Chapter 56
Wolfe
“What The Shadow Valued Most”
The starless night matched my fury as I stalked through the gnarled trees, each step bringing me closer to the Soul Weaver and farther away from Elariya.
Each footfall on the damp earth echoed my heartbeat as I pushed deeper into the maze of twisted branches while rage burned through my veins.
She was being watched, too. I should be with her. Not out here looking for this fucking necromancer.
I'd rushed home the moment I got word of what happened, then checked out Hyxian myself.
I couldn't believe that I would have been relieved to find some trace left by one of Dreynthor's loathsome spies.
Instead, I found the echo of a darkening with the same bitter taste in the air as the magic used to glamour the camp.
With nothing to trace, all I could do was get back to her and comfort her with what felt like lies—that she’d be okay when I knew nothing of the sort.
Now, I was here out in the Myrtle Woodlands well past the witching hour. My scouts had located the necromancer’s lair. All I needed to do was find the bastard.
Given the dire situation and the benefit of getting this intel so quickly, I should have been rejoicing. But I couldn't feel any joy when I knew my place should be at my mage's side, protecting her.
Behind me, Alaric and Bastian matched my pace, though I could hear Bastian rustling with the map my scouts had given him. As expected, the Soul Weaver lived in the depths of the darkest woods in Galaythia. The place where even monsters feared their own shadows.
Nothing could be trusted here. Not the trees that murmured with voices of the dead, not the air that hung thick with the scent of graves, nor even your own heartbeat. Because between one pulse and the next, a restless spirit could crawl beneath your skin and make your body its home.
"Wolfe." Alaric's voice cut through the darkness as his longer stride brought him alongside me.
“What?” I hissed.
He placed a hand on my shoulder and gave me a hard stare. "You need to calm the fuck down."
I didn't slow my pace. "I'm perfectly calm."
"No, you're not. You're seething, and that's going to give our position away, or worse, get us killed if you can't focus." His tone was firm but understanding.
I glanced at him and sighed, seeing the sense in his caution.
I slowed down, but my mind was still with her.
"Stop worrying about Elariya. She should be safe at the manor."
I shot him a sharp look. Alaric knew about my relationship with Elariya.
He probably knew how I felt about her before I did, but he'd never once offered advice about her.
That had always been Bastian's territory.
Alaric kept to strategy, to duty, to the mission at hand.
We never spoke about relationships. Ever.
We'd both been the same way until recently. He fucked around all the time, just like me before Father died. Neither of us were the best at giving relationship advice, so it was one of those gray areas that were off limits.
"I know what happened at the library was worrying," he continued, seeming to sense my surprise at his directness. "But we have to focus on getting to the necromancer now. We can't protect her if we're dead."
We. I didn’t miss the emphasis in his tone, nor the conviction in his stare.
“No, I guess we can’t.”
“We’ll figure this out. All of it. Hopefully soon.”
“Thanks.”
He dipped his head. “The girl's got steel in her spine. She suits you.”
I smirked at that, appreciating his attempt to make me feel better. “Is that your way of giving me your blessing?”
“I guess so, though you don’t need it.” He cocked his head and grinned. “I think she handled what happened at the library better than most.”
“Yeah. I have to give her credit for that.”
"Yes. And she’s not alone now. Garrick and Arielle, and even Sirril, are with her." He nodded. “Hopefully, when we find this asshole, we’ll get some answers.”
The Soul Weaver had been weaving souls—the ones at the camp. I wanted to find out for whom before I ended him.
“Guys, stop. We’re here,” Bastian said with the raise of his hand. He came closer and pointed ahead through the thicket of trees. “It’s through there.”
“Let’s go.”
We moved forward. Once we got through the trees, the sight that greeted us in the harsh moonlight stopped us cold.
Rising from the forest floor was a massive tree unlike anything in nature.
Its trunk was easily twenty feet wide, twisted and gnarled into an almost humanoid shape.
The bark was a sickly pale color, almost flesh-like, and the deep grooves carved across its surface resembled the lines of an ancient face frozen in eternal anguish.
Roots thick as a torso writhed above ground, creating natural archways and chambers, and at the base of the trunk, a dark opening yawned like a mouth, pulsing with an otherworldly green light.
"What in the fucking hells is this?" I muttered, taking in the grotesque sight.
