Then it was behind them.
Caylen moved first. The pendant hanging low at his throat sparked to life, glowing with a grudging silver light that shot forward like a sharp breath, ripping through the trees and pulling everything into view. The Nightmare Beast stood there—limbs crooked back like twisted antlers, a grin stretched way too wide across its skeletal face as if it had forgotten what skin was supposed to cover.
Ezreal didn't waste a second. His wrist flicked, and a sick green crackle snapped from his palm. The bolt cut through the air, striking the thing. It blinked out of sight, vanishing into the thick fog like a bad idea deciding to wait.
But it didn't stay gone for long.
It came back with brutal force, tearing through the space between them as if air itself was optional. Dax met it head-on, charging hard and smashing both his iron flagons into the beast's ribs. The clang of metal hitting something tougher than bone rang sharp, sparks bursting like cold fireworks. The beast barely slowed.
Ezreal's shield caught the next blow just in time. It didn't shimmer or glow prettily; it flexed weirdly, like grease sliding over water, bending inward under the impact. Ezreal slid back across the slick dirt, boots gouging the ground, leaving messy lines in the mud.
"We can't win like this!" Caylen's shout cut through the chaos, his voice sharp, rough at the edges. "I'll draw its eye—count to three, then hit it hard! Don't let me die!" His laugh followed—wild and reckless—echoing through the mist like a challenge.
Before anyone could answer, he was gone, sprinting toward the deeper trees, his cloak snapping behind him like a war banner. The thing twisted its body with a sick, unnatural crack, joints popping where they never should, then disappeared again into the fog.
It reappeared next to Verek.
The claws came down fast, sharp like razors soaked in hunger, but Verek was already moving. His hands blurred, fingers weaving quick and low through a language the wind seemed to have forgotten. The forest answered him.
Runes snapped to life around Verek—pale and silver, twitchy like living things. They weren't just shields; they sang with a deep ringing tone, a sound felt more than heard. Old and heavy, like a bell buried deep in the earth, remembering names no one spoke anymore.
The creature screamed—an awful, ragged noise. Its edges flickered, smoke curling off like it was burning itself from the inside out.
"To this circle, I bind thee," Verek said quietly, voice steady but thick with something ancient. "Anchored. Sightless. Silenced."
Lines split the dirt beneath the beast, glowing hot, locking its legs where it stood. For a breath, it just shuddered.
Then Dax and Ezreal struck together. Fire, steel, and arcane force slammed into the creature like a storm—no finesse, only pain.
The beast didn't scream again. It had no throat to do that with. Instead, it released something sharp and empty, a scraping noise deep inside its chest.
Then it broke apart. Smoke poured from the cracks. The air thickened with a smell of salt, wet metal, and something that had cried for too long and dried bitter.
Caylen stumbled back into view, gasping, his arm streaked with blood where a branch had caught him. "I was trying to be heroic," he wheezed, clutching his side. "Just so we're clear."
Ezreal barely looked at him. He flicked ash from his coat as if it was an insult. "You were trying to get eaten."
Caylen shrugged, a half-smile twitching. "I contain multitudes."
Verek swayed slightly but caught himself. His voice stayed low and sharp. "We're close. That thing wasn't just shadow. It came from the Fold."
Past the blackened trees, faint golden lights blinked through the haze—windows far off and unreal, like fireflies trapped in ice.
Nobody spoke after that.
They kept walking.
The forest wasn't just changing. It was shedding its skin. The sky vanished behind a tight net of branches. Daylight felt thin and weak, like smoke trying to push through gauze. Night here brought a silence so thick it felt like padding—heavy, unmoving. No wind, no birdsong. Just a hush that made Verek's skin crawl. Aelwryn used to say some silences weren't empty—they watched. Now, Verek believed her.
Twice he caught sight of statues tangled in roots. Pale figures, mouths stretched wide in screams that never finished. Ivy crawled up their limbs like slow teeth. Verek said nothing.
