The night after Grim Hollow's fall was not quiet.

It was restless—filled with the faint clicking of wandering crawlers stripped of hierarchy, the moan of wind dragging through half-collapsed ridges, the labored breaths of the wounded who fled under starlight.

Four groups, scattered in distance but united in direction, all forced south.

All forced toward Vester.

All bearing the weight of a dying outpost behind them.

And none dared look back.

The moment felt ripped from an ancient scripture—one of those brittle lines from the First Testament, born in the Era of Dawn, in the age of the old ones:

"Go now and do not look back. Flee with your life and keep your eyes ahead, for the ruin behind you is not yours to witness."

— Genesis 19:17

Tonight, those words felt less like wisdom and more like prophecy.

Further south.

Adam had not planned to lead anyone.

He wasn't a soldier.

He wasn't a hero.

He wasn't even brave—not in the way Duncan or Bright or Silas were.

He was just… observant.

A listener.

A man who pieced things together because silence was louder than words.

But when the swarm descended, and Sergeant Tyven screamed for everyone to scatter south, and the workers panicked like cornered livestock—Adam made a decision.

Not because he wanted to.

Because no one else was thinking clearly enough to do it.

"Alright," he said, forcing calm into his voice. "Anyone frail, walk in the middle. Anyone who can carry, take the rear carts."

A worker grabbed his sleeve. "Do you know where Vester is? Do you—do you truly know?"

Adam swallowed.

He knew the ridges.

He knew every rumor.

He knew where the ground dipped, where burrowers nested, where the caverns split and which ones smelled of wet moss instead of bone rot.

But directions?

No, he didn't "know" in the conventional sense.

"Vester is south," Adam replied, steady. "And so am I."

The worker hesitated.

Then nodded.

And because he spoke with an uncanny certainty that suggested competence—even when he lacked it—they followed.

As they walked, a female worker of decent looks stumbled and scraped her knee. Behind her, a man eager to play the knight in shining armor shouted, calling attention to her fall.

But an older worker—a fatherly sort—snapped at him, voice sharp with fear.

"Quiet, boy! You'll bring them!"

Adam raised a hand. "Stop shouting. Shouting never saved anyone."

He listened.

The faint tremor of something digging under the earth.

Shifting stones. A tell tale sign of a burrower.

Still, it was not a small one.

Adam's mind spun.

Option 1: Fight it? Stupid. Half these people didn't know how to swing a pickaxe without breaking wrists.

Option 2: Run? It would feel the vibrations. Follow and when his merry band of workers tire of exhaustion,They'd die.

Option 3: Distract it.

"Yes," Adam whispered. "Distraction works."

He scanned the ground and spotted a loose metal scrap from a shattered supply cart. He lifted it, gestured for quiet, and slammed it against a boulder.

GONG.

The sound rang through the ridge.

The ground rumbled—

The burrower erupted near the noise.

"Move!" Adam hissed.

Someone whispered, "How did you know that would work?"

"I didn't," Adam muttered. "But the math checked out."

"Math—? What kind of math involves monsters?!"

"The sort that buys us one more nighttime," Adam replied dryly.

He turned, taking the lead again.

His thoughts churned.

If I misjudge one thing, these people die. If I slow down, they die. If I panic—

He steadied his breath.

His mind sharpened.

He could do this.

He would do this.

Not because he wanted to be a hero, but because it would either make or break him when he finally reaches the outpost. This types of services were awarded by the army and having a medal or two pinned to his uniform for the lives of many wasn't such a bad deal.

Elsewhere,

Bright stumbled through the twisted path, ribs screaming each time he inhaled.

Baggen kept a hand on his back, steadying him.

Estovia walked ahead with a trembling spear, muttering curses under her breath.

"We're almost to the lower ridge," Estovia said.

Bright laughed weakly. "I think you've said that six times."

"And I'll say it again until we're safe."

Baggen spun around sharply. "Quiet. Hear that?"

They froze.

A crawler—alone, limping, its skull cracked—skittered toward them. A remnant of the ravine chaos.

Baggen stepped forward.

"No," Bright said, pulling Baggen aside. "You're injured—"

"I'm the least injured," Baggen argued.

"That's not saying much," Estovia murmured, glancing at the blood trailing from his arm.

The crawler hissed.

Baggen charged with a raw shout, driving his hammer through its jaw. The creature convulsed, snapping at air, and Baggen ripped the weapon free with a grunt.

