Fear.

The woods were quiet—too quiet, given the chaos still echoing from the checkpoint in the distance. Every now and then, a sharp blast or muffled roar reached through the canopy like thunder arguing with itself. But under the branches, beneath the twisted silhouettes of burned bark and wind-gnarled roots, it was still.

Amari moved carefully. His boots barely disturbed the undergrowth. The mask had come off somewhere between the fight and the tree line. Now his eyes were bare. Alert. Haunted.

He spotted them halfway up a low-sitting fig tree draped in moss.

Milo's clone crouched on a thick branch, form flickering faintly in the chest where the binding glyph pulsed. The girl—still tied at the wrists and ankles—was curled near the trunk, pressed into the shadow of leaves. Her eyes were wide, but not crying. She was watching him approach like prey that had learned stillness.