The forest was quieter here.

  Not silent—just quieter in a way that crept beneath the skin. No birdsong. No rustling wind. Just the soft crush of boots on damp soil and the occasional snap of twigs underfoot.

  They had been walking for hours.

  Branches closed above, filtering the sunlight into fractured beams that drifted like ghost-lanterns between the trees. The ground was uneven, sloping and root-twisted, and their pace had long settled into something mechanical—foot after foot, breath after breath.

  Isolde led them, as she had since morning. Always just ahead, never looking back. She didn’t speak. Didn’t ask if they were keeping up. But she didn’t outpace them either. Somehow, they always found her silhouette again between the trees.

  Karin glanced at Zafran. “Feels like we’ve circled this hill three times.”

  Ysar snorted. “We have circled this hill three times.”

  Elsha walked just behind them, her voice even. “No, they just look alike.”

  Karin muttered. “We’re not even sure she’s leading us anywhere.”

  “We don’t have anywhere else to go,” Zafran said.

  Ysar shifted the pack on his shoulder. “I just wish she’d say something. Maybe a nice ‘keep moving, we’re nearly there’ or ‘oh look, an ambush ahead.’ Anything.”

  “She doesn’t seem like the type,” Elsha said.

  “No, really?” Ysar muttered.

  They fell into silence again.

  The path narrowed. Roots tangled under their boots. A thin stream cut across the trail, shallow and quick, glinting in the slanted light. Isolde stepped across without pause. The others followed—less graceful, more tired.

  “Tell me again,” Karin said suddenly, not looking up, “Why this isn’t a mistake?”

  Zafran’s gaze lingered on Isolde’s back. “Because we’re still moving.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “No,” he said, “It’s not.”

  They walked.

  No destination. No map. Only that steady figure in white, threading ahead through the wild.

  And behind her, four people—following the only shadow that hadn’t tried to kill them yet.

  They walked until the light began to break and spill sideways, long and golden between the trees. By the time the sun dipped behind the canopy, even Isolde began to slow.

  Her steps faltered—not with exhaustion, but with decision.

  Zafran noticed first. He stepped closer, watching her scan the thicket ahead.

  “I’m resting here tonight,” she said, not bothering to turn.

  Her voice, as always, was level—no fatigue, no request. Just fact.

  Zafran nodded once and returned to the others, raising a hand. “We’ll make camp here.”

  “Didn’t think she needed rest,” Ysar muttered, already stooping to gather firewood. “Figured she’d just keep walking into the next world.”

  Karin sat down heavily on a root and stretched her boots off.

  Elsha was quiet, helping set the tent without comment.

  Isolde, as expected, did not join them.

  She stayed near the edge of the trees—leaning against the trunk of a wide old oak, half-shadowed, half-lit by moonlight. Her white cloak didn’t catch dirt. Her boots looked as untouched as they had that morning. She sat like a statue carved by wind, not time.

  When the fire was crackling and a few skewers roasted gently above it, Zafran stood, picked up a spare, and quietly turned toward the edge of the clearing.

  “Where are you going?” Ysar asked, squinting at the skewer in Zafran’s hand. “Ghosts don’t eat mortal food, you know.”

  “You should’ve brought flowers,” he added. “Or a candle.”

  Zafran gave no reply—just kept walking.

  “Or a formal apology,” Karin said. “For surviving her ice.”

  Elsha gave the faintest sigh, adjusting the pot near the fire. “Quiet. He’s already committed.”

  “My bad.” Karin said, biting at her skewer.

  They all watched—just a little—as Zafran’s figure slipped from firelight into the edge of trees.

  She didn’t look up until his shadow crossed hers.

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  “You didn’t eat.”

  Her reply came with a small shift of posture. She reached into one of her inner pockets and pulled out a folded piece of travel bread—dry, plain, gray around the edges.

  “This is enough.”

  Zafran lowered the skewer slightly. “At least take something warm. It won’t kill you.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a guarantee I usually trust.”

  Still, after a beat, she reached out and took the stick.

  “Don’t expect a thank you.”

  “Didn’t,” he said, turning.

  “Why did you hold back?” she asked, before he could leave.

  Zafran paused. His back was still to her. “When?”

  “In the fight. You used magic. Briefly. Just enough to stop me.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  She bit off a piece of the meat, chewing without interest.

  “You’re from Ocean Tide, right? That technique—Auxiliary Magic. I’ve seen it before, and I know what it looks like when someone doesn’t use all of it.”

  He didn’t answer.

  She looked up. “So why?”

  He finally turned halfway toward her. “The same question goes to you.”

  She blinked, just once. “Because if I hadn’t, you’d be dead.”

  “That’s fair.”

  A pause.

  The fire back at the camp crackled faintly.

  She took another bite and said, almost thoughtfully, “That red-haired mage. She’s yours?”

  “She’s not. We’re not—”

  “—Lovers. Right.” Her voice cut cleanly, but not with sarcasm. Just tired certainty. “Not my business. But if she keeps moving the way she does, she won’t last long. You should stop following me if you want her to live.”

  Zafran looked at the ground for a moment. Then at her.

  “I’ll make sure she does.”

  Isolde’s response came fast. “Can you?”

  He didn’t answer.

  His eyes drifted to the trees behind her, the stars through the leaves. Something unreadable passed across his face. Then he said, quietly, “You’re more talkative than I thought.”

  “You’re stupid than I thought.” she replies, slowly turn back to her position.

  Zafran gave a small sigh and turned away, footsteps soft on the forest floor.

  She didn’t watch him go.

