Elsewhere in the forest, the fog was thicker. Shadows shifted unnaturally between the trees, blending with the mist until it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.
A figure darted through.
Their green cloak moved behind them, snagging on a low branch, and each frantic step kicked up bits of dirt and leaves. Their breathing was shallow, panicked, each exhale a puff of fog in the cold air. The hood of their cloak had slipped slightly, revealing two pointed ears poking out from either side. Beneath the edge of the hood, blond hair caught the light as it swayed with each step. The bottom of their cloak was frayed, streaked with dirt, and dotted with the faint dark stains of blood.
The symbol on their back — a blue moon crest — gleamed like fresh paint. If anyone had been close enough, they might have noticed that the crest's design gave a strong resemblance to one that another fox-like figure wore. But there was no one close enough. No one to help.
No one, except the figure behind them.
A second figure moved swiftly through the fog; their presence quiet but menacing. Their cloak was dark black, like the shaded trees around them. No face could be seen beneath the hood. Only the faint shape of a head tilted downward, following the trail with measured steps.
Their left hand emerged from the folds of the cloak. Pale, cold fingers. Two of which had been replaced with thin, sharp metal prosthetics. Rings lined every knuckle inscribed with runes too small to read.
But it was the right hand that carried the real threat.
A crossbow. Its frame, made of metal, was marked with runic carvings. The glow of faint purple runes lit up along the length of the weapon, each one glowing bright as energy pulsed into it. The moment the glow reached the bolt resting on the string, the air itself seemed to buzz.
Whip!
The crossbow snapped with a sharp crack, and the bolt flew forward.
The arrow sliced cleanly through the air, flickering purple aura. Sparks crackled along its edges, as it zipped just past the figure in green, grazing their hood. A spark ignited on impact, singeing the fabric at the edge. The elf stumbled, their heart lurching as they felt the tug of the hood, like a hand trying to pull them backward.
They hissed in pain, clutching at their chest where a dark tear in the fabric revealed blood-stained cloth beneath. Their movements grew sloppy, every step more uneven than the last. The world spun slightly, fog swirling in streaks of green and blue, but they grit their teeth and pushed forward.
They had to keep moving.
"Run, run, little sprout," came a voice from behind. Low, sharp, and far too amused. The hunter didn't shout. There was no need. The words carried easily through the fog. "Faster now. You've done so well so far. Don't stop now."
The elf didn't respond. They didn't need to. Their only answer was the frantic pounding of their footsteps. But they were slowing. The weight of the wound on their chest dragged them down like a chain, and every breath came shorter than the last.
The fog began to thin.
Ahead of them, the forest opened into a clearing, and they nearly tripped at the sudden shift in terrain. Their gaze darted to the space ahead, searching for an escape route. But there was no open path. No winding trail to follow. No endless stretch of woods to vanish into.
Only a ruined structure.
Old stone walls jutted up from the ground, crumbling with age. Vines wrapped around the cracks like veins. Moss clung to every surface, and whatever roof had once crowned the building had long since collapsed. The only way forward was straight into it, but they could see at a glance — it was a dead end.
They skidded to a stop, their boots grinding against the dirt as they spun around, breath heaving. Their eyes flicked toward the edge of the clearing.
The hunter was there.
Standing just at the edge of the fog. Still cloaked in darkness, their body a silhouette against the misty backdrop. They did not chase. They didn't have to. Their posture was relaxed, almost lazy, like a predator watching a mouse scurry into a trap. Their hood tilted upward slightly, just enough to reveal the glow of two faint red runes pulsing where their eyes should have been.
"That was fun," the hunter said, their voice dripping with mock delight. Their crossbow hung lazily at their side, still humming with faint purple energy. "But it seems we've reached the climax."
The elf cursed under their breath. Her hand, still trembling, shot out from under their cloak. A green glow erupted in front of them as a tear split through the air. Runes circled its edges, leaves swirling as a hole in reality formed before them.
A weapons gate.
From within, a staff of smooth, rich wood tipped with a red gem. Golden vines curled around its length, forming two upward-facing spikes near the top, like horns. The elf snatched it with a desperate grip, her eyes sharp and wild. The glow of yellow-green light rippled down the length of the staff.
Her hood fell.
Long blond hair tumbled free, hanging in uneven strands around her face. Her features were sharp, but one half of her face had raw, angry marks from a burn scar. The skin was blistered and red, and her right eye remained closed from the damage. Her other eye — green, fierce, and filled with rage. Blood seeped from a wound on her chest, but she raised the staff high, her fingers gripping it with fury.
Her lips moved and green runes appeared at her feet. Glowing shapes floated up around her in a spiral. More runes shimmered in the air, forming a layered, multi-tiered magic circle that hovered above her head. Its glow painted her face in pale green light, making her eyes burn brighter.
The ground beneath her feet pulsed with power, and for a moment, it looked as though she would strike.
But then, the hunter raised their hand.
They didn't call upon an incantation. All they did was raise their hand, revealing a floating red gem hovering just above their palm. Its shape was sharp — a diamond marked with intricate runes glowing faintly red.
"We can't have that now, can we?" they said, tilting their head with false pity. Their fingers curled slowly. The red glow of the gem shifted to green.
The elf's eyes went wide with realization.
"No!" she gasped. Her hands shot up, clawing at the air, as though she could stop what was about to happen. But it was too late.
The layered green runes around her cracked like shattered glass. One by one, they broke. Symbols burst apart in flashes of light, vanishing like fireflies going dark. Her magic fizzled in her hands as the staff's glow faded into dull, lifeless wood.
Her face contorted with rage. Desperation.
Her gaze locked onto the hunter, her eyes blazing like fire. "You will regret this," she spat, breathing heavily and ragged. "Atheria will see you."
The hunter chuckled softly, shaking their head.
"That's the thing about you mages, sooo much confidence. I love it." They paused. "But it seems the chase is over. Atheria's gaze doesn't reach here, little sprout." They stepped forward, slowly, their shadow stretching like a claw. The dark aura seeped out from their cloak like ink, rolling over the grass in thick, curling tendrils.
The light of the clearing dimmed. The glow of magic vanished.
All that remained was the shadow.