The party push their way deep into the forest, vaulting over fallen trees and cutting through the foliage with their knives and bodies. The evening sunlight has already died away, and a thick night encompasses the woods, making it impossible to see more than a few meters in front of them, even with Aralyn’s light ball guiding them. Their progress is slow, slower still now that their second day has arrived and gone.

“Take, a break, will ya, Lyn?” Aralyn hears Allastair’s voice wheezing from somewhere far behind her. “We need to break for the night!”

“We’re not all made from grace and agility like you,” adds Fennald, panting hard as he heaves himself over a log.

After her grand speech, Aralyn charged blindly into the forest with such energy it surprised even her. It was not long before she found the place they had seen the wraith last, but the Whispering Woods seem to stretch on forever. For every tree Aralyn marks, she sees twenty more in front of it. But still, she forages forward with determined haste, her legs carrying her over the rough terrain as if they have a mind of their own.

Find that monster, is the only thought looping in her mind, find it, and kill it, so they will know it was an elf who saved them.

Aralyn hears a sharp crack behind her, followed by Allastair’s yell. She glances back. The knight is holding his shoulder, from where he has clipped it against a nearby tree. He staggers forward a few steps more, before collapsing onto the ground.

“Allastair!” Aralyn rushes back to help the fallen knight. “Fen, help me!” Together, she and Fennald roll Allastair onto his back. Aralyn pulls off his helm. The knight’s eyes are closed, and his face is pale. Aralyn goes to shake him, but Fennald stops her.

“Let him rest,” says the mage, “you’ve pushed him over his limit.” He sets his staff down and falls back on his butt. “I’m almost done, too, actually.”

For the first time in two days, Aralyn gets a good look at her party members' states. Their clothes, armor, and hair are spotted with dirt, dried mud, and dead leaves. Allastair, though he is now snoring, looks starved with his sullen cheeks, and Fennald has circles under his eyes so dark it looks like he’s been struck.

“I’m sorry,” is all she manages to say.

Fennald reaches for his bag pack, and pulls out his water skin. “I’ve seen you like this once before,” he says, downing three mouthfuls in quick succession, "so I know it’s pointless to try and slow you down. But still,” he looks at Aralyn, “I wish you’d keep us in mind next time.”

Fennald’s words sting, but Aralyn blinks away any tears before the boy can see them. She knows it is not Fennald’s fault he cannot keep up. She knows he and Allastair cannot hear it, the language of the trees, and the plants.

Thisss way, they whisper to her, even now, their leaves rustling in the cold wind. She’s thisss way…

Aralyn digs into her pack for two vitality potions, and hands them to Fennald. “Drink them after you’ve eaten something.”

Fennald squints at her, instantly knowing what she is thinking. “You can’t go on alone, that’s crazy.”

“It is,” Aralyn agrees, “but sometimes we have to take the craziest path to get to where we’re headed.” She takes out another two potions and gives them over too. “The blue is night vision, the green, poison resistance.” She then turns around and dashes off into the forest, leaving Fennald calling out after her.

Fog has rolled over the woods, making Aralyn’s light ball almost useless. With each passing minute, the ball shrinks as Aralyn’s power drains, but she wills her body to keep going, pushing onwards into the midst, eyes peeled for the slightest hint of black smoke or an ethereal, dark body. She jumps over another fallen tree trunk, weaves under low-hanging branches, until finally, she bursts through into a small clearing by the foot of a grey cliff.

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The crescent moon shines brightly on the damp grass, illuminating the empty space in a pale, cold light. The thick fog hangs in the air, encircling the clearing like a deathly tornado. Panting, Aralyn surveys the clearing, her breath steaming in the chilly air.

She’ssss hhhere…

There, Aralyn sees it – a long and jagged opening at the foot of the cliff. The perfect place for a lair.

“Here you are,” she whispers, and as she turns to go back for Allastair and Fennald, she bumps right into the wraith’s dead, hollow face.

Every nerve in Aralyn's body screams out for her to run, but before her legs can pick up on the cue, the wraith’s hands are around her throat, lifting her high into the air.

