The word naraga struck Fiona like a knife between the ribs.

She thought she misheard the creepy man in the mask. It was just a word, but it cracked open something in her mind; a slow, creeping sense of dread that made her vision tunnel and the world tilt on its axis.

Her legs gave out entirely. Fiona dropped to one knee, gasping for breath. The mana—dear Sthito, the mana—was still pressing down on her. She should've never used mana sense, or at least known better. But she was too shaken now to do anything except clutch her staff and fight the urge to retch.

She forced her head up and glared at Wyford, or to her shock, a naraga. She thought those creatures went extinct toward the end of the Pre-Sorcery Era! Nowadays, they were simply a myth, now a popular folklore that mothers used to warn children about the dangers of trusting strangers.

It should be an inconceivable thought. Yet there Wyford stood, not even flinching at the insidious mana this stranger leaked from every pore of his body. She knew for a fact that he had a hand in the illusions and disappearances.

No... now that I think about it, Wyford was a little too relaxed for my liking. I know everyone copes with loss differently, but his weird smile and actions were a little suspicious.

Naragas possessed the ability to mimic the appearance, voice, and even memories of their victims. If the person standing before her was truly a naraga, it would make sense that their true identity eluded the group, even Tyrus. Although they knew little about each other and only interacted for mere hours, even he hadn't suspected a thing. That was the terrifying part.

"You still haven't answered me," the masked man said, turning back to the naraga. "How did these intruders break the illusion?"

"I don't know," the naraga said, its voice dipped in unease. "They weren't supposed to. Among the others, these two held tumult hearts that the beacon should've feasted on. One suffers from fear. The other, grief. The mist should've rooted into them like it did the rest."

"And yet they still stand before me, their wills unshackled."

Fiona's legs still trembled beneath her, but she braced herself upright, using her staff for leverage. Her breath came in ragged gasps, each one like dragging ice through her chest. She didn't know how long she could stand against the pressure of the sorcerer's mana suffocating her.

Fear and grief, she echoed in her head. That's what the beacon saw in us.

She stared at the two men in front of her speaking, dumbfounded at their inattentive selves, ignoring the ones in front of them.

They're distracted! Right now would be a great time to run. How's Igneal faring?

Fiona glanced at her brother and noticed his hand trembling. His focus was on the enemy's, eyes turned to slits as his chest heaved. Fiona could see the sweat glistening along Igneal's brow, the way his jaw clenched tight to stop the chattering of his teeth. His body was ready to move, but his mind was stuck, caught between instinct and disbelief.

Igneal noticed Fiona staring and turned, both of them locking eyes. She nodded and directed her eyes behind them, hoping that Igneal understood. He gave a curt nod, and a sliver of hope welled up in Fiona's heart.

Fiona mouthed the words "On my go". Her heart pounded so loud it echoed in her ears, pulsing in rhythm with the mana pressure weighing down on her chest. The sorcerer and the naraga continued their conversation—like the two of them didn't even exist. As if Fiona and Igneal were just ants scurrying beneath their boots.

Go now, she mouthed to Igneal.

Fiona dug her heel into the soft earth and moved. She dragged her staff in a wide arc, crafting a wall of stone that jutted up from the soil: Earth Wall. The mysterious man and the naraga were out of sight behind the barrier.

They both turned and ran back toward the forest, though they barely took a few steps before a thunderous rumble shook the ground beneath their feet.

The air snapped with pressure. Fiona staggered, nearly losing her footing, and Igneal let out a sharp curse beside her. The Earth Wall behind them shattered; not crumbled, not cracked, but burst apart like glass under a warhammer. Chunks of stone whizzed past them, one slicing Fiona's nape in a shallow graze. She hissed through her teeth and kept running.

No time. Don't stop. Don't look back.

But the mana was already chasing them. Thick and wet and alive, like tendrils of liquid malice flowing inside of her. Fiona didn't need to turn around to know the masked sorcerer was moving now. She bolted for the treeline, branches reaching out to her like rescuing hands. Then, suddenly, their crowns and trunks wavered in her vision, as if dancing.

Fiona felt her body go rigid, stopping. She willed her legs to move, but they wouldn't. Her muscles locked mid-stride as if invisible strings had snapped taut around her limbs. Igneal too had stopped his stride, his limbs trembling from the force of whatever was holding them.

Without wanting to, Fiona's body whipped around, her heels pivoting sharply in the soil, her arms rising just enough to face the voice that haunted the space behind her. She didn't want to turn, though her muscles disobeyed her will.

"Running is futile," the masked sorcerer said. He strode forward, hands clasped behind his back, his overcoat billowing slightly with each step.

