Weaves of Ashes

Chapter 25: Chapter 20: Return of the Pack

Location: Dark Forest Boundary, Northern Wilderness | Lower Realm, Doha

Time: Late Afternoon, Hunt Day

Garrik had never felt smaller than he did riding back through the Freehold gates with his pack behind him and empty hands in front of him.

Eighteen Blaze Crowns. The biggest contract of his career. And he’d walked away from it.

(Had to. The alternative was worse.)

His demon-scaled horse picked up on his mood, snorting embers, muscles tense beneath those midnight scales. Behind him, his team rode in silence. Mira hadn’t spoken since they’d left the forest. The beast handler kept glancing back like he expected the trees to follow them. The weapons master had his crossbow loaded, safety off, hands white-knuckled on the stock.

Even the seeker hounds were quiet, tails tucked, eyes rolling white with residual terror.

Kato rode at the front on his fire-tailed stallion, back rigid with barely-controlled fury. He hadn’t said a word since giving the order to retreat. Hadn’t needed to. The rage radiating from him was louder than any shout.

They crossed into the estate proper—walls of dark stone topped with defensive wards, courtyard paved with obsidian blocks that gleamed in the midday sun. Servants scattered as Kato dismounted, his fire-tailed stallion’s flames flickering with its master’s anger.

”Master Garrik.” Kato’s voice was too controlled. Too quiet. ”A word. Privately.”

Garrik dismounted. Gestured for his team to head to the stables with the horses. They went gladly, probably relieved to escape what was coming.

Kato led him to a side courtyard, away from prying eyes and curious ears. Turned on him the moment they were alone.

”You failed.”

”I completed the contract as written,” Garrik said calmly. Professional. ”Track the target. Pursue until capture or until circumstances made pursuit impossible or suicidal. Circumstances made pursuit impossible.”

”Impossible?” Kato’s Inferno essence flared, heating the air between them. ”The forest moved some trees. So what? We had demon-scaled horses. We had weapons. We could’ve—”

”We could’ve died.” Garrik’s voice stayed level, but steel crept into it. ”Or worse. Master Kato, with all due respect, you hired me because I’m the best. And part of being the best is knowing when to walk away.”

”From a fifteen-year-old girl?”

”From ancient law that’s stood longer than your clan has existed.” Garrik stepped closer, close enough that he could see the amber in Kato’s eyes, the rage and ambition and desperation all mixed together. ”The Dark Forest chooses who enters. You know this. Everyone knows this. And when it closed behind that girl, when it physically moved to protect her, that was the forest making its choice.”

”That’s superstition—”

”Is it?” Garrik crossed his arms. ”When was the last time anyone successfully hunted prey that the forest protected? When was the last time anyone entered against the forest’s will and came back out? I’ll wait.”

Silence.

”That’s what I thought.” Garrik softened his voice slightly. Not much. Just enough. ”Master Kato, I’ve been hunting for thirty years. I’ve tracked criminals through the Scorch, beasts through the Voidmarsh, deserters through the mountains. I’ve seen things that would make your blood run cold. And in all that time, I’ve learned one absolute truth: you don’t hunt what the forest protects.”

”There are stories,” Garrik continued, voice dropping lower. ”Twenty years ago. A hunting party went in anyway. Eight men. Best hunters in the Southern Territories. They ignored the signs, pushed past the boundary when the forest closed. Three days later, one man stumbled out. Just one. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t eat. Just stared at nothing and trembled. Died within a week.” He paused. ”They never found the other seven. Not even bones.”

Kato’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth should’ve cracked.

”So yes, Master Kato. I failed your contract. And I’d do it again.” Garrik’s voice went hard as stone. ”Because bringing my people home alive is worth more than eighteen Blaze Crowns. Worth more than your clan’s pride. Worth more than hunting down a starving child with feet that left blood on every rock.”

”She stole—”

”I don’t care what she stole.” Garrik cut him off. ”I saw her tracks. I saw how small she is. How terrified. How desperate. And when the forest—something older and more powerful than either of us—chose to protect her?” He shook his head. ”That’s not my fight anymore.”

”Then you’re in breach of contract.”

”Am I?” Garrik pulled out a folded parchment from his belt. The contract they’d signed that morning, ink still fresh. ”I quote: ’Track and pursue target until capture or until circumstances make pursuit impossible or suicidal.’ I pursued. Circumstances made further pursuit suicidal. Contract fulfilled.”

He held out the parchment. Kato stared at it like it was a venomous snake.

”Keep your remaining two Blaze Crowns,” Garrik said quietly. ”Consider them payment for a lesson: some things aren’t meant to be hunted. And some people—even desperate, Voidforge fifteen-year-olds—are chosen by powers greater than clans or coins or pride.”