“I think you answered your own question,” Alaric scoffed. “The hells.”
Bastian tucked the map away, his expression turning grim as he felt the air. "You're not going to like this, Wolfe."
"What now?" I couldn’t hide the frustration in my tone.
"The lair exists on a spatial realm that disconnects from magic. The tree is a gateway. Once we cross the threshold"—he gestured toward the pulsing entrance—"we can't use our magical powers inside.”
Shit. This was all we needed now. More problems.
I stared at him, hoping he was going to elaborate with a solution, but all Bastian did was shake his head.
“No magic and no powers, so no portaling, no phasing, no conjuring, no Deathwalker abilities. We'll be facing a trickster necromancer with nothing but our blades and wits.”
“Yes.” Bastian bit the inside of his lip. “And the disconnection from magic may cover a good amount of the area. I can’t tell where it ends.”
The revelation pissed me off, but it also stoked the fire burning inside my chest. I adjusted the grip on my sword and stepped toward the horrific tree.
"Then so be it. This is the kind of shit we train for." My voice was steel. "Let's get this motherfucker."
We approached the monstrous tree with our weapons drawn, ready for anything that attacked from the shadows.
The grass receded, falling away into the dark, then our footsteps became muffled by the thick carpet of bone-white fungi that sprouted from the rotting earth. It stank worse than anything I’d ever smelled.
The closer we got, the more unnatural details emerged.
"Do you see that?" Bastian whispered, pointing to the writhing roots.
I followed his gaze, and my stomach turned.
Tangled within the massive root system were remnants of clothing.
A torn cloak here, a leather boot there, all perfectly preserved as if their owners had simply vanished from within them.
The roots seemed to pulse with a faint luminescence, like veins carrying corrupted blood through some vast, sleeping beast.
Gods, I already knew we were in for one hell of a mission.
We reached the tree’s entrance, and the twisted branches moved without wind, creaking and groaning like arthritic joints. Hanging from the gnarled limbs were what looked like cocoons made of spider silk, each one roughly human-sized and swaying gently in the still air.
The pulsing green light from the mouth-like entrance grew brighter as we neared, casting our faces in sickly hues that made us look like corpses.
A different smell hit us then. That nightmarish sweet decay from the camp mixed with something metallic and wrong, like copper pennies left to rust in a grave.
"Ready?" I rasped, though my voice sounded hollow even to my own ears.
Bastian and Alaric nodded, and together, we stepped through the threshold of the Soul Weaver's domain.
The pulsing green light lit our way, turning into the amber glow of fire although there were no torches I could see. A few steps further, the tree bark turned into the stone walls of a cave, where strange runes were carved from top to bottom.
Then came rows of distorted skeletons, twisted and knotted into macabre patterns on either side of the walls. Some appeared fresh, as if they'd been pressed into the surface moments ago, while others were barely recognizable impressions of human features.
This cave was a tomb. A tomb hungry for more bodies.
This fucked-up corruption was the Soul Weaver’s first gift to his visitors—a warning to stay away.
I hardly wanted to breathe. To breathe was to invite his corruption into my lungs.
We pressed deeper into the cavern, following the path until it curved ahead.
The skeletal mosaics continued along the walls. I tried not to look too closely at the smaller bones mixed among the adult remains. Some things were better left unexamined.
Alaric moved ahead, while Bastian brought up the rear, constantly checking over his shoulder. The runes carved into the stone seemed to shift in my peripheral vision, though when I looked directly at them, they remained still.
Then we heard a strange sound. Like breaking glass mixed with the snap of dry twigs. It echoed from somewhere ahead of us, a rhythmic clicking that bounced off the cavern walls, making it impossible to pinpoint the source.
We froze. I strained to listen, my nerves on edge, my thoughts like lead.
The sound came again, closer this time, raising the hair on the back of my neck.
Click-click-click.
"What the fuck is that?" Bastian whispered.
The clicking continued, as if it were taunting us. Fucking with our minds.
Click-click-click.
Then it stopped. And there was silence. Not the silence you find in an empty room. The kind before war begins and blood pours from the sky.
From the deepest shadows, a cloaked figure emerged, and we stopped in our tracks. The figure walked toward us taking measured steps that left no sound.
The moment it stepped into the amber glow, I knew it was him. The Soul Weaver.