Aralyn flounders like a dying fish, kicking at the monster’s head, neck, and wherever her legs can reach. Her eyes burst with the sharpness of terror as she tries to find weaknesses in the monster’s steel grip, but the wraith holds her steadily, its ghastly, decayed face showing no trace of emotion or pain from the elf’s feeble struggles. Then with a slimy rippling, the wraith’s mouth tears open, revealing a chasm of darkness. The oozing stench fills Aralyn’s mind with absolute horror, and a silent scream burns from her gasping lips.

Then, the wraith starts to speak.

“Lea-ve. This. Pl-ace.”

It forces each syllable out of its gaping mouth in a horrific, rusty growl.

“Lea-ve. Us. Be.”

Aralyn’s struggles stop. The fear that has been so encompassing and suffocating dissipates like insects breaking away by wind. But it lasts for just one second, as the wraith starts to squeeze harder. Aralyn claws at the wraith’s fleshless fingers, her throat erupting into agony. Tears spring in her eyes as her vision begins to fade, the world turning grey and blotchy. She tries again to kick, but she can no longer feel her legs.

Just before Aralyn’s body gives out, from within the cave comes a guttural, screeching howl, clashing through the air like the screams of a wounded animal. The wraith snaps its head towards its lair, and its grip loosens just a little.

It is enough. A deep, primal reflex takes over Aralyn’s body and she reaches for the wraith’s face with her right hand, a wave of desperate power surging within her. The light ball, which has been floating diligently next to her head all this time, explodes into a supernova and propels into the monster’s face.

The wraith screeches, reeling. It covers its face with one arm, and with the other still clutching Aralyn, slams her into the ground so hard Aralyn feels the air punched right out of her, and hears the crisp crack of her bones breaking. Her entire body blazes with a pain that her mind cannot grasp. She gasps, but there is no air.

Then, there is a brief feeling of tranquillity and weightlessness, as if she is flying. Aralyn feels something pressing into the top of her head, and the world, at last, goes dark.

It is at this point that the two young men finally break through the foliage, and are stunned at the sight before them: The wraith floating haphazardly around, screaming with its face covered in its rotten hands, and their Aralyn, motionless on the ground by the other side of the clearing.

Fennald is the first to move. He sprints towards Aralyn, the fatigue from the past night and day forgotten. Allastair takes a second longer, but he too shakes himself into action after seeing the mage run. He dashes towards the wraith, positioning himself between it and his party members, and draws his sword and buckler.

Fennald skids to a stop by Aralyn, slams his staff into the ground, and shouts,

“Circala Protouga!”

The Crimson Ore in his staff pierces through the moonlit night, and a bright golden bubble expands out from the base of his staff until it envelopes both him and Aralyn. Then, Fennald turns around and drops to his knees by the elf's side. "Lyn? Can you hear me?"

The elf lies on her side, gasping shallow, painful breaths. Her face is frighteningly pale, and the gash running across her forehead stains her red hair even darker. Fennald’s hands fly over Aralyn, but don’t get anything done. He goes to feel for a pulse, but doesn’t know where to press. He tries to turn Aralyn onto her back, but the elf cries out when he moves her, so he stops. After much hesitation, Fennald gives up, and places a hand on Aralyn’s arm, and tries to comfort her with his words.

"You're safe now, Lyn," he says, rubbing the soft skin, damp and cold from the grass. "We're here for you. We've got your back."

Aralyn coughs violently, twice, and she peaks at Fennald through half-closed eyelids. Then with slow, weak movements, she takes Fennald’s hand that is on her arm, and places it on her own head.

“Found it first,” the elf whispers shakily, her tone light. She closes her eyes, and Fennald feels her relaxing under his touch. Soon, Aralyn’s breathing becomes steadier, easier, as she slips into unconsciousness.

Fennald exhales, allowing himself a quick, thankful prayer to the goddesses. Then he leans in, and plants a light kiss on Aralyn’s forehead. "Yea, I guess you did."