A shimmer ripples through the trees ahead. Then it rises.
A dark cloud of dragonflies, wings beating in eerie unison, hovering just out of reach.
Too controlled. Too precise.
“What are those?” I gasp.
I feel it like a strange recognition through Kael. “Ancient tech. Sentinels.”
I stare at the swarm.
Waiting.
“They should attack,” he whispers, body stiffening. “What are they waiting for?”
Bile rises in my throat.
Attack?
The mutilated cow flashes in my head. Missing tongue and organs, blood drained. Don’t know how, but they’re connected.
Then I see in the distance a possible answer. Ethereal, terrifying. “Whatisthat?” I breathe.
Kael doesn’t answer. Because he already knows.
Like the dragonflies, they appear all at once.
Not descending. Not arriving.
Just. There.
Two figures standing along the ridge ahead, where there had been nothing a heartbeat before.
My breath catches.
They look human. Almost.
Bearded and burly, wearing flannel and denim. Like lumberjacks or mountain men—tall, still, watching.
But the air around them shimmers, barely containing them.
And then they glow.
It isn’t the glow of Kael’s marks. Or the veins of the cave. This is different.
Light spills from them—not from markings, but from everywhere. Beneath the skin and fabric. Through it. As if their bodies can’t hold it in.
One steps forward. The ground beneath his boots doesn’t quite touch him. He hovers—just barely—as if gravity has forgotten him.
My heart slams against my ribs. “They’re real,” I whisper.
Kael’s arm tightens around me. Every muscle in his body locks. “I won’t let them touch you,” he says.
I don’t move. Because I feel it now, too.
That pressure. That pull. A vibration screaming in my bones.
“Kael Guthrie, son of Wylder, you called us,” the man in front says. “You both did.”
