Elorin grips Rhylen tightly, her heart pounding in her chest. Every muscle in her body is tense, ready for whatever might come. The relic, still tucked securely in her satchel, hums faintly against her side.

It had saved them once before—bending time, or perhaps shifting it entirely. She doesn't know how it works or why it saved them, but she feels its power surging beneath the surface. And now, with every pulse of its warmth, she feels it warning her of something darker ahead.

"Something's coming," she whispers into Rhylen's ear, her voice barely audible over the wind rushing past them.

"I know," he mutters, his grip tightening on the reins. His dark eyes scan the forest, his body tense and alert. "I can feel it too."

Ahead, the forest path narrows, the thick trees bending toward each other as though trying to block their way. The air is heavier here, dense with an almost suffocating energy. The shadows between the trees flicker, unnatural, just as they had during the invasion. Elorin's pulse quickens as the relic in her satchel grows warmer, its pulsing more insistent now.

"We're close," she says, her voice trembling.

Rhylen slows the horse as they approach a clearing, his eyes narrowing. The night is unnervingly quiet, with only the faint rustling of leaves above them. The path stretches out into the clearing, moonlight casting a pale glow across the grass. But something feels wrong. The air is too still, too quiet, like the forest is holding its breath.

And then they see it.

Shadows, darker than night, slither through the clearing like smoke, their forms shifting and twisting as they move. They're waiting—lurking just out of reach, as though anticipating Elorin and Rhylen's arrival.

"They know we're here," Elorin whispers, her throat tight.

Rhylen dismounts swiftly, pulling his sword from his side. "Stay close," he orders, his voice sharp with tension.

Elorin follows, her hand instinctively going to her small blade. It feels insignificant in her grip, nothing compared to the looming danger ahead. But the relic… she knows it's the real weapon, even if she doesn't fully understand it yet.

The shadows shift, creeping closer, their pale eyes glowing in the dark. There's something predatory about them, the way they move, silent and deliberate. Rhylen raises his sword, stepping forward cautiously, his gaze locked on the approaching figures.

Elorin's breath catches in her throat as one of the shadows breaks away from the rest, slithering toward them with unnatural speed. Before she can react, it lunges—silent, swift, and deadly.

Rhylen is faster.

His sword arcs through the air, slicing through the shadow with precision. The creature dissolves into smoke, but more follow, swarming toward them like a living wave of darkness.

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"Elorin, the relic!" Rhylen shouts, parrying another attack.

Her hand flies to her satchel, pulling the relic free. Its golden light flares to life, illuminating the clearing with a bright, unnatural glow. The shadows hesitate, their forms wavering as though unsure of how to approach. The relic pulses in her hand, its warmth radiating through her body.

Elorin doesn't know what to do, but she follows her instincts. She holds the relic out in front of her, its light growing brighter, the symbols etched into its surface glowing with a golden intensity. The shadows recoil, retreating into the darkness, but they don't vanish entirely. They lurk at the edges of the clearing, watching, waiting.

"It's keeping them back," she says, her voice shaky. "But I don't know for how long."

Rhylen moves to her side, his sword still raised as he watches the shadows carefully. "We need to keep moving," he says, his voice low. "The Ironhold is our only chance to understand what this thing is. We can't fight them like this."

Elorin nods, her grip tightening around the relic. "What if they follow us?"

"They will," Rhylen replies, his jaw set. "But we'll be ready."

Without another word, he mounts the horse again, pulling Elorin up behind him. The shadows shift uneasily as they retreat from the clearing, staying just out of reach of the relic's light.

The ride through the forest is relentless. The shadows follow them, always just at the edge of the light, creeping through the trees like a living storm. Elorin can feel the weight of the relic in her hand, its power pressing against her. It's protecting them for now, but she knows it won't last forever.

As they ride deeper into the forest, the landscape begins to change. The trees grow taller, their trunks twisted and gnarled, their branches tangled like the claws of some ancient beast. The air grows colder, more oppressive, and the shadows seem to multiply, their presence more sinister.

"We're getting close to the Ironhold," Rhylen says, his voice strained. "We need to be careful."

Elorin nods, though she can barely hear him over the pounding of her own heart. The relic pulses again, the warmth growing stronger, but something feels off. The closer they get to the Ironhold, the more the relic resists—like it's warning her.

She doesn't have time to question it.

They burst through the trees into another clearing, this one larger and more open, the sky above now clear and filled with stars. In the distance, Elorin can just make out the silhouette of the Ironhold—massive, imposing, its towers rising into the night like jagged teeth.

"We're here," Rhylen says, but his voice lacks the relief she expected. He dismounts quickly, scanning the area. "But something's wrong."

Elorin can feel it too. The relic in her hand pulses violently, its glow fluctuating between bright and dim. The shadows that had been following them hesitate at the edge of the clearing, but they don't retreat this time. They're waiting, as though something—or someone—is holding them back.

And then she sees him.

A figure steps out from the treeline, tall and cloaked in darkness. His eyes, glowing with an unnatural light, lock onto Elorin. The shadows seem to bend toward him, like extensions of his will. Varkos.

"You've brought it to me," Varkos says, his voice smooth, almost amused. "The relic."

Elorin's blood runs cold. Rhylen steps between her and Varkos, his sword raised, but Elorin can feel the relic tremble in her hand, its energy pulsing out of control. It's reacting to Varkos.

Varkos smirks, taking a step closer. "You can't stop what's coming, little one. That relic belongs to me."

The ground beneath them trembles, just like before, as if the very earth is preparing to tear itself apart.

Elorin's heart races. She grips the relic tighter, her mind spinning. She doesn't know how to control it—doesn't know what it's truly capable of—but one thing is clear: if they don't figure it out soon, Varkos will take it.

And the invasion will happen all over again.