The forbidden section of the Luminous Forest seemed to exhale silver mist with each step Riven took. Dawn was hours away, and the waning crescent moon hung like a delicate curved blade in the night sky, offering just enough light for his keen hunter's eyes.

  Riven moved with practiced silence, his senses heightened to an almost painful awareness. The forest here felt different—alive in a way that made the hair on his neck stand on end. Ordinary woodland sounds were muted, replaced by a subtle resonance that reminded him of the shrine bells that echoed through Nightwatch during ceremonial days.

  "Superstition," he muttered under his breath, though the word hung awkwardly in the hushed air.

  The Silverhorn's trail remained frustratingly elusive—present one moment, then disappearing as if the creature stepped between worlds. Riven had never encountered prey so challenging. Normal tracking methods proved inconsistent here. Instead of broken twigs and disturbed soil, he followed whispers of silver dust and the faint luminescence of hoofprints that seemed to fade even as he discovered them.

  He paused beside an ancient silver-barked tree, its trunk wider than three men standing shoulder to shoulder. Placing his palm against the cool bark, he felt a subtle vibration, almost like a heartbeat. Riven jerked his hand away, troubled by the sensation.

  "This forest plays tricks," he told himself firmly, though his typical confidence wavered.

  The path ahead narrowed, winding between massive roots that rose from the earth like slumbering serpents. As he ventured deeper, the undergrowth changed. Normal forest ferns gave way to strange blue-silver plants that seemed to pulse with gentle light. The earth beneath his feet grew spongy, each step releasing the scent of sweet herbs and unfamiliar flowers.

  A memory surfaced unbidden—his father's voice, strained with pain after the injury that ended his hunting career. "There are places in the Luminous Forest where the old powers still dwell, Riven. A wise hunter knows when certain prey is not meant to be taken."

  Riven had dismissed it as the ramblings of a broken man unable to accept his limitations. Now, surrounded by this otherworldly beauty, doubt crept into his thoughts for the first time.

  He shook it away. The Blackthorn name had lost its luster when his father returned crippled, his legendary status reduced to pitying glances and whispered conversations that stopped when Thorne entered a room. For ten years, Riven had dedicated every waking moment to restoring what was lost. The Silverhorn would be his crowning achievement—proof that the Blackthorns remained Lunaria's greatest hunters.

  A flicker of movement caught his eye—a ghostly shape weaving between distant trees. Riven froze, becoming one with the shadows as he'd done countless times before. Through the darkness, he made out the unmistakable silhouette of antlers branching skyward like silver flame.

  The Silverhorn Stag.

  It moved with impossible grace, each step precise yet flowing. Unlike normal deer that nervously tested the air, this creature moved with deliberate purpose, its head held proud. Moonlight caught its antlers, sending fractals of silver light dancing across the forest floor.

  Riven's breath caught in his throat. In all his years of hunting, he had never seen anything so magnificent. The stag's coat was not the brown of ordinary deer but a pale silver-white that seemed to absorb and reflect moonlight simultaneously. Its eyes, even at this distance, gleamed with an intelligence that stirred something uncomfortable in Riven's chest.

  His hand moved automatically to his quiver, fingers finding the special arrow bearing his grandfather's silver tip. The familiar weight of his yew bow filled his palm as he nocked the arrow with practiced ease. His breathing slowed, heartbeat steadying to the hunter's rhythm that had never failed him.

  The Stag paused in a clearing ahead, head lifting as though listening to a sound beyond mortal hearing. It presented a perfect shot—the silver-white chest exposed, unmoving.

  Riven drew the bowstring back to his cheek, the tension humming through his arms like an old song. Time seemed to slow as he aligned his shot, muscles holding the perfect balance of power and control.

  A whisper of movement to his left.

  The glint of silver light on ceremonial robes.

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  The sudden, horrible realization came a heartbeat too late.

  His fingers had already released the string, the silver-tipped arrow singing through the night air with deadly precision. But the Stag, as if forewarned, bounded away in a blur of silvery light.

  A gasp—soft and surprised—replaced the sound of the arrow finding its intended target.

  Riven stood frozen, bow still extended, as a figure in pale robes stumbled into the clearing where the Stag had stood moments before. Moonlight illuminated the arrow shaft protruding from her chest, the silver tip now darkened with human blood.

  "No," he breathed, the word escaping like a prayer never meant to be heard.

  The figure—a young woman—looked down at the arrow with an expression more of surprise than pain. When she lifted her gaze to meet Riven's, recognition dawned in her eyes.

