its interior resembled a seedless passion fruit, filled with a viscous golden liquid that looked like honey — but with a subtle scent, something between mint, basil, and soil.

  The redhead frowned.

  — You want me to drink this? Is it safe?

  — Mhm! It’s Pilgrim Melon. Drink as much as you want — it’s actually pretty refreshing. — He commented while opening another one for himself.

  — Just don’t eat the mushroom unless you want feel lava shooting out of your ass like a fountain! — he added loudly, glancing at Asáimon like a child who had just stuck gum in a classmate’s hair.

  Asáimon stopped.

  For a moment too brief to fully register.

  He didn’t look at Dennisorfeu.

  He simply inhaled deeply through his nose, like someone counting to three… but stopping at two.

  — …I didn’t know it wasn’t meant to be eaten. — he said at last, adjusting his black pakol.

  Sorfeu’s smile widened, far too pleased with himself.

  — “Didn’t know,” he says. — he repeated, snorting. — Buddy, you didn’t even wait for me to finish explaining before diving face-first into the thing.

  Asáimon huffed, exaggerated enough to feel intentional.

  — The description was inadequate. — he replied. — “Melon” implies solid ingestion.

  Micah blinked.

  — That… that actually makes sense.

  The monk shot him a quick, almost suspicious look.

  — Thank you.

  The bard burst out laughing.

  — The best part was afterward. — he continued. — The silence. The focus. And then—boom. Intestinal despair.

  Asáimon finally turned his head.

  — I was… — he began, then stopped. — …learning.

  Another pause.

  — And never shout that in front of the Captain. — he added quietly, before walking ahead of them.

  The bard grinned even wider, taking a swig of Pilgrim Melon.

  — See, Micah? — he said. — He doesn’t get mad. He archives. Like a Kratt.

  Micah frowned again, looking at Dennisorfeu.

  — Kratt? What’s that?

  Dennisorfeu stared at him like he’d just asked who the Tooth Fairy was — until realization hit.

  — Oh! Right. I almost forgot you’re a Migrator.

  — It’s just an old legend about demonic pacts with a little moral lesson. Nothing special. — he concluded, waving the topic away.

  Micah nodded, doing the classic hm of someone pretending to understand.

  He looked at his mushroom, seeing a faint reflection of himself on the liquid’s surface before taking a sip. The sap had a subtle, sweet, woody taste, sliding down his throat with the same sharp sensation as whiskey or liqueur — only milder, and with a hint of toothpaste.

  As Dennisorfeu had said, it was refreshing — invigorating, even — but far from what Micah had expected. Years of surviving on instant noodles, frozen pizza, and cheap beer had likely dulled his sensitivity to subtler flavors.

  …

  After twelve hours of travel from their departure point, the four companions finally reached the Northern Frontier. It lay in a clearing stretching across the entire valley, and — as expected of the first line of defense against Kaelor — it was a true fortress.

  Ignoring the fact that a massive hole stood where the gate should have been.

  At first glance, Micah thought the wall had been built from red stone.

  Until the horrifying realization hit him.

  They weren’t colored stones.

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  It was blood.

  Buckets of it.

  An entire water tank’s worth. Maybe more.

  Coagulated, but not old enough to reek of rot.

  The wall looked like a carnival block after the party ends… and after the suicide bombers clock in.

  Its towers had collapsed, debris littered the surroundings, and there were bodies — lots of them — all torn apart or riddled with arrows. Some corpses were missing heads, others entire upper halves.

  It was an all-you-can-eat resort buffet for flies, which took advantage of the feast to mate and lay their filthy eggs on the dead.

  It could only have been an enemy attack — but any sign of human life…

  was only the kind that no longer breathed.

  No army.

  No enemy soldiers.

  No siege weapons.

  Micah’s stomach dropped when he saw three crows feeding on the face of a single soldier, fighting over the soft, juicy eyes. But this time, he didn’t feel like vomiting.

  He still avoided the empty gazes of the dead — or their absence — and the scattered chunks of carrion, but it was as if, whether he wanted to or not, he was already beginning to acclimate to the brutality of that world.

  The corpses stopped being people.

  And became scenery.

  And that terrified him.