I can't move my body. Not even a finger! Did this son of a bitch use a spell on me!?

Her gaze flicked sideways as far as it could go—Igneal. He stood locked in the same unnatural stillness, sweat streaming down his face, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth might crack. His arm twitched. He was still fighting it. So was she. But whatever this was, it wasn't normal. It wasn't a spell they'd studied or even heard of.

"I will admit, I am surprised you broke free from the illusion," the man said. "No matter though, given that you delivered yourself here of your own accord. You did well enough, naraga."

The naraga stood next to the mysterious man and grinned. "Your praise emboldens me, Great Valroth. I—"

Valroth raised his hand and cut the naraga off. "I said well enough, not good enough. Though you have brought two with the Blessing of Sthito, I fail to see the main target Leader desires. It was by chance one of Leader's targets had been lured in, but now he is nowhere to be seen."

The naraga's grin faltered, though it quickly reassembled itself. Still wearing Wyford's kindly face, it gave an apologetic bow. "The boy was not supposed to stray so far. The beacon was meant to draw him in like the others. However, when I was still with the group, he seemed unaffected by the voices alongside a few others. Perhaps he still roams the forest, free of mind."

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Fiona's heart gave a jolt at the mention of Tyrus. What in Sthito's name did these freaks want with the kid?

There's only one group I know actively targeting Tyrus, and that is Scourge. Even after the catacombs incident, they still have their sights set on him!

If she was right, then Scourge was the active culprit of Lullins disappearances... No surprise there. It was odd it hadn't been that long since her previous encounter with them. It was even more odd that accepting a contract that seemed normal on the surface was actually a trap to lure unsuspecting explorers.

Fiona knew it was a trap because the creator of the contract was actually a naraga. The real Wyford was elsewhere, his form and memories stolen by a creature many thought went extinct. Not only were a few residents of Lullin were being kidnapped by Scourge, but they were also crafting a scheme to gather explorers as well, and Fiona would be lying if she said the plan was stupid.

Every explorer knew that taking on a contract had its risks. There was a possibility of receiving injuries, whether fatal or nonfatal. But few would expect the contract itself to be a trap, one handcrafted with the intent to ensnare them mentally, emotionally, and physically. That was the genius of it. Lure them in with a legitimate request. Let the beacon feast on their emotions and use the naraga's guise to keep suspicions at bay. And when they were weakest, drag them into Scourge's grasp for whatever nefarious purpose they have cooked up.

However, if an explorer were to be deceased by the contract they accepted, knowing full well of the risks, then a member of the Explorer Guild wouldn't be held liable for their death. They were still required to conduct an investigation on how the death occurred and whether remains and item retrieval were feasible and returned to the deceased family.

If they were, then a retrieval party would be dispatched, usually composed of at least gold ranked explorers familiar with rescue protocols. But even those teams had limits. If a region was deemed too dangerous or if multiple parties failed to return, the contract would be publicly closed, marked as unsuccessful.

Even so, a retrieval party would still be sent to the Whispering Forest. That meant it would be inevitable for that party to enter the misty forest and may or may not succumb to the beacons power.

Would they be able to break free just as easily as she and Igneal had? The normal answer would be yes, given they were much stronger than a group of bronze explorers. But that would mean they would inevitably meet Valroth, who was not, by any means, weak. If Fiona had to guess, he was hovering between master and advanced.

Fiona saw a future of a good deal of retrieval parties going missing: It was a self-sustaining trap. The more people who vanished, the more attention it would draw. And the more attention it drew, the more seasoned explorers would be sent—stronger minds, stronger magic, stronger emotions. And that meant more powerful fuel for whatever hellish scheme Scourge was running here.

Then again, that was only if the Explorer Guild was run by idiots, which was not the case. They'd report these series of incidents to the Imperial Court, and a few royal knights would be dispatched to permanently rectify the problem. Not even Scourge would be foolish enough to give away their position so close to the capital.

Unless that, too, was part of the plan.

"Naraga, return to the forest and find the boy alongside his friends. They should still not suspect your true identity. Bring them here so that they may join the others for the harvest," Valroth commanded.

"As you wish, Great Valroth," said the naraga with the bow.

It only took a few steps until a thunderous crack shattered the stillness of the forest. Three heartbeats later, another crash followed, then a series of deep, earth-trembling booms rolled across the trees like a wave of drums beating in unison. It sounded awfully similar to a tree snapping in half, or more likely, several in fact.

The naraga halted mid-stride. Another distant impact echoed, followed by the telltale whine of branches being torn from their trunks.