  "The Shrine Maiden," Riven whispered, horror washing through him like ice water.

  Lyra Starsong, Nightwatch's revered Shrine Maiden, sank slowly to her knees. The pristine white of her ceremonial robes bloomed with spreading crimson. Her silver circlet caught the moonlight as she swayed.

  Riven dropped his bow and rushed forward, hunter's instincts giving way to desperate urgency. He caught her before she collapsed completely, lowering her gently to the forest floor. Her weight was shockingly light in his arms, as if she were already halfway to becoming spirit.

  "I didn't see you," he said, voice rough with shock. "The Stag—I was tracking the Silverhorn."

  Lyra's face, normally serene and distant when glimpsed during ceremonial days, now appeared startlingly young. Her silver-flecked eyes focused on him with effort.

  "The borders... are thin tonight," she whispered, each word careful and measured despite her pain. "I came for... moonflowers."

  Riven's gaze darted to the small basket that had fallen nearby, spilling delicate silver-blue flowers across the forest floor. Only now did he notice they grew abundantly in this clearing, their petals unfurling to catch the moonlight. He'd been so focused on his prey that he'd missed their sudden appearance entirely.

  His hunter's assessment of her wound left no room for false hope. The arrow had struck too close to her heart, and the spreading stain on her robes told him internal bleeding was severe.

  "I need to get you back to the shrine healers," he said, though they both knew she wouldn't survive the journey.

  Lyra's hand—cold despite the warm blood soaking her garments—gripped his wrist with surprising strength. "Listen," she commanded, her voice suddenly clear. "The shadows... are growing. I've seen them in the pool."

  Riven frowned, uncertain of her meaning. Delirium from blood loss, perhaps.

  "The Ashborne come," she continued, each word more labored than the last. "Shadows... consuming the pool. You must tell... Selene."

  "Save your strength," Riven urged, though guilt twisted in his stomach like a living thing. This was his arrow, his hunt, his responsibility.

  A cough shook her slight frame, bringing a trace of blood to her lips. "Too late for that," she said, with unexpected clarity. Her gaze drifted beyond him to the night sky. "She comes."

  The air around them changed. The subtle resonance that had pervaded the forest intensified to a vibration Riven could feel in his bones. The moonlight, previously a gentle silver wash, suddenly concentrated, beaming down into the clearing with unnatural intensity.

  Instinctively, Riven hunched over Lyra's form, as if to shield her from this strange phenomenon. The temperature plummeted, his breath emerging in visible clouds despite the summer night.

  "What's happening?" he demanded, though no one was there to answer.

  Except something was there. The concentrated moonlight began to coalesce, forming a pillar of radiance that hurt his eyes to observe directly. Within it, a shape took form—tall and fluid, more presence than physical being.

  The moonflowers around them opened fully, their petals turning toward this light like worshippers. The forest fell completely silent, not even the whisper of wind disturbing the moment.

  Lyra's lips curved into a small, sad smile. "Remember," she whispered, so faintly Riven had to bend closer to hear. "Balance is... the key. Not one... or the other. Both."

  Her final breath escaped in a soft sigh that seemed to merge with the silver mist rising from the forest floor. The hand gripping his wrist relaxed, falling limply to her side.

  Riven had witnessed death before—had caused it countless times in his role as hunter. But this was different. As Lyra's eyes clouded, losing their focus on this world, he felt something fundamental shift in the forest around them. The vibration in the air changed pitch, becoming a keening so subtle it existed more as feeling than sound.

  He bent his head, an unfamiliar pang of regret tightening his throat. "I'm sorry," he said, though the words felt hollow against the magnitude of what had happened.

  The air around them suddenly changed. The subtle resonance that had pervaded the forest intensified, vibrating through Riven's bones. The moonlight, previously a gentle silver wash, concentrated with unnatural intensity, beaming down into the clearing like a spotlight from the heavens.

  Riven felt the temperature plummet, his breath emerging in visible clouds despite the summer night. The moonflowers around them opened fully, their petals turning toward the concentrated light as if in worship.

  A presence was approaching—something ancient and powerful that made his hunter's instincts scream of danger greater than any predator he'd ever tracked.

  As the moonlight coalesced into a pillar of radiance too bright to look at directly, Riven knew with bone-deep certainty that Selene, Goddess of the Moon herself, had arrived to witness her servant's death—and to pass judgment on the one responsible.

  For the first time in his adult life, Riven Blackthorn felt true fear.