The battle’s over, but Mistwood is far from whole.

  Wounded, not broken.

  The survivors move fast. There’s no celebration—only work. Finn’s squad joins the others in dragging the injured to safety. Healing mages and clerics rush between bodies, hands glowing, sealing wounds before they get worse. Nuns weave between them, handing out potions brewed from medicinal herbs.

  By the time Finn and his squad are dismissed, night has already swallowed the camp. They offer each other exhausted nods and drift off to their tents without a word.

  Finn grabs a ration pack and a flask of water, then hurries inside, desperate for sleep. Too drained to eat, he simply drops his belongings and collapses onto his bedroll, hoping to drift off before the owner of the other sleeping bag returns.

  Somewhere in the depths of his sleep, a sound stirs him; a faint rustling, the distinct tear of fabric or parchment. Finn shifts, thinking his tentmate has finally arrived and is rummaging through his things. He groans internally. Couldn’t he be quieter? The rustling turns to a steady munching. His patience wears thin. Can’t he at least eat in silence?

  Annoyance winning over exhaustion, Finn forces his heavy eyelids open. At first, his vision is a blur, distorted by sleep and the dim flickering of the campfires outside. But then he sees a small boy, standing beside his bag, hands clutching something. Finn’s bag.

  “Who are you?” he snaps, sitting up.

  The chewing sound stopped abruptly. Slowly, too slowly, he turns. His movements are unnervingly stiff, as if his head moves first and his body struggles to follow. Bones crackle. Muscles stretch in unnatural ways.

  Finn’s mind struggles to process the sight. He blinks hard, his breath caught somewhere in his throat. The dim light barely illuminates the boy’s pale face, but one thing is unmistakable: His eyes are pure black, empty voids.

  A sharp, choked gasp rips from Finn’s throat, followed by a scream, the loudest he’s ever made in his life.

  “What the—” “Who’s screaming?” “Predator attack?” “Another assault?”

  Voices erupt from nearby tents, knights and hunters scrambling out, weapons half-drawn, eyes darting in search of a threat. The commotion spreads rapidly, more and more people stirring from their hard-won sleep. Finn’s heart hammers in his chest as a dog-shaped plushie suddenly floats up beside the eerie boy, who tilts his head, unbothered.

  Finn’s breath catches again. “Inky?”

  “What’s going on?” “No sign of predators!” “Then who screamed?”

  Reality crashes down on him like a falling boulder. His scream has roused half the camp. He has to fix this fast!

  Thinking on his feet, Finn throws himself forward, grabbing Inky and the floating plushie in one swift motion. Inky doesn’t resist. Finn shoves them both into his sleeping bag, grabs his clothes from the ground, yanks them over their heads, and storms outside.

  “Damn it! I was just about to fall asleep!” he shouts, scowling as he spits on the grass. “If I find out who screamed, I’ll kick his arse!”

  A few people grumble and chuckle, muttering curses before retreating back to their tents. The tension dissipates. Crisis averted.

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  Grumbling under his breath, Finn dramatically stomps back inside. But when inside the tent, hesitantly, he peels the clothes back and looks down.

  They’re still there. He was not hallucinating due to fatigue.

  Inky lies motionless. His black eyes wide open, a piece of bread still clutched in his hand, dressed in noble finery. An odd combination, to say the least.

  Beside him, the plushie sits silently, unmoving.

  Finn exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. “I don’t know how you found me, why you’re following me, or what the hell happened to you, but…” He pauses, staring at the eerie boy. “You saved me. Twice now. Once in the labyrinth, and again on the battlefield. I owe you for that.”

  Not that he has any idea what to do with them now. It’s not like he can just abandon them or fight them off. If it even came to that, he’d be the one getting beaten down, no question.

  Plushie floats up, eyes gleaming. A photo slides from its mouth, fluttering into Finn’s palm.

  Under the dim light, Finn’s eyes widen as he recognises it. It’s a photo of his knight friend’s family. And the boy in the centre… looks just like Inky.

  “Are you… using his appearance?” Finn murmurs, lifting his gaze to Inky. The boy tilts his head, offering no real answer. Just those endless black eyes.

  Finn studies them, hypnotised by the swirling shadows inside. A sickening pressure builds in his chest, and he coughs, breaking the gaze. Shaking his head, he paces the tent, mind racing.

  Where did they get the photo? Wait… the second seal of the notebook is broken by them?

  His eyes land on his bag. His notebook. A sudden thought grips him. “Veles will come find me…” He turns sharply to Inky.

  Veles did come find me. But… this Veles isn’t that Veles.

  His fingers dig through the bag. Aside from finding the returned clock, he brushes against something unexpected—magic cores. When did he get these? Bewildered, he pulls them out and shows them to Inky. “Did you bring these to me?”

  Inky nods.

  Finn’s chest tightens. His heart softens despite the circumstances. He returns to his bag and retrieves his brown notebook. Flipping to the latest page, he breaks the fourth seal without hesitation. Faint letters glow in the dim light:

  Bring them to Syl.

  Finn stares at the words, then at Inky and Plushie. His mind settles.

  —

  “Are you really Inky?” Risa cups her cheeks, leaning in to scrutinise Inky—or rather, Veles’ borrowed face—her eyes brimming with curiosity.

  Finn hasn’t slept a wink since the night’s events. Instead, he’s been figuring out how to get Risa, Inky, and Plushie to the capital—to Syl, The Academy professor, the only person who might have answers.

  He also doesn’t know whether there's any connection, if any, between the predator attacks and Inky. Until he does, keeping Inky near Mistwood is a risk he can’t afford.

  At dawn, he tucks Inky and Plushie into the sleeping bag and makes sure they stay put. Then, he brings Risa to his tent.

  “Risa, we need to leave for the capital. Professor Syl is the only one who might know what to do.”

  She hesitates. “But… Mistwood needs us now. My friends, Mr Alan—they—”

  Finn nods. “I know. But all we can do is tend to the wounded or help rebuild the town. And… we can’t risk keeping Inky here.”

  Risa considers his words before sighing in reluctant agreement. “Alright. But can we stay until the cremation pyres?”

  Finn meets her expectant gaze and, despite everything, can’t bring himself to refuse. “…Fine. We’ll help out while we prepare for the journey ahead.”

  Risa’s eyes sparkle, but she hesitates. “But what about Inky? Plushie?”

  “I’ll keep them with me.” He exhales. “First, I just need to make sure Plushie stops floating, and Inky keeps his eyes hidden.”

  As Risa hurries off to join her friends, Finn watches her go, then glances back at his tent.

  Alone again, with them.