"Either my colleague has found the intruders," Valroth muttered, "or someone is making a great deal of trouble. Naraga, go investigate the disturbance. In the meantime, I will deal with these two."

With a slight tug of a finger, an unseen force gripped Fiona's limbs like invisible chains. Her legs buckled forward without her consent, followed by her shoulders jerking rigidly. She and Igneal marched, not by will but command.

The path to the lighthouse revealed itself in the thinning mist. Broken roots curled over stone, as if recoiling from the unnatural structure ahead.

Move, the command whispered again, slick and cold. Not a voice, but a presence in her veins. A sickly, oily sensation had begun crawling beneath her skin ever since Valroth had cast his spell. At first she thought it was just the dizziness from exhaustion or the residual effects of the mist's illusions. But no, this was different.

Her jaw locked against the bile rising in her throat. There was something foreign inside her. Not just magic—his magic. Threaded through her blood, embedded in her bones like roots growing inside a corpse. Panic beat against her skull, but she pushed it down and focused.

No... something's inside me. Controlling everything. What is it? How is he doing this?

She closed her eyes and activated mana sense. The physical world dulled. The mist blurred into nothing, the distant sound of crashing trees faded away. All that remained was mana—colorless shapes, energy flowing in delicate patterns.

There it was. A thread of gray mana that slithered downward, straight into the gash at her neck—the wound she'd taken earlier when Earth Wall shattered. The same place her blood had spilled and felt that horrible cold spread from.

Now she could see it clearly: a long, elegant line of water-aspected mana, winding down her torso, splitting into finer threads that traveled through her pathways. Valroth's magic was threaded through her blood.

So that's how he's doing all of this! Only someone with a high water affinity could manipulate another's blood so deeply.

A small spark of hope lit up in Fiona's heart. Because if it was water magic, then she had a chance.

She breathed deeply, even as her legs walked without consent. She didn't try to fight the control directly. That would only stress her mana heart again. Instead, she followed the thread of magic down to the point where it pierced her wound. Then, like joining a current mid-stream, she slipped her own mana beside it.

It wasn't easy in the slightest. Valroth's magic was more refined than her own. She felt like a lesser hound trying to wrestle control of a slab of meat against a thorn bear. So instead, she let her power slip past the gaps, curling beside his spell instead of clashing with it.

She reached her right arm and focused on the fingers. For a long moment, nothing changed. Then her thumb trembled, curling ever so slightly. Encouraged, she poured more mana in, a little at a time.

But her body screamed in protest. A sharp stab of pain ripped through her chest. Her mana heart pulsed erratically, each beat straining as if her own bloodstream were rejecting her efforts. A warm trickle ran from her nose.

Valroth stopped walking. "I assumed it was my imagination. You are resisting my control. I wonder how long you'd last if you continued. Interesting as it may be, it is an insult that you had the mere inkling of a thought you could break free."

His fingers twitched, and the magic binding Fiona flared to life. Pain exploded along her spine. Her knees buckled. The taste of iron flooded her mouth.

Valroth stepped closer, his cold eyes narrowing. "Try again, and I'll tear the rebellion from your pathways strand by strand."

The lighthouse loomed before them now. They were nearly at its base. That fleeting spark of hope vanished in the blink of an eye, replaced only by dread.

As they reached the front of the lighthouse, a rush of mana burst through the air above them. A great gust of wind slammed downward, scattering leaves and dust into a blinding whirlwind. Above the lighthouse, a winged spirit in the form of a bird shimmered into view—sleek and luminous, cloaked in a pale gale that whipped its silver feathers.

With a whistle like a sky cracking open and a flap of its wings, it hurled three gust-blades straight into the beacon atop the lighthouse.

The impact wasn't delayed. The beacon burst like a fruit under pressure—runes shattering, stone screaming.

A cyclone of mist erupted outward in all directions before sucking back in with a howl, like air rushing from a ruptured lung. In seconds, the mist that had haunted the Whispering Forest for months vanished.

Fiona gasped, clarity returning to her mind. Even Valroth staggered back a step, eyes wide, coat fluttering in the sudden wind.

The lighthouse door exploded outward with a deafening crack, its hinges reduced to shards. The heavy metal slab soared past them like a kicked shield, embedding itself halfway into a crooked tree trunk.

Out from the gaping entrance emerged a towering amalgamation of stone and moss. Its shoulders scraped the doorframe as it marched forward, its every step thudding like judgment.

Its eyes were aglow with molten orange. Its fists, the size of oxen skull. The moment the creature laid its eyes on Valroth did it lunge forward and clasped the man in it's giant fist.

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