“The realm is stitching itself around him. His presence is no longer invasive—it’s becomingnative.The longer he stays, the harder the unbinding.”
Kursk looks at me. “I knew this was possible. I didn’t tell you.”
Of course he did. Stubborn, noble, boneheaded.
I clench my jaw. “And the Vorfaluka?”
“It’s worse,” Rand says. “Each day it feeds, it becomesofyour world. Soon, it won’t just hide in your shadows. Itwill bethe shadow. Uprooting it will cost more than the Spear can give.”
My blood turns to ice.
Kursk’s face is carved from stone. “We end it. Soon.”
“There is more,” Rand says, softer. “The beast now knows you. It willcomefor you, not just hide. The hunter has become the hunted.”
The crystal dims again. Rand’s voice fades with it. “May your rage burn brighter than its hunger.”
Dark.
The cabin exhales, like it’s been holding its breath.
I wrap the Spear shard in a cloth and tuck it into a lead box.
Kursk lies back, his eyes still glowing faintly. Sweat beads on his brow. His breathing is shallow, not from pain—but from the knowledge we just heard.
“You should rest,” I whisper.
“No time.”
“Five minutes?”
He smirks. “Ten.”
I sit beside him on the floor, back against the couch, staring at the boarded-up window and the shimmering ward circles slowly fading on the floorboards.
This is no longer a hunt.
This is survival.
And the clock is bleeding.
I don’t sleep. Ican’t.
Kursk dozes on the couch, but it’s a shallow thing—more like a warrior’s trance, the kind that lets you wake swinging.His chest rises in slow, ragged rhythms. The infection’s crawling higher, black veins threading across his ribs like ivy drunk on blood.
The fire crackles. Outside, the woods creak and hiss as the temperature drops. Somewhere far off, a coyote howls—and I wonder how long until it stops being coyotes and starts being…something else.
I hold the shard of the Spear in my lap. Wrapped in bloodied linen. Still warm. Still humming.
Barely.
It pulses when I speak to it again, lips barely moving.
“Rand. I need more.”
The air shivers.
Static creeps along my arms, making the hairs stand up. The candles flicker. This time it doesn’t take blood—just desperation. And maybe that’s worse.