  Because he knew — deep in his soul — that this would gnaw away at whatever tiny remnant of humanity he still had.

  Like worms feeding on a lamb’s carcass, termites soon will bring the walls down…

  And oh… ohhh… how I will enjoy watching your precious little house of lies collapse, Micah.

  — What happened here…? — he asked, his voice trembling.

  No one had an answer.

  Thonathaniel was the first to move.

  Before going ahead, he placed his broad hand on Micah’s shoulder — brief enough to avoid conversation, an automatic, almost unconscious gesture. Then he cast a quick glance at Asáimon ahead, judging not posture, but breathing rhythm. Finally, he observed Dennisorfeu’s shift in demeanor — his usual light, irresponsible persona replaced by professional seriousness.

  Only then did he walk forward, saying nothing.

  The others followed toward the unknown, with Micah bringing up the rear.

  The first sound wasn’t a scream.

  It was a dry crack.

  Something cut through the air above them too fast to be seen — too fast even to be properly heard. The impact came a moment later — a deep CRACK — as the arrow tore through several massive trees behind them, toppling them like piles of hay.

  Everyone froze.

  The second arrow followed immediately.

  It didn’t hit any of them.

  It pinned a still-living soldier to a collapsed stable, piercing shoulder, rib, and stone in one motion. The man didn’t scream. He simply hung there, gasping in short, animalistic noises before vomiting blood — and dying.

  — Contact! — Thona snarled, pulling the hammer from his back.

  — No. — Asáimon said, in a tone far too strange to be reflex. — It’s already too late for that.

  Micah felt his stomach knot.

  He ran behind a chunk of rubble, even knowing it would protect him about as well as a child’s blanket against the dark. His short sword trembled in his hands.

  The wind changed.

  Footsteps followed.

  Light.

  Far too light for that terrain.

  From the low mist among the ruins, a distant silhouette emerged.

  Tall.

  Very tall.

  Dragging something along the ground.

  She wore a heavy bearskin cloak, so old and worn it looked more like a relic than clothing. The bow in her hands was far too large for someone her age — recurved, dark, marked by obsessive use. The hood was down.

  And her eyes… were covered.

  A gray cloth band wrapped around her face from cheekbones to forehead, completely hiding her eyes. Even so, her head moved with surgical precision, tracking every breath on the field.

  She stopped.

  Turned slightly toward Micah, who was nervously peeking from behind the rocks.

  — You. — she said.

  Her voice was young.

  Too cold.

  — You’re not from here.

  Sorfeu swallowed.

  — And you don’t look very happy to see us.

  She ignored him.

  — I’ll be direct.

  She lifted what she had been dragging with one hand.

  It was a man in a military uniform with a silver cloak, chained and held by the collar like a misbehaving kitten.

  The noble tried to cry for help when he saw the group, but a cloth tied over his mouth reduced it to incoherent grunts.

  Thonathaniel stepped forward.

  — Do you realize this violates the Truce agreements—

  — I have no affiliation with Kaelor. I’m a simple civilian. — she interrupted.

  She dropped the man carelessly and raised the bow — not aiming, just ready.

  — And if you take one more step, I shoot.

  — Wait. So you did all this? Alone? — Sorfeu asked, squinting like a deaf old man.

  She turned her head precisely toward him.

  — Yes.

  The confirmation held no pride.

  No guilt.

  — They came at night. — she continued. — While I was hunting, they took everyone in my village who could walk. They killed those who couldn’t.

  Dennisorfeu closed his eyes and looked down, murmuring something to himself.

  The bow lowered slightly.

  — I’m looking for my brother. — she said. — Ivan M?ngke. He should’ve passed through here a few days ago. A boy. Redhead. Deformed hands. Hard to miss.

  — In short, hand him over or the Margrave dies. — she concluded.

  Micah felt the world stop.

  The distant sound of wind seemed to vanish.

  He stepped out from behind the rubble, still gripping it.

  — I… — the word slipped out on its own. — I knew an Ivan.

  Her body went rigid.

  Not aggressive.

  Contained.

  — Speak. — she said.

  — He… — Micah took a deep breath. — He died. In Edel-Füllhorn.

  Silence.

  She laughed.

  Short and dry.

