Chapter 9: The Hunted Echo
The trees whispered.
Wind slid like blades between the branches, sharp and restless. Leaves quivered not with life—but with fear. The forest, once a sanctuary, had turned into a crucible of silence and dread.
Leon Vael ran.
Roots twisted beneath his boots, clawing at his ankles as if the forest itself wanted him to fall. Branches slapped at his face, leaving thin red lines across his cheeks. Every breath came as a gasp, his lungs burning, his heart pounding loud enough to drown the rustling behind him.
But it couldn't drown everything.
Behind him—footsteps. Many. Unmistakable. Rhythmic, relentless.
They were closing in.
Crimson shadows moved through the mist. Soldiers of the Red Crown. No banners, no cries—only pursuit. Silent. Deadly.
He darted between trees, his hand instinctively gripping the hilt of his dagger. Not for battle. For desperation.
A branch cracked. Too close. He ducked low, sliding down a slope covered in wet moss. Stones cut through his coat. Mud splashed up his legs. But he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
Memoria Resonus had done more than reveal the past—it had marked him. Somewhere, someone had sensed the echo. And now they hunted it.
His foot caught. He fell.
The world spun. His shoulder struck a rock, sharp pain tearing through him. He rolled, gasping, and lay there for a heartbeat too long.
A whistle. An arrow thudded into the tree beside his head.
He scrambled up, heart pounding in his throat, and ran again.
"Don't let him reach the border!" a voice shouted behind him—hoarse, furious.
So they wanted him alive. For now.
He veered left, deeper into the older part of the forest, where gnarled trees bent like watching sentinels. The air grew thicker, heavy with the scent of wet bark and rot. Birds no longer sang here. Even insects seemed to fall silent.
The forest was holding its breath.
Another arrow hissed past, grazing his arm. He bit back a scream.
Then—water.
A stream, wide and fast, blocked his path. He paused for one desperate second, then plunged into it. The cold bit into him like teeth. He swam. Kicked. Reached the other side.
Dragged himself onto the bank, coughing.
Silence.
Had he lost them?
A twig snapped.
No.
He turned—and came face to face with a masked soldier.
The man lunged. Leon barely dodged, drawing his dagger. Steel met steel. Sparks flashed. He parried once, twice, then drove his blade forward.
Blood sprayed.
The soldier fell. Leon didn't wait. He ran again, through underbrush, over roots, every muscle screaming.
Night was falling. Shadows stretched longer. The mist grew thick like wool.
He could barely see.
And then—light.
A pale blue glow, flickering ahead.
A rune.
He recognized it—one of Lucen's. A safe ward.
He staggered toward it, fingers outstretched. The moment he crossed its threshold, a hum of energy passed through him.
The forest behind him went still.
And then he collapsed.
Face down, in leaves damp with blood and sweat.
Above him, the ward pulsed gently.
The echo had escaped—for now.