Ezreal took point, eyes glowing faint blue as he traced invisible glyphs in the air, pulling at threads of magic like tugging wet fabric. The leylines here were twisted, bruised veins beneath the bark. The trees bore strange marks, symbols from languages long dead.
Ezreal muttered once, almost to himself, "This place remembers something terrible."
They passed a tree shaped like a scream, its hollow dark and wide. Something clicked inside—sharp, rhythmic. Like jaws working over an old memory. No one dared stop.
Dax watched their backs, slow and steady, flagons loose but ready. He noticed the way the trees curved away from them—not out of fear, but disgust.
Caylen hadn't hummed for two nights. No clever remarks. Just a tight jaw and steady steps.
Even Thimblewick flew silently, wings barely stirring the mist that curled around their boots like it wanted to drag them down.
Other things appeared—pools reflecting stars that didn't belong to this sky, stones that bled where they stepped, mushrooms that chimed softly when crushed, each note like a sleepy sigh.
Eventually, a path found them.
Old stone, buried under moss and years of neglect, winding up into the hills like it remembered a time it mattered.
"King's Port's old wine trail," Dax said, eyeing the stones. His brow lifted just enough to show he cared. "They hauled barrels up here once. Bet some ghosts are still drunk on the fumes."
Ezreal knelt and ran a hand across the stone, rough and worn. "Doesn't look like anyone's touched this in decades."
"They haven't," Verek said, voice flat. "The Valentine estate pulled back after the Accord collapsed."
Caylen raised a brow. "And yet they still send invitations?"
"They honor their oaths," Verek answered simply.
The ridge opened beneath them.
Vineyards stretched out, dusted silver with dew. Rows of thorny roses and wildflowers tangled through broken fences. In the center, the Valentine Manor stood, pale stone walls thick with ivy, windows glowing like bottled starlight.
Balconies curled above like wrought iron ribcages. Fog clung low to the ground, swirling as if it had a secret to tell.
Caylen whistled low. "They really went all-in on the haunted aristocrat look, huh?"
The road ended at a gate of black wrought iron, heavy with blooming vines. Two lion statues sat on either side, staring down like bored gods. The gate creaked open all on its own.
No knocks, no calls.
A servant waited on the other side—tall and faceless, dressed in charcoal gray from head to toe. He bowed once, no words, just a hand motion that said, come in, or stay out—it didn't matter.
They crossed the threshold.
Warmth hit them like a long-forgotten memory. Wood-paneled walls carved with moons, vines, and antlers surrounded them. The air smelled of old books and crushed lavender. A crystal chandelier hung overhead, flickering like tiny trapped stars.
To their left, velvet shadows pooled in a sitting room. To their right, shelves of books reached toward floating lights. Some titles were inked, others carved from something that looked like bone.
Above the fire, a painting loomed. A woman with pale skin, silver hair, and a crown of thorns. Her eyes were scratched out.
Caylen stopped under it, voice quiet. "She looks... familiar."
Dax didn't look up. "That's Lady Salienne. Last Warden of the Fold."
Ezreal's voice dropped almost to a whisper. "The Fold's dead."
Verek stepped closer to the hearth, eyes fixed on the ruined face. "No," he said quietly, certain. "It's only sleeping."
Thunder growled behind the hills. The walls didn't shake, but every candle flickered as if catching a breath.
The front door slammed shut on its own.
Silence fell again.
Then footsteps—steady, weighty, measured, like someone walking while reading the room.
The butler moved like smoke on glass, silent and smooth. He bowed again, hands folded neatly, firelight dancing behind his blank face.
"If you would rise," he said, voice smooth enough to cut. "Master Damascus Valentine will receive you now."
The air grew tight, even the fireplace dimmed.
Then came the steps down the stairwell, deliberate and heavy. This gait wasn't asking questions. It demanded answers.
He appeared tall, moving like gravity was just a suggestion. Hair black as soot, eyes sharp like volcanic glass, every glance a careful calculation.
The house seemed to breathe around him.
Damascus Valentine smiled.