By the time Heron maneuvered towards the forest, he knew he was being followed. He halted on the side of the road where the shades thickened and peered around, readying his dagger. A brief shuffling crunched crisp leaves to his right, then died out, Heron estimated about ten paces away from him. "Show up," he called. "Let me see you if you're not a coward?" In fact, he was trembling.

At the opposite edge of the road, where the forest took over the underbrush, horse hoofbeats clopped on the ground. The horse's flank stuck out from the hiding of head-tall bushes before the face was revealed. The sun wasn't out yet and the dimness of dawn made Rusty-haired's shaggy head appear brown. Driving a horse certainly stolen, he trotted beside Heron. "Good job. You found me, you," he said nonchalantly.

If he wasn't so tired, Heron would be furious now. "Why are you following me?"

"Yesterday you almost got killed, remember?"

"So, you came to protect me?"

"Sort of."

Heron sighed. Being infantilized by his father was enough. His first instinct was to get rid of the intruder. But he reconsidered. He was exhausted. Passing out from sleepiness during the ride to the royal domain was a risk he'd rather rule out. If Rusty-haired insisted on following Heron because he was so hopeful of charming him to bed, Heron would make him useful. "If I were you, I'd be honest and straight out say you're already missing me. Come along before I change my mind." Heron rode back to the left side of the road.

Rusty-haired was supposed to follow behind, to keep the road free for travelers coming undertows. Instead, he trotted beside Heron. "If you're good enough at escorting me to my quarters, I might offer you a position as a guard." Of course, Heron didn't mean any of it. The boy was there to keep his sleepiness at bay, and he made use of him.

Rusty-haired scoffed. "Or send me to prison." Yes, that was something Heron could do, in reality. In a graver tone, Rusty-haired said, "But I wouldn't get a hundred gallops close to the ramparts. I am too young to die."

"Still, you live on invading private properties and stealing in the city. When the city guards get you, you'll be rotting in prison just the same..."

He studied Heron for a long time, shook his head, then spoke in a tone that sounded both amused and lamenting, "It's alarming how unaware of things you seem to be. Famous Heron Her Lomeon is just a clueless boy. Who would have thought?"

Being looked down on... not how Heron would prefer things to go. Still, the condescending demeanor was the equivalent of a spoonful of strong red tea. It bothered him enough to make him more alert. Whatever the city boy was teasing him about, Heron wasn't naive enough to believe he could get answers just by pressing.

Perhaps if Rusty-haired believed there's nothing to hide from him after all... "About what you did in the city with the thieves...I wasn't surprised. I know someone who masters the supernatural arts, like you." Seeing him chuckling when Heron was being serious was disconcerting. "Where's the fun?"

"They're not arts," he said. "And I can attest you do have such a friend, you. I saw you together."

"Haven't you promised you wouldn't be spying on me?"

"Eh." He shrugged." I'm working for no one," he said." Your friend, never seen him before. Not a good sign. That is usually not how things happen.

After trying to make sense of his words and failing, Heron asked, "How do they happen?"

Sure enough, Rusty-haired kept his silence. "You wouldn't understand," he said, finally. "Perhaps it's better you don't. It's your father you should—"

His words were cut off by a strident crackle of tree branches collapsing. The booming of what seemed like a boulder crashing on the ground followed. Then whispers of a thousand voices shot into the air, echoing like a murmuring hive.

It seemed their horses saw it first, because after a moment of agitation and strident neighs —where both riders struggled not to be thrown on the road— the horses bolted forward as if they knew their lives depended on getting as far as possible from the explosion.

Horse hoofs striking the ground violently as they advanced, Heron's gaze lingered behind. He was trying to make sense of what he was seeing. A boulder hadn't fallen from the sky. A hundred paces from them stood a shapeless mass of pure blackness, swirling and distorting itself like liquid smoke, and whispering with countless voices. In the middle of it, Heron recognized a woman, watching him with eyes smoldering black and a face as pale as the moon but lacking its sheen. Her skin was staler than a dull, grey morning. The smoke-like swirls enveloping her broke through the fabric of her clothes, consuming it like black, cold fire. By now, she was almost naked.