He turned to leave.

”The Ashtracker pack will never take another contract involving that girl,” Garrik said over his shoulder. ”Pass the word to your brother. To the elders. To anyone else who gets ideas. She’s off-limits. Protected. And anyone who ignores that...” He glanced back, eyes hard. ”Well. The forest has made its choice. I suggest you respect it.”

He left Kato standing in the courtyard, fire-tailed stallion’s flames casting dancing shadows across stones that suddenly felt very cold.

Kato stood alone for a long time after Garrik left.

The afternoon sun beat down on his shoulders, but he barely felt it. The stallion nudged his arm, concerned, flames dimmed to soft flickers. He absently stroked its neck, mind racing through implications and calculations and growing dread.

(Eighteen Blaze Crowns. Gone. And nothing to show for it except a huntsman who now refuses any future contracts.)

The elders would hear about this. Word traveled fast in the clan, and a failed hunt—especially one this expensive—would be all over the estate by nightfall. Questions would be asked. Fingers would be pointed.

And Za’thul—

Za’thul would use this. Would have to use this. The clan was already fractured over the Divine Tome’s loss, over the library explosion, over the prophecy implications. This failure would just pour more oil on fires that were already burning too hot.

(Need another option. Need someone who won’t refuse because of ancient laws or forest superstitions.)

There was one group that might take the contract. One organization that didn’t respect boundaries or ancient traditions, or protective forests. One guild that would hunt anyone, anywhere, for the right price.

The Nightfall Brotherhood.

Assassins. Shadow-walkers. Killers who operated in the spaces between law and chaos, who answered to no clan and respected no authority except their own.

Expensive. Dangerous. Morally questionable even by clan standards.

But they’d take the contract. And they’d see it through.

(How much would they charge? Fifty Blaze Crowns? A hundred? And would Za’thul even authorize that expense after I just wasted eighteen on a failed hunt?)

Problems for later. Right now, he needed to report to his brother.

Kato mounted his fire-tailed stallion, turned it toward the main estate building. The stallion’s hooves left scorch marks on the obsidian courtyard stones as they moved—black on black, heat on cold.

Like everything else in this cursed situation, it left marks that wouldn’t easily fade.

***

That Evening — Za’thul’s Study

The study smelled of old paper and Inferno essence and the kind of expensive incense that nobles burned to mask the scent of their own failures.

Za’thul sat behind his desk—dark wood polished to mirror shine, carved with clan symbols that seemed to writhe in the lamplight. His amber eyes tracked Kato as he entered, followed by three select elders who’d been summoned for this private council.

Elder Morghen: oldest, gray-bearded, Flamewrought tier with a core that had cracked decades ago and never properly healed. But his political mind was sharp as ever.

Elder Sylra: only female elder, Inferno-tempered tier, with eyes like chips of obsidian and a reputation for ruthless pragmatism.

Elder Koraven: the one who’d cast the spells on Jade fifteen years ago, changing her eyes from amber to black, altering her face. He looked older now, shoulders bent, but his hands still trembled with residual guilt that he’d never quite managed to bury.

”Report,” Za’thul said flatly.

Kato told them everything. The hunt, the pursuit, the small bloody footprints that Garrik had noticed. The Dark Forest boundary. The trees moving. The forest’s protection. The huntsmen’s refusal to continue.

Silence filled the study when he finished. Heavy and oppressive as a physical weight.

”The forest protected her.” Elder Morghen’s voice cracked like old leather. ”The Dark Forest itself chose to protect a Voidforge child.”

”Ancient law,” Elder Sylra murmured, fingers drumming on the armrest of her chair. ”Older than the clans. Older than the current age.”

”What does it mean?” Kato asked, hating how his voice sounded—uncertain, almost afraid.

”It means,” Za’thul said slowly, carefully, ”that we have a serious problem.”

He stood, moved to the window that overlooked the eastern courtyard. Outside, evening was falling, turning the sky the color of old jade. Somewhere beyond those walls, beyond the mountains, his daughter—

(No. Not daughter. Not anymore. The Voidforge thief. The clan disgrace.)

But the forest had protected her anyway.

”The forest doesn’t protect just anyone,” Elder Koraven said softly. His hands shook worse now, trembling against his robes. ”In all the histories, all the ancient texts... it protects those chosen for great purpose. Prophesied individuals. Marked by destiny.”

The words hung in the air like accusations.

”The prophecy,” Elder Sylra said. What everyone was thinking but no one wanted to say. ”The Divine Tome is bonding to her. The library explosion. And now this.” She looked at Za’thul. ”Clan Leader, we need to consider the possibility that we’ve made a... strategic error.”

