The forest was a stifling cloak of silence in which Kiaran, Eira, and the almost unconscious Arion stumbled forward. It was as if the trees themselves were skeletal sentinels, standing guard, their branches intertwined above them, blotting out the moonlight. The air was thick with the residue of the dark energy that had swallowed Lysander whole, leaving the forest in a chill unnaturalness.

Kiaran glanced over at Eira, her face chiseled in worry as she pressed her hands against Arion's wounds, trying to stem the flow of blood that seemed to seep through her very fingers. Each pained breath he took was a further step into the dark woods, his strength ebbing with every pace forward, yet all of them could feel the presence of guilt, an ache heavier than the night.

This is my fault. I should have stopped him," Eira whispered her words barely audible over the crunch of leaves underfoot. Kiaran saw the shimmer of unshed tears in her eyes, the way her hands trembled. He reached out, letting his fingers brush against hers for that one brief moment.

"You couldn't have known, Eira," he said, though he wondered if the words held any truth. The relic, the darkness—everything felt like it had been designed to trap them, to twist their fates into this grim path. And now Lysander was lost to whatever darkness lurked beyond that ritual chamber.

And as he moved, the warmth from the relic began to bleed through his pocket and against his skin. The whispers grew from a soft murmur to near dophile in quality and then into words: soft words, persuasive words promising power promising release. Kiaran pressed down on his jaw so hard that it hurt to drive the voices back into the shadows. He would not let them in. The influence of the relic was subtle: as if it waited for a moment of weakness before proving truly cruel.

"We have to seek shelter," Kiaran rasped, his voice rough with suppressed tension. "Arion won't go much farther like this."

Arion could only just keep his head up, mumbling something under his breath, speaking in mushy words of pain. Kiaran leaned closer, catching the faint direction: "North. old refuge. hidden village."

The mention of a safe place revitalized a faint hope, and they altered their course, Arion's directions leading them through the tangle of trees.

Hours later, they reached the hidden village: a cluster of ancient huts encircled in a hollow between jagged hills. The village was awarded by runes carved into the stones encircling its perimeter, and their faint glow alone kept the shadows at bay. As they approached, wary eyes watched them from darkness; villagers stepped out from shadowed doorways, weapons drawn.

Kiaran raised his hands, holding them up in a gesture of peace, but the tension clouded around him like smoke, choking off all hope of warmth. One of the elders took a step forward, an ancient, stooping figure with a face as worn as the stones that surrounded them. His eyes narrowed as he fixed on the faint glow the relic cast from beneath Kiaran's cloak.

"Who brings this darkness into our home?" asked the elder, his voice cracking like dry wood. He looked toward Arion, and his eyes flared with recognition. "Arion, you fool, what have you dragged to us?"

Arion coughed, a ragged sound that became a wet gurgle. Eira tightened her grip on him, her gaze pleading. "He's dying. Please, we need help."

The elder's expression softened, but only marginally. With a reluctant nod, he motioned for them to enter, but not before casting a suspicious look at Kiaran. "You carry something cursed, boy. If you let it loose here, we'll not hesitate to cast you out."

Kiaran nodded, forcing back the burn to retaliate. He felt the relic pulse against his side, as if mocking the exchange.

In the elder's hut, they lay Arion on a bed of straw and Eira set to work on him. Kiaran paced the cramped room in nervous strides with the hushed whispers of the villagers outside, filled with fear and suspicion.

"Come closer. both of you," Arion's weak, strained voice cut through Kiaran's thoughts.

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They knelt beside him, Eira's face smeared with lines of worry. Arion's eyes were veiled, his breath shallow, but for a moment, some of the desperation left his gaze and he found Kiaran with an intensity that would contradict his failing body. "The relic… it acts like a beacon to something ancient, something which has waited for the right opportunity to spread its shadow over this realm.".

Kiaran felt a shiver crawl down his spine, not from the chill of the air but from the truth in Arion's words. "You mean. it's not just the relic?"