"You daft bastard," Wylmon shouted, "look forward." He was panting, his arms working the reins to push his horse to its limit. Looking at the vein trails on his face, parted lips dry of the last drop of spittle, Heron understood Wylmon knew the horror of what was looking at them.

Heron broke from his trance fast enough to regain control of his reins and avoid his horse from galloping off course. Branches slapped him square on the face. But he felt none of the pain he expected. When he regained full control of his trajectory, he realized Wylmon was praying.

"Ancients please, no. Grant me this. Let her stay there. I'm pleading." He shot a glance behind and shrieked, already half-crying, "Venom! She's coming after us."

As she ran behind— pursuing them!— her footfalls breaking even rocks at her passage, Heron could see her better. Flowing blond hair whipping her shoulders. Black veins marring her body. No matter how much he pulled on his reins, his horse couldn't gallop any faster. And she closed the distance between them.

A mass whooshed past them, crashing against branches of trees beyond them, exploding them into countless debris of ground bark.

"What's that?"

Heron could only make sense of it when the second mass cut through the branch over their heads with a loud crackle. The branch came falling, hitting the ground behind them with a dull thud, leaves ringing. "A rock. Ancients, she's throwing rocks at us."

"Venom, venom... " Wylmon repeated his mantra as the third rock hit the tree in front of them with the force of an arsenal, square at its trunk. Even the ground seemed to have shaken. The tree tipped dangerously toward the road. "We can't pass on time," Wylmon warned, slowing his pace.

"What choice do we have?" Heron didn't hesitate and bolted past the falling tree before it thudded on the ground. Wylmon was right behind him, but the tangle of twigs of the tree's canopy struck the rear of his horse, sending them rolling on the ground.

When Heron saw him standing with a gimpy leg, several gallops already separated them. His horse was nowhere to find.

"Save yourself." Heron knew Wylmon meant it as an order, but his voice was breaking.

Knowing he was bound to regret it, Heron turned to his rescue. He couldn't let him die at the hands of the woman and still live with himself peacefully.

Wylmon turned to face the sprinting woman.

He seemed focused for a moment, then suddenly, shadows like those engulfing her burst from him, cutting through the fabric of his clothes. It seemed ink used from his flesh to color his veins unnaturally black. He smelled like smoke without burning. And from him, bodiless voices called, screamed, and pleaded.

Grunting, unrecognizable, and fingers spread as if he was grasping the ground, Wylmon pulled at nothing. But the earth shook. Sand and rock from the right border of the road moved in an upward slant like a reverse landslide. All the trees standing on moving terrains shook, falling sideways on the road, over the advancing woman. Wylmon did the same with the terrains on the left border of the road, adding another layer of trees on top of the mass already covering her. At this point, he wasn't just grunting, he was screaming in agony.

"Enough," Heron called, fearful to approach him and battling to keep his horse still. He could hear blows splintering wood with violence from under the mass of trees.

Wylmon was knees on the ground, stirring and grunting like he'd gone crazy, his voice hoarser and throatier each time it echoed. Crawling towards Heron he managed to say, "Help me, please," his voice like the call of a wadog with rabbis.

Heron battled to tether his horse to a tree and rushed to Wylmon. The touch of his skin felt slick, like a lizard's belly. The voices that floated in the air now seemed to echo from inside Heron.

Don't kill me.

Heron brought Wylmon to his horse.

I wish I could see my mother again. I cannot die here.

When Wylmon was on the saddle, still giving off his smoke-like emanation, the woman was still battling the rubbles of trees.

Death is not the worst thing that can happen. I'm ready. It hurts, it hurts so much.

With a tired horse carrying double the weight that had already spent it completely, Heron trotted away, prayed, and hoped for the better.