  Just shifted her weight slightly, head resting against the tree, eyes half-closed. No one could tell if she drifted into sleep.

  Or if she simply waited for dawn.

  Back by the fire, Karin gaze at them from afar, then back to the flame, full of thought.

  She could still see it—Isolde’s sword rising, her own fire collapsing. That last breath before steel would’ve met skin.

  If Zafran had not stepped in, shielded her.

  And she’d done nothing but burn wild.

  The fire had died down to a quiet glow. The camp lay hushed—only the sound of night insects and shifting leaves whispered through the clearing.

  Everyone had turned in.

  Everyone but Karin.

  She sat alone, away from the tents and fading embers, her boots off, coat folded neatly beside her. Bare hands hovered over the earth, pale in the silver wash of moonlight.

  She lit a flame.

  It rose instantly. Bright. Fierce. Untamed.

  And wrong.

  Karin frowned and narrowed her fingers around it, trying to twist it tighter, sharper—trying to force it into something smaller, more useful. The flame twitched in protest, then snapped sideways and vanished, like a thread yanked taut and cut too short.

  She hissed under her breath. “Stupid.”

  She tried again, slower this time. A spiral. A controlled ribbon. Halfway through, it flared—too hot, too fast—and scorched the hem of her sleeve. She slapped it out with a grunt.

  The problem wasn’t power.

  She had more power than any flame-wielder she’d ever met.

  But when it counted—when steel sliced the air and fear closed in—her fire scattered. Loud, wild, brilliant… useless.

  She clenched her fists.

  A footstep.

  Karin turned quickly.

  Zafran.

  He stood with arms folded, watching her quietly. Not judging. Just… there.

  She groaned. “How long were you standing there?”

  “Long enough.”

  “You’re going to tell me I’m doing it wrong, aren’t you?”

  “You are.”

  She gave a dry laugh. “Of course.”

  He stepped closer, crouched beside her in the grass, eyes flicking to the scorch marks on her coat.

  “You’re forcing it. Trying to shrink it. Fire doesn’t work like that.”

  “You said I needed control.”

  “Yes. But not suppression.”

  He pointed toward the dying campfire. “You’re thinking of control as holding it back. But fire isn’t like that. It burns forward. Surges.”

  She gave a flat stare. “So what, I’m supposed to just let it run wild and hope for the best?”

  “No,” he said calmly. “You guide it. Not choke it.”

  She watched him for a moment—searching for the catch in his words, but found none.

  Karin hesitated. Then let the fire curl back into her palm—slower, gentler this time. She didn’t force it to spiral. Just let it breathe.

  “It’s like asking a storm to behave,” she muttered.

  “Not quite. You’re the storm.”

  She snorted. “That’s not helpful.”

  Zafran didn’t smile, but there was a quiet note of amusement in his voice. “Try something with me.”

  She tensed. “That tone never ends well.”

  He reached out—not suddenly, just steady—and guided her hand to the side.

  “Point your palm that way. Open ground. Fire a small burst. Not to burn. Just to push.”

  Karin narrowed her eyes. “You want me to launch myself with flame?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “You nearly died last time,” he said. “This might keep you alive.”

  She inhaled, braced her stance, and ignited a pulse of fire.

  It blasted out—too much.

  She stumbled, lost her balance, and hit the ground hard with a yelp. Dust rose around her.

  Zafran didn’t laugh. He stepped over and offered his hand. “I said small burst.”

  She took it, grumbling. “You could’ve said ‘gentle’ instead of ‘push’.”

  “You’ve never been gentle with fire. Why start now?”

  She raised an eyebrow at him.

  He only nodded toward the same patch of ground. “Again.”

  This time, she focused. Both hands, lower angle, smaller ignition.

  The fire hissed—and her body slid across the clearing in a short, sharp burst. She caught herself with a wide step, blinking.

  “Well,” she said. “That was…”

  “Motion,” Zafran said. “Real motion. Not just force.”

  She tried again. Misjudged the angle. Ended up spinning and rolling with a grunt.

  Again—too far. Hit a root, skidded hard, her coat catching another scorch.

  Her breathing picked up—not from exertion, but from trying to measure it all.

  Karin sat back on her heels, fingers raw, hair half-loosened around her neck. “It’s like the power comes out faster than I can think.”

  “That’s because you’re trying to calculate.”

  “I should calculate.”

  “No. You should feel it.”

  He crouched again, more serious now. “Anyway—how far do you want to go? How fast? What angle? Set the intention. The flame only obeys what you’re ready for.”

  She paused.

  “That sounds like calculation.”

  “Yes, but do it with your instinct, not your brain.”

  “That’s… abstract.”

  “Just try.”

  Karin gave a long exhale. “I almost forgot that you were once an Ocean Tide Royal Knight.”

  Zafran didn’t reply.

  “Auxiliary magic, right? You trained with all that—and you almost never use it.”

  “I haven’t forgotten it.”

  “Then why don’t you use it?”

  “Because sometimes the sword is enough.”

  Her eyes flicked down to her fingers, red with heat. “Is it?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She looked at him longer this time. The image of Isolde’s sword slashing down on her still burned behind her eyes.

  Long enough, both of them kept the silence.

  “Anyway, thanks,” she finally said. “This feels different. Real. Not like those stupid theory books.”

  “Academia books? Don’t follow them. Full of bullshit.”

  She blinked. “You really hate them that much, don’t you?”

  “Don’t you?”

  A laugh. Quiet. Real.

  After that, Karin stood slowly, brushing her palms clean. “Zafran.”

  She called his name before a long pause…

  “One more time.”

  And her palm lit again.