Bright exhaled slowly. "Good work."

Baggen spat on the corpse. "Damn things. If another comes, I swear—"

"That was probably the last." Estovia forced optimism into her voice.

Bright didn't believe her.

She didn't believe herself.

But lies kept feet moving.

They pressed on.

The terrain shifted into a narrow path overlooking a deep ravine. The nightsky reflected off the stones below, turning the rocks into pale ghosts.

Bright paused, panting.

"We keep moving," he said. "We don't look back."

He repeated it softly:

"We don't look back."

And for a moment, it felt like someone else was speaking through him—

some old voice carried by the wind from forgotten eras.

In a different corner,

Atheon led a column of Initiates through uneven ground littered with shattered bone plates and broken weapons.

They had started as a lot.

Now they were few.

And dropping.

"Captain…" Maren whispered. "I—I can't… my leg—"

"You can," Atheon said. "And you will."

"I'm slowing everyone down—"

He lifted her over his shoulder without breaking stride.

A few Initiates laughed nervously.

Then the laughter ended.

Because one man—Juren—collapsed to his knees, chest heaving. His eyes flickered.

"Captain… I… need a minute."

Atheon stopped.

Studied him.

"You rest," the captain said softly, "and you never stand again."

Juren shook his head violently. "I can fight—just give me—"

A faint clicking sounded from behind them.

The group turned.

Two crawlers.

Strays.

Atheon grabbed Juren by the collar and hauled him upright.

"Move."

"I—I can't—"

A crawler lunged.

Atheon shoved Juren ahead and swung his fist, cracking the crawler's skull.

"RUN!"

The group sprinted.

Except Juren.

He stumbled.

Fell.

Atheon reached for him—

—but the second crawler dropped from the ridge above, pinning Juren by the spine. His scream tore through the night.

"CAPTAIN—!!!"

Atheon swung.

Too late.

The crawler ripped Juren's throat out in one horrible jerk.

"Keep moving!" Atheon roared, voice cracking. "GO!"

Someone sobbed.

Someone cursed.

Someone whispered Juren's name.

Atheon's jaw tightened until blood filled his mouth.

He didn't look back.

None of them did.

Just as the Book of Ashes had taught:

"Grief is a chain. When you are running from death, chains must be broken."

Atheon hated that ancient truth more than anything.

Silas-POV

Silas limped through the dark, his illusion talent flickering like dying fireflies.

He didn't know the proper route to Vester.

He only knew one thing:

South.

South was away from the Monarch's screams.

South was away from the swarm.

South was where survivors fled.

And if he kept heading south, eventually he would stumble into either safety…

…or a monster.

A crawler appeared to his right.

Silas whispered, "No, no, not tonight."

He flicked his fingers.

An illusion of himself sprinted left.

Another illusion sprinted right.

The crawler chased one.

Silas walked straight ahead, too exhausted to run.

He muttered a prayer he didn't believe in:

"Just a little more. Let me reach them. Let me… not be alone tonight."

His illusions flickered weaker with every drop of Soul Force.

But he kept going.

Somewhere else,

Sergeant Tyven and his group trudged along the path ahead, pushing south with as much gusto as their battered bodies could muster. Every one of them wore injuries openly—limps, bandages, blood crusted in the seams of their clothes—exhaustion weighing on their shoulders like wet iron. All except Bessia. She was just as tired, breath tight and steps unsteady, but her skin held no wound, no bruise. Her soul talent saw to that—keeping her clean, unbroken, untouched by the world that sought to shatter her.

He drew in a deep breath, forcing steadiness into his lungs. He was no speechmaker—just a common sergeant who barked orders and counted heads—but now he readied a low-tide pep talk for his dread-struck comrades.

"Good. We're still all together. From here…"

He raised his broken spear shaft toward the southern horizon where faint lantern-lights glowed miles away.

"…we move as a unit."

"Listen well," he said, voice hard as stone. "We've lost too many tonight. And we'll probably lose more before we get to vester. From this point on—"

He pointed south.

"—none of us look back. Not at Grim Hollow. Not at its dead. Not at what we failed or what we lost."

His voice lowered.

"Only forward. Only to Vester."

Behind them, the horizon glowed faintly with the final embers of Grim Hollow's ruin.

No one turned to see it.

Not even once.

And so they marched.

Broken souls moving through night.

Different paths woven into one.

All roads led south.

All roads led to Vester.

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