Passing through the illusion was like walking through a cold, wet veil. On the other side, the world was raw. A thick canopy of trees pressed in from all sides, their branches knitting together to block out whatever moonlight had managed to pierce the clouds.

  The air was sharp—a sudden, biting contrast to the stagnant, perfumed warmth of the manor. Elma felt a chill race down her spine.

  Jorm reached into her bag and pulled out a small, brass lantern. She struck a flint, and a low, amber glow blossomed between them, casting long, dancing shadows against the gnarled trunks.

  “Let’s go,” Jorm whispered.

  Elma followed, but the "freedom" she had craved quickly revealed its price. The trail was a thin, uneven ribbon of dirt and roots that wound deeper into the darkness.

  In her mind, Elma was a creature of movement and precision. But her reality was a four-year-old frame that had spent most of its existence being carried or pampered. Her small, useless legs couldn't find a rhythm. Every stride required a conscious effort, and the uneven ground felt like a mountain range.

  Jorm, meanwhile, moved with a terrifyingly efficient strength, the heavy bag slung over one shoulder, barely breaking a sweat.

  Elma finally came to a halt, sinking onto a moss-covered root. Her lungs burned.

  “Come on, it’s closer now,” Jorm said, pausing to look back.

  “You... said that half the way here,” Elma wheezed, her pride stinging more than her muscles. She was starting to seriously regret this. The risk of leaving the manor was one thing; the physical humiliation was another. “Which is further now? Your house or the manor?”

  “My house,” Jorm admitted, sheepish but determined.

  Elma let out a long, ragged sigh. She tried to stagger back to her feet, but her knees buckled. She fell back onto the root with a dull thud.

  “Maybe... if you give me a moment,” Elma hissed.

  “We don’t have time,” Jorm said.

  She didn't wait for permission. Jorm stepped close and wrapped her right arm firmly around Elma’s waist, hoisting her up. With her left hand, she adjusted the heavy bag, shifting the weight until it balanced against her back.

  Their statures were nearly the same, yet the gap in raw strength was staggering.

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  Elma didn't fight it. She simply dangled against her student's side, her feet swinging uselessly above the dirt as Jorm began to march through the woods again.

  It was humiliating. But slower was worse.

  The shift in the air was subtle—a crunch of dry leaves that didn't match Jorm’s heavy stride.

  Elma’s ears pricked.

  Her eyes darted into the tree line, but there was no weight. No Aegis. Just the hollow, starving silence of the Unawakened.

  Jorm stopped dead. Elma slipped from her grip, landing on the dirt with a soft thud.

  From the ink-black shadows, they emerged. Not soldiers, but a mob of people, crawling out of the dark like insects drawn to a dying candle. Their eyes were sunken, their clothes little more than grey rags.

  "Please... help me," one whispered, a hand reaching out like a claw.

  Jorm’s panic was soft, rooted in pity. "Uh... I got you something," she stammered, fumbling with her bag. She pulled out a few bruised fruits and a small loaf of bread. She handed them to the nearest man, who retreated into the dark with his prize. The others didn't scatter. They pressed closer.

  "Please... do you have anything else?" The voice was high, cracked with desperation.

  "I'm sorry," Jorm said, her voice shaking. "It's all I have for now."

  "You have a full bag... please," they hissed, a chorus of hunger.

  "It's not food," Jorm insisted, stepping back. "I'll get you something from home when I return, I promise."

  The circle tightened. A hand reached out from the blind spot behind Jorm. With a sudden, violent yank, a man ripped the worn strap of the bag from Jorm’s shoulder.

  Elma didn't think. She reacted.

  She flared her Aegis. A shockwave of unseen force seized the thief, hoisting him six feet off the ground.

  “Resonant!” someone screamed. The word rippled through them; the mob broke immediately, scattering into the dark.

  Their footfalls faded quickly into the trees.

  Elma held the man pinned in the air. Through the connection of her Aegis, she felt him—not as a person, but as a biological machine. She felt his heart racing in tight, rapid bursts, the frantic filtering of his kidneys, the heat of his blood.

  Is this what it’s like to hold a non-Resonant? He felt so thin. So breakable.

  Elma squinted. The man's scream rose in pitch, a raw sound of animal terror. She began to tighten the grip, her mind calculating the force needed to crush the ribcage. Instinctively, she reached for his throat with her will, obstructing the airway.

  The scream died into a wet, pathetic gurgle.

  "Stop it!" Jorm’s voice was a sharp blade in the dark.

  "He was going to steal from you," Elma said.

  Jorm didn't argue. She grabbed Elma’s shoulder and pulled her violently. Elma spun, her gaze snapping to Jorm with a predatory sharpness that made the older girl flinch.

  Elma blinked. She released her hold, and the man plummeted to the ground. He staggered up immediately, not even looking back as he vanished into the trees.

  Elma stood perfectly still, staring at Jorm.

  "You were going to kill him," Jorm whispered.

  Elma didn’t blink.

  Jorm felt a cold unease wash over her. She looked away, then back at the small, green-eyed monolith before her.

  "Are you okay?" Jorm asked, her voice small.

  Elma did not move.

  “Why did you stop me?”

  Jorm looked at the ground. “He was just hungry.”

  “He was stealing from you.”

  “They don’t have a choice,” Jorm said, her voice breaking.

  Jorm’s voice was fracturing. Her breathing was uneven. Another push, and she would break.

  Not her too.

  Elma didn’t press.

  She finally broke the gaze, looking toward the flickering lights of the city in the distance.

  "Let's go," she said.