”Strategic error?” Za’thul’s voice was dangerously quiet. ”Is that what we’re calling it?”

”She stole clan property,” Elder Morghen said firmly. ”She brought shame upon us. The vote was clear—sixty-five to fifteen for execution. The clan has spoken.”

”The clan voted based on incomplete information,” Elder Koraven said, and everyone turned to look at him. He’d been mostly silent during the original council meeting, voting with the minority to spare Jade’s life. ”We didn’t know the Tome would bond to her. We didn’t know the forest would protect her. We didn’t know—”

He stopped. Swallowed hard.

”We didn’t know she was actually the prophesied one.”

”She’s Voidforge,” Kato snapped. ”Voidforge can’t be chosen by anything except poverty and early death.”

”And yet the Divine Tome—a Luminari artifact that hasn’t responded to anyone in a thousand years—bonded to her soul during that explosion.” Elder Sylra’s obsidian eyes glittered. ”And yet the Dark Forest—which hasn’t actively protected anyone in living memory—moved to save her. These are facts, gentlemen. Uncomfortable facts, but facts nonetheless.”

Za’thul turned from the window. His face looked older in the lamplight, shadows carving harsh lines around his mouth and eyes. ”So what are you suggesting, Elder Sylra? That we call off the execution order? Welcome her back with open arms? Pretend the last fifteen years didn’t happen?”

”I’m suggesting,” Sylra said carefully, ”that we need to consider multiple possibilities. If she survives in the Dark Forest—and given the forest’s protection, she might—and if she emerges stronger...” She paused. ”We need contingency plans.”

”Such as?”

”Such as being prepared to negotiate rather than execute.” Sylra stood, paced to the window beside Za’thul. ”If she comes out of that forest with power, with the Divine Tome’s abilities unlocked, with the forest’s favor... executing her could destroy the clan. But having her as an ally, even a reluctant one, could save us.”

”She’ll never be our ally,” Za’thul said flatly. ”Not after what we—what I—” He stopped. Breathed. ”Not after everything.”

”Then we need to ensure our bloodline survives regardless,” Elder Morghen said pragmatically. ”Protect the talented youth. Edvard, despite his injuries. Saphira, when she recovers. The promising cousins and branch family children. Create multiple paths for the clan’s future.”

”Hedging our bets,” Kato said bitterly.

”Survival,” Morghen corrected. ”If the prophesied heir has been lost to us through our own actions, then we ensure the clan survives anyway. Through other means. Other heirs.”

Za’thul returned to his desk, sank into his chair. Suddenly, he looked exhausted. Ancient. Like the weight of every decision he’d made over the past fifteen years had finally caught up to him all at once.

”Fine,” he said quietly. ”If she survives in the Dark Forest. If she emerges. We continue the execution order. She stole from us. She attacked clan members. The law is clear.”

”And if she comes out strong enough that we can’t execute her?” Elder Sylra pressed.

”Then we negotiate. Or we run. Or we die.” Za’thul’s amber eyes were hard as stone. ”But we don’t welcome her back. That ship sailed ten years ago when she was declared Voidforge and her mother was executed for crimes she didn’t commit.”

The last words came out before he could stop them.

Silence crashed down like a physical blow.

”Clan Leader?” Elder Koraven’s voice was barely a whisper.

”Nothing.” Za’thul waved a hand dismissively, but it trembled slightly. ”Just tired. It’s been a long day.” He looked at each of them in turn. ”Protect the talented youth. Shore up our defenses. And pray to whatever gods still listen that the Dark Forest solves our problem for us.”

”And if it doesn’t?” Kato asked.

”Then we deal with the consequences.” Za’thul’s voice was hollow. Empty. ”Like we always do.”

The meeting ended. The elders filed out, speaking in low tones. Kato lingered for a moment, wanting to say something, anything that might ease the tension in his brother’s shoulders.

But there was nothing to say. Nothing that would fix this.

So he left too, closing the door softly behind him.

Za’thul sat alone in his study, surrounded by symbols of clan power and authority that suddenly felt meaningless. Outside, night was falling, and somewhere beyond the mountains, his daughter—

(No. The Voidforge thief. Just the thief.)

But the forest had protected her anyway.

And that fact terrified him more than he wanted to admit.

He poured himself a drink—something strong that burned going down—and tried not to think about small bloody footprints in forest mud. Tried not to think about a fifteen-year-old girl running for her life with nothing but determination and terror keeping her moving.

Tried not to think about the fact that everything he’d done for the past ten years might have been the greatest mistake of his life.

The drink didn’t help.

Nothing helped.

So he sat in the darkness and waited for morning, or judgment, or whatever came next.

And prayed that when it came, it would be merciful.

Though he suspected mercy was something his family had run out of a very long time ago.