  — What a pathetic bluff. — she raised the bow.

  — WAIT, WAIT! I can prove it!

  Her eyes narrowed beneath the band, but the weapon didn’t lower.

  — Say it.

  Micah swallowed, searching for the right words.

  — I don’t know if he was already Awakened before all this, but his Image was Exuvia. He could… shed his skin once a day.

  The bow trembled.

  — He told me about you once, while we were planning to escape. — Micah continued. — Said he was excited to see you again… He called you “Litlle Bat.”

  The bow fell to the ground.

  Not dramatic — heavy.

  A sob could be heard, like she was about to collapse, but the reaction was brief.

  She stepped forward, the ground cracking beneath her foot.

  — Who. — she asked.

  — The Royal Alchemist. — Micah answered, his throat tightening. — Ezra… Ezra Velliphisto.

  Absolute silence.

  For a moment far too long, no one breathed.

  She knelt.

  Her forehead touched the cold earth.

  No sound.

  When she stood again, her face was still hidden — but something had broken beneath the band.

  — Thank you. — she said, simply.

  She picked up her bow.

  — Ezra will die. — she declared. — And Luther will fall with him.

  She stepped back.

  Suddenly Thona shoved Micah aside.

  — I won’t allow it.

  Then he hurled his hammer, spinning toward the girl like a boomerang.

  It shouldn’t have hit her. The distance and angle made it impossible. It was too heavy. Illogical.

  And yet, it ignored all logic and struck its target.

  The impact echoed through the valley.

  But when the smoke cleared…

  There she was.

  Unharmed.

  Holding the hammer’s head like it weighed nothing.

  With both hands, she crushed it, shattering it like glass.

  Thona blinked once.

  Twice.

  — …

  — That… — his voice faltered for half a second. — That was my good hammer.

  Silence.

  — I’m not even done paying it off yet.

  The archer brushed the shards from her cloak indifferently.

  — I’ll let this pass because you gave me valuable information.

  “But if you cross my path again… I won’t hesitate.”

  She aimed toward the sky.

  First came a brief flash — white, unnatural — slicing the air around the arrow, as if the wind itself had blinked.

  The sound followed, a deafening crack like a rifle shot.

  Then a BOOM so violent it made bones ache.

  The mountain answered.

  The entire valley roared as tons of snow and stone came crashing down like a white deluge.

  Micah’s blood ran cold.

  — R-RUN!

  — No.

  — Huh?!

  When the redhead looked back, he saw that he was the only one panicking.

  Sorfeu pulled out his guitar, testing the strings as the others stood behind him.

  — Stay behind me, Micah. — he ordered.

  — What…?

  — STAY RIGHT BEHIND ME, DAMN IT! — he shouted.

  Micah jumped and obeyed, stopping just behind Asáimon.

  — You think too much sometimes, man. Just trust me and stay quiet back there. — the bard said as the avalanche drew near. Only seconds remained.

  Dennisorfeu didn’t begin with a melody.

  He began with a heavy strike on the strings — too deep to be comfortable, like someone slamming on a metal door buried inside the mountain.

  Then another.

  And another.

  The rhythm was powerful, insistent — it didn’t invite, it demanded.

  Each note made the air vibrate in a strange way, compressing Micah’s chest as if he were breathing icy water. It wasn’t loud in the usual sense, but heavy — like invisible pressure pushing against everything.

  The snow ahead reacted.

  It didn’t stop — it split.

  The white torrent divided, as if an invisible blade had been driven straight through the avalanche. The music didn’t push the snow away; it forced it to choose wrong paths, to collide with itself, to lose cohesion.

  Sorfeu played with clenched teeth now. The strings groaned beneath his fingers, some detuning dangerously, vibrating past their natural limit.

  Micah felt the ground shake — and when the snow finally settled…

  She was gone.

  Only the avalanche remained.

  When they entered the Frontier, they found the Margrave and the soldiers bound — but alive.

  She had spared those who surrendered.

  The mission was complete, yet no one felt victorious.

  If the invader had wanted to, she could have annihilated them all. They survived solely by the mercy of another.

  And for the first time, Dennisorfeu, Thonathaniel, and Asáimon tasted what it meant to be Micah.