The forest remained cloaked in its unnatural silence as Reiner pressed deeper into the Eldergloom, guided only by the flickering pulse of the obsidian shard embedded in his palm. The whisper of spectral voices had faded, but their presence lingered like a half-forgotten echo at the back of his mind. Every breath came with the bitter taste of decay, and the air was thick with a strange tension, as if the trees themselves watched, waiting for him to falter.
He glanced back, half-expecting to see the spectral knights reforming, but the clearing had vanished into the labyrinth of trees and twisted roots. Only darkness surrounded him now, dense and suffocating.
The path beneath his boots was no more than a threadbare trail, winding through skeletal trees draped in hanging moss that seemed to reach for him like grasping hands. His fingers flexed unconsciously around the hilt of his dagger, though he knew such a weapon was little more than a comfort in this cursed wood.
Hours passed without change. The weight of fatigue pressed on his limbs, and every step seemed heavier than the last. Still, the shard's insistent pulse drove him forward, whispering secrets in a language he could not fully grasp.
Seek the path where shadows merge with blood.
Merric's journal had hinted at the Eldergloom's shifting nature, a place where pathways moved as if guided by an unseen will. And now, with each step, Reiner felt that truth. The forest seemed to breathe around him, reshaping itself, testing him. When he paused to catch his breath, the soft crunch of leaves behind him made his blood run cold.
"Who's there?" His voice echoed, swallowed almost immediately by the oppressive stillness.
A figure emerged from the gloom, half-concealed by shadow. A woman, cloaked in dark, tattered robes, with eyes that glimmered like wet obsidian. Her hair was wild, tangled with twigs and dirt, framing a face that seemed carved from pale stone.
"You carry the mark," she said, her voice low, almost reverent. "The forest stirs for you."
Reiner's grip on his dagger tightened. "Who are you?"
"Call me Isolde." She stepped closer, her movements unnaturally fluid. "I am a seeker of the forgotten truths, a voice for the silent dead."
The name pricked at his memory. Merric had mentioned her once—a shadowy figure, neither ally nor foe, said to walk the border between the living and the damned.
"Why are you here?" Reiner demanded, though he could not shake the feeling that she had been waiting for him.
Isolde tilted her head, a faint smile curving her lips. "To guide you, if you will let me. The mark you bear is more than a curse; it is a key. But keys alone are useless without the door."
Before he could respond, the ground beneath them shuddered, sending a jolt through his bones. The whispering returned, louder now, a cacophony of voices clawing at his sanity. Isolde's eyes narrowed, and she reached out, pressing her palm against the shard embedded in his hand.
The effect was immediate. The forest around them blurred, and Reiner felt a rush of vertigo as if he had been flung into the depths of a dark sea. The voices ceased, replaced by a deep, resonant silence.
When the world righted itself, they stood on a different path, one lined with ancient stones carved with runes that glowed faintly in the dim light.
"Where—" he started, but Isolde silenced him with a raised hand.
"This is the path of the Forsaken. Few have walked it and returned with their souls intact." She traced a rune with her fingertips, and the faint glow flared briefly. "But here lies the truth you seek, though it will demand more than blood."
The path seemed to pulse under Reiner's boots, the runes shifting as if alive. His heart thudded in time with the shard, and a creeping dread coiled in his gut.
"Why me?" The question slipped from his lips, raw and unbidden.
Isolde's gaze softened, the obsidian sharpness replaced with something almost like pity. "Because you are bound by fate older than kings, older than the gods themselves. The Shadowmark is not just a symbol of power; it is a tether to the darkest secret of this realm."
A memory surged forward, unbidden: the Watcher's molten eyes, and the chilling, echoing words it had spoken. The burden of truth.
"Then what am I supposed to do?" His voice cracked under the weight of realization.
"Survive," Isolde said simply. "Survive long enough to decide if the truth is worth the cost."
A sharp, inhuman screech split the air, dragging their attention to the trees ahead. A figure loomed there, its form twisted and grotesque, eyes like embers and limbs that bent at unnatural angles. A Guardian of the Forsaken Path.
The creature lunged, and Reiner's instincts took over. The obsidian shard flared with dark light, and shadows leapt from the ground, wrapping around the Guardian's limbs to slow its charge. But its strength was immense, and the shadows splintered like brittle glass.
Isolde stepped forward, chanting words that rang with ancient power. The runes beneath them glowed brighter, forming a barrier of searing white light that clashed against the Guardian's darkness. The creature shrieked, the sound piercing enough to split bone, but it faltered, retreating into the depths of the forest.
Breathless, Reiner stared at the dissipating light, the realization sinking in that the path forward was anything but certain. His journey was only just beginning, but each step threatened to unravel the man he had once been.
"Remember," Isolde said, her voice a mere whisper now. "Even shadows have their kings."
Reiner nodded, though the weight of her words only deepened the chasm of dread in his chest. He took a step forward, the pulse of the shard guiding him once more into the unknown.