Pain is a teacher that never stops talking, and today it had plenty to say to the skin of Asher's back. He was pinned against the cold steel of the holding cell wall, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. The room smelled of antiseptic and the metallic tang of old blood. Across from him, the lead overseer, a man named Vane with eyes like polished flint, paced back and forth, the heavy heels of his boots clicking against the concrete like a countdown. "I will ask you one more time, boy," Vane said, his voice quiet, which made it ten times more dangerous. "Why did it bow? That creature has taken the hands off three different men in the last week. It does not bow. It does not wait. It kills." Asher lowered his head, his hair matted with sweat and dirt. "I told you, sir. I do not know. I was only cleaning the spill." Vane stepped into his personal space, grabbing Asher by the throat and slamming him back against the wall. The impact rattled Asher’s teeth. "Do not lie to me. You

The forest went silent, but inside Asher’s mind, the world was screaming. He sat cross-legged on the damp floor of a small cavern, his breathing heavy and uneven. Opposite him, the Shadowclaw was perfectly still, its golden eyes locked onto his own with an intensity that burned. The bond, previously a quiet hum of shared survival, had opened into a floodgate. Asher felt a tidal wave of sensations that did not belong to him: the smell of burning cities, the sound of thousands of beasts crying out in unison, and the crushing weight of betrayal. "You show me things," Asher whispered, clutching his temples as a flash of blinding light scorched his inner vision. "Things that happened before I was born." The beast let out a low, mournful trill that resonated in Asher's very bones. It was not a sound of communication, but of grief. Asher felt a sudden shift, and he was no longer in the cave. He was standing on a high cliff, overlooking a world that was lush and vibrant. He saw humans wal

The world ended in a whisper, and then it began again in a roar that shattered the very air. Asher was on his knees, his hands locked around the cold, dead fur of the Shadowclaw, when the metal in his pocket began to pulse. It was not a steady heartbeat anymore. It was a rhythmic, violent thrumming that felt like the earth itself trying to tear its own skin open. The relic began to glow, not with the soft violet light of before, but with a blinding, jagged white fire that ate the shadows in the clearing. Vane turned, his sneer faltering. "What is that? What did you do to that thing?" Asher did not answer. He could not. The power was rushing through his veins like molten iron, burning away his sorrow, his grief, and his humanity. He looked at the guards, then at the Inquisitor, but he did not see men. He saw things that needed to be silenced. "You should have left it alone," Asher said, his voice sounding like two grinding stones. "Shoot him!" Vane screamed, stepping back as the

Steel does not whisper, but the forest knows the sound of a human heartbeat from a mile away. Asher crouched in the hollow of a massive, rotted oak, his breath shallow as he watched the shadows move. He was deep in the untamed sector, a place where the trees twisted into knots and the light was always thin and grey. He knew someone was tailing him. It was not a pack of beasts, and it was not a battalion of soldiers. It was something quieter, something deliberate. "You can stop hiding," Asher said to the empty air, his voice low and steady. "I have known you were there since you stepped over the creek." A figure stepped from behind a curtain of hanging moss. It was a woman, her armor marked with the crimson insignia of the High Council guard. She was Elara. He recognized her from the transport site. She had stood there, watching the Shadowclaw die, her face a mask of iron that had shown not one flicker of regret. "You have a lot of guts, coming here alone," Asher said, though he d

The truth is a jagged blade, and Asher had just pulled it from the stone of his own history. He stood in the deepest chamber of the ruined temple, his torch casting long, flickering shadows against walls that had not seen a living soul for a thousand years. The air here was stagnant and heavy, tasting of ozone and forgotten time. Before him stretched a massive, intact mural, its pigments still vibrant despite the ages. It showed a battlefield, a king with a crown of obsidian, and a sky torn open by a swirling, violet void. "Look at this," Asher said, his voice echoing into the dark. "This is not a story of a war between men and beasts. This is a record of a parasite." The Stalker padded up beside him, its golden eyes darting across the mural. It let out a soft, low chuff. "What is that thing in the sky? It looks like the relic." Asher stepped closer, his fingers tracing the outline of his own face carved into the stone. The artist had captured everything: the scar on his jaw, the