Chapter 7: Shadows Closing In
The forest had become a labyrinth of shadows and fog. The deeper Thorne moved, the heavier the mist clung to his skin, thick like smoke, distorting the shapes of trees into towering phantoms. The only sounds were the crunch of leaves beneath his boots and the distant rustle of unseen creatures moving in the undergrowth.
He didn't stop.
His breath came in steady, controlled bursts. His muscles ached from running, from crouching, from pressing himself against trees whenever the flicker of torchlight broke through the fog behind him. The cult was close—he could feel it in the air, in the way the forest seemed to tighten around him, trapping him in its twisted embrace.
Thorne's mind raced. The cube in his satchel still pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat, guiding him toward something unseen. But what? And why did it feel like each step forward only led him deeper into a snare?
He needed to find cover—somewhere to regroup, to think.
As if answering his silent plea, the outline of a structure emerged through the mist.
A ruin.
At first, he thought it was just another outcrop of jagged stone, but as he moved closer, details took shape—a crumbling archway, moss-covered walls, remnants of what had once been a watchtower, now half-swallowed by the earth. The structure was ancient, its foundation cracked and uneven, but it was shelter.
Thorne hurried inside, crouching near the base of the ruined wall. He pressed his back against the cold stone and forced himself to slow his breathing.
For the first time since escaping the altar, he allowed himself a moment to think.
His fingers brushed over the rune-marked cube as he pulled it from his satchel, setting it carefully on the stone floor beside the obsidian shard. The faint light pulsing from both artifacts bathed his hands in an eerie glow.
A key, Greaves had said. But to what? And why had the altar reacted?
Thorne exhaled sharply. His father had spent years searching for answers about Herpo's magic. Now, decades later, his son was tangled in the same web, chasing after echoes of a darkness older than any living wizard.
And Maeve.
Thorne's hands curled into fists. He hadn't allowed himself to think about it—not really. She was still out there, held captive by people willing to carve blood-runes into their own skin to achieve their goals. And she was more than just a victim in this—she was a piece of their plan. Why?
What was it about Maeve that made her so valuable?
His eyes flicked down to the cube, the pendant, and the shard.
The answers had to be here. He just wasn't seeing them yet.
A sharp rustling sound outside the ruins yanked Thorne from his thoughts. Instinct took over. In one swift motion, he grabbed his knife, rose to a crouch, and moved toward the crumbling archway.
The mist had thickened, rolling in waves between the trees. At first, he saw nothing—just empty forest.
Then he spotted it.
About twenty feet away, barely visible through the fog, something was hanging from the branches of a low-lying tree.
Thorne's pulse quickened. He moved cautiously, knife in hand, his steps soundless as he closed the distance.
It was a body.
No, not a body—a message.
A scarecrow-like figure, crudely constructed from sticks and tattered cloth, dangled from the tree by a length of rope. Symbols had been carved into its wooden limbs, similar to the ones on the altar. But what made Thorne's blood run cold was the object hanging from its outstretched hand.
A lock of dark red hair.
Maeve's hair.
A deliberate warning.
Thorne's jaw tightened. His grip on his knife turned white-knuckled.
They were toying with him.
Testing him.
He took one last look at the grotesque effigy before stepping back into the ruins, his mind already racing toward what came next.
They wanted him to be afraid.
They wanted him to break.
But they'd made one mistake.
They had underestimated him.
Thorne gathered his artifacts, slung his satchel over his shoulder, and took one last glance at the twisted figure in the trees before slipping back into the fog.
The hunt was no longer one-sided.
The cult thought they had him running.
They were wrong.
Thorne had slipped away into the fog, his movements controlled and deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. He no longer ran. He stalked.
Through the mist, he could make out the faint glow of a lantern bobbing in the distance—one of the cultists had broken away from the group, scouting alone. The perfect target.
Thorne moved like a shadow, slipping between the trees without a sound. The cultist was muttering to himself, his voice low and anxious. He was afraid.
Good.
Thorne stepped on a loose branch—not by accident. The cultist whirled around, his wand rising.
Too slow.
Thorne lunged, his knife flashing in the dim light. He slammed into the man's chest, knocking the wind out of him as they crashed to the ground. Before the cultist could react, Thorne's knee was pressed into his sternum, knife poised at his throat.
The man let out a strangled gasp, his wand falling from his grasp. His eyes—wide, wild—darted around the fog.
"There are others close by," the cultist whispered, barely able to breathe under Thorne's weight. "They'll hear—"
Thorne clamped a hand over his mouth and pressed the knife a fraction deeper. "Then keep your voice down."
The cultist nodded frantically. Thorne removed his hand, but kept the blade steady. "You're going to answer some questions. Fast."
The man swallowed hard. "You don't—"
Thorne punched him in the ribs. Not hard enough to break anything, but enough to send a clear message. The man let out a sharp wheeze, curling inward.
"Let's try that again," Thorne murmured, his voice deathly calm.
The cultist broke fast.
His fear was palpable, his words tumbling out in breathless gasps. "The ritual—she's being prepared."
Thorne's stomach turned to ice. "Maeve. Where is she?"
The man hesitated, so Thorne pressed the knife deeper. A thin line of blood trickled down his throat.
"An old monastery. South of here. Hidden in the cliffs." The words came in a rush. "We're moving her soon. Before the full moon."
Thorne's mind raced. A monastery? That meant stone walls, possible underground chambers—he'd need a plan, and fast.
But then, the cultist smirked—his fear flickering into something else. "You're too late, you know."
Thorne's blade dug deeper. "Explain."
"The bloodline… we found what we needed," the cultist rasped. "Maeve's purpose is nearly fulfilled."
Thorne's pulse hammered in his ears. The bloodline. The ritual. He knew Maeve's lineage was important to them—but this?
He slammed the cultist against the ground, fury bubbling in his chest. "What does that mean?"
The man's smile widened. "She was born for this."
A sound—a sharp rustling in the trees.
Thorne had wasted too much time.
He sprang back, knife ready, just as another figure emerged from the fog—another cultist, wand raised.
"Move, and you die," the newcomer snarled.
But Thorne was already moving.
He whipped around, grabbing his hostage by the collar and yanking him into the line of fire.
The cultist's wand crackled—then a bolt of green light burst forward.
Thorne dropped his hostage in time to avoid the Killing Curse, his body twisting as he dove behind a tree. His ears rang from the blast. He sprinted for cover, weaving through the forest as spells flew past him, sizzling against the bark.
The cultist shouted after him, but Thorne was already gone—vanishing into the mist once more.
Thorne didn't stop running until he was sure they'd lost his trail.
A monastery. Maeve's bloodline. The ritual.
He leaned against a tree, chest heaving. He had answers now. Not enough, but more than before.
They weren't just keeping Maeve prisoner.
They needed her.
And that meant she was still alive.
Thorne straightened, adjusting the satchel at his side.
Now he just had to get to her before it was too late.