Arion's lips twisted into a grim smile. "No. It seeks a host, a conduit. Lysander. he was just the first it managed to twist. But it will not stop. It will try to use you next, Kiaran. It will try to break you."

Eira's hand fisted into Kiaran's. She gripped it hard. He looked at her, seeing the same fear reflected in her eyes, but behind that something else was there: determination, a resolve that they could still fight this.

Arion's fingers fumbled at his side, drawing out a small dagger, blade engraved with runes, which pulsed within it with a light that seemed almost non-reflective. He pushed it into Kiaran's hand, his grip now shaking. "This. can sever the ties. between the relic and its host. It's not much, but it's. a chance.".

Before Kiaran could utter another word, Arion's body stiffened and his face contorted in pain. With a burst of speed, Eira reached him, healing magic flowing through her hands, but she was shaking her head at Kiaran. There was nothing more to be done.

Arion's eyes glassed over; his breaths hushed. The elder entered, his face grave as he comprehended what transpired. He mumbled a prayer on his lips, then turned to Kiaran and Eira. "We will create the pyre. This town knows nothing of strangers, in loss."

Nightfall settled, and shadows.

Kiaran stood outside and watched the villagers scurry about with nervous energy, lighting torches and reinforcing the wards. He held the relic in one hand, the dagger in the other, feeling the tension in the air tighten with each passing moment. Eira joined him, her face drawn pale but resolute.

As the moon vanished behind a cloud, first of all, shadowy shapes began to appear beyond the village's wards. They moved like phantoms, twisted shapes, flaring in and out of sight, and with eyes glowing with a hungry light.

And the assault arrived swift with hungry shadows rushing the wards at a bone-chilling wail. The villagers leapt into battle with spear and spell, but fear shone in each eye as she fled to fight off the darkness. Kiaran leapt into fray. He felt the relic thudding inside his tight fist. He called on that dark power, flinging himself out at others with such dark energy that went blazing through the creatures; still, with each utterance of its dark power, he felt the whispers growing louder, urging him to let go of it and unleash the full power within.

Eira fought at his side, her light bright stark against the darkness, but the shadow creatures seemed to be endless, no end in sight. For every one they killed, another slipped in through the cracks in the wards.

As Kiaran's strength began to flag, Arion's final words echoed in his mind: The dagger. sever the ties.

The shadow creature sprang at Eira, and Kiaran reacted instinctively, driving the enchanted dagger into its ethereal form. The blade shone with a fierce light, and the creature dissolved with a shriek, its link to the darkness severed.

But there were too many.

But the lights in the wards of the village began to flicker and dim. Kiaran felt a desolate sense of how they would not make it through the next wave. Then he turned to Arion and saw that his body was splayed out on a pyre, and the villagers were chanting some ancient words over him. And then, in a tremendous burst of energy, Arion's spirit seemed to lift from his body. The runes surrounding the pyre flared brighter with a release of light.

The shadows retreated, as burned by the radiance of Arion's sacrifice. They slid backward into the shadows from whence they came, but before they disappeared completely, they left one last chilling promise, spoken on the wind: "We will return, and you will join us".

At dawn the village rose, but the people who dwelled within were weary and scarred. Kiaran and Eira sat there, their eyes fixed on the embers of Arion's pyre. Their faces were cast in shadows of loss. The old man approached them, his expression somber but not unthankful.

"You should not stay here. The darkness has caught your scent now. It will find you again.".

Kiaran nodded, his fingers closing over the hilt of the dagger, feeling its weight, both as a weapon and as a reminder of what had been paid. Eira reached out to touch his arm. The softness in her voice now greases her expression as she looks into him."We cannot let this break us," she said. "We shall find Lysander. We shall stop this."

He looked at her, seeing behind the shadows the strength she had within herself, as well as the spark of hope. Turning back away from the village, they took steps into the forest again, knowing that this was far from being the end of their journey.

As he walked, Kiaran felt the relic pulse once again. Its whispers twisted into a mocking laugh that echoed in his mind. He gritted himself tight, hardening his grip on the dagger. Whatever waited for them within those shadows, he would be ready.

Or so he hoped.