NOVEL NEXT Chapter 124: Pursuit
The fields of Razi had fallen silent, but silence was never peace. It was the kind of quiet that settled only after chaos, when smoke still lingered on the air and the wind carried the ghosts of shouts and dying breaths. The smell of trampled wheat and scorched leather clung to the land.
The echoes of the chase—shouts, the clash of steel, the barking of orders—had long since faded into the hills. Now, the dry wind hissed through the broken stalks, brushing against the Razi soldiers' armor like a warning. It carried grit into their eyes and the faint scent of burnt oil from broken torches.
Captain Dareth Voln stood at the front, his burn-scarred jaw clenched tight, torchlight cutting sharp lines across his face. Around him, men slumped against spears or sank to their knees, armor streaked with grime and sweat.
Somewhere in the distance, a crow called once and then fell silent.
Voln's boots sank into the soft earth as he surveyed his men.
"Anything from the north ridge?" he asked hoarsely, his voice more gravel than tone.
"Nothing, sir," came the reply, weary and uncertain.
"Tracks near the ravine?"
"Gone cold, Captain."
Voln exhaled through his teeth, a low hiss of frustration. The sound seemed to carry across the company, cutting through the murmur of shifting armor.
He turned his gaze to the horizon where the ravine split the land like a wound.
A young soldier, no older than twenty, muttered under his breath, "Damn ghosts. They must have studied the land."
Another, older and hardened, gave a hollow laugh, "Who knows for sure? Maybe the bastards froze out there."
Voln's glare silenced them instantly.
"The Razi Defense don't chase ghosts," he snapped, "We hunt until there's nothing left to hunt."
The words rang hollow even in his own ears. He had a reputation to keep, even when victory slipped through his hands and that truth sank into his guts, bring him great shame.
As torches gathered into one cluster of light, Voln lingered at the edge of the ridge. His eyes lingered on the ravine's mouth—a gaping scar on the land. For a moment, he imagined movement within it, a trick of light or a breath of wind, and his hand twitched toward his blade.
"They know this land better than we do," he muttered finally, voice low, "For now, they've earned their rest."
He turned away, shoulders heavy beneath the weight of exhaustion and pride. None of his men saw the faint red shimmer that flickered across the ravine floor below—brief, like the last heartbeat of a dying ember.
Just then, Voln's men barely had time to regroup before the wind shifted, carrying a new sound—the rhythmic thud of hooves, deliberate and heavy.
Every soldier turned as a column of mounted silhouettes appeared from the south, torches swaying in the darkness like a river of fire.
"The commander," one soldier breathed, straightening at once.
Voln's chest tightened. He had sent no messenger.
The horses halted in perfect formation, their riders cloaked in black and steel.
At the front rode Lord Eryndor himself, his cloak lined with crimson thread that shimmered faintly in the firelight. His horse, an ashen beast with plated armor along its neck, snorted once before stilling.
Beside him rode the vice-commander, his polished breastplate gleaming despite the grime of the night.
Voln dropped to one knee, bowing his head, "Commander. My lord."
Eryndor's gaze swept over the soldiers—mud-streaked, exhausted, hollow-eyed. His voice came low, controlled, "Report."
Voln stood and saluted sharply, "We've scoured the ravine and adjoining fields. No sign of them, my lord. The fugitives likely went deeper into the canyons. Pursuit would be impossible until dawn."
The vice-commander exchanged a glance with Eryndor but said nothing.
Eryndor's head tilted slightly, his hood casting deep shadows across his face.
"Impossible," he repeated softly, the word twisting like a knife, "Or inconvenient?"
Voln swallowed, his throat dry, "With respect, my lord, the ground leaves no mark. The wind erased what trail there was. They've vanished."
The Inquisitor laughed once, quiet but sharp as broken glass, "Men do not vanish, Captain. They bleed. They die. And when they don't, it means you failed to make them."
He dismounted without a sound, boots sinking into the soft soil.
The air seemed to darken around him as he walked closer. When he stopped before Voln, the soldiers instinctively drew back.
"Your failure," Eryndor said, voice gentle, "has consequences."
His blade flashed once, and the nearest soldier fell without a word.
"Bo-"
A second soldier tried to speak—then a second stroke took him in the chest. Blood hissed against the ground.
Voln froze. His breath quickened, but he didn't reach for his sword.
He knew it would be useless.
Eryndor wiped his weapon clean, his expression calm, "I asked for results. You brought excuses."
"My lord, the terrain—"
"Silence."
The single word carried weight, and the torchlight bent inward as if drawn to it.
""It's not like I didn't expect this..." the Inquisitor leaned in, his voice a whisper that still carried through the camp, "Do you know why I smile, Captain?"
Voln's mouth was dry, "No, my lord."
"Because they are not lost. Merely hidden. And hiding…" he said, turning slightly toward the ravine, "…is just dying slower."
He lowered his hand to the ground. Runes flared beneath his palm, spreading in crimson veins. The soil quivered. The horses reared and snorted as the ground split with a low, resonant growl.
From the crack in the earth rose a creature of the Netherbreed—a monstrous shape of smoke, bone, and sinew, its body somewhere between a wolf and a serpent, its eyes glowing like dying coals. Steam hissed from its jaws as it inhaled the scent of blood and fear.
Eryndor's tone softened as though speaking to a loyal pet, "Find them, Varkul."
At that commant, the summon turned toward the ravine, nostrils flaring, and then bolted into the dark. Every step it took left a glowing red pawprint that smoldered on the ground.
Eryndor turned to Voln, his expression unreadable, "Follow it, you will be leading. Fail again and you may not even get to see the end of tonight."
Voln bowed stiffly, forcing the tremor from his knees, "Yes, my lord."
He signaled his men forward, and they obeyed without hesitation, eyes averted from the corpses cooling at their feet.
Behind them, Eryndor watched in silence, the faint curve of a smile under his hood.
"A hunt..." he murmured, "My favourite kind of fight."
"Follow them."
Far below, Bennet and Kieran had stopped running, the echoes of their own footsteps fading until only the rasp of their breath remained.
The descent into the ravine had been brutal—jagged rocks cutting through their boots, loose gravel slipping beneath them, and ledges that groaned under each step.
The air was damp, heavy with the scent of moss and stone dust, and the faint murmur of water somewhere below promised both danger and life.
Now they were moving slower, the darkness pressing close around them. Each movement stirred echoes through the chasm, and the sound of a pebble bouncing off unseen depths made Bennet's skin crawl.
The faint trickle of underground water became their compass, guiding them through the maze of stone until they reached a narrow ledge.
Bennet caught Kieran's arm as his foot slipped on a slick patch of rock.
"Careful," he muttered, voice rough from exhaustion, "We've come too far to die falling."
Kieran managed a faint grin despite his labored breathing, "You sound like an old man, Benny."
"That's because I've lived long enough to earn the right," Bennet replied, pulling him upright.
"You're only five months older than me," Kieran retorted, shaking off the embarrassment, "Don't make it sound like decades."
The exchange drew a quiet chuckle from Bennet, the sound too fragile to last. They pressed onward until the ravine widened into a basin where the walls rose like jagged teeth.
Roots hung down from an ancient tree, weaving a curtain of shadows over what looked like the entrance to a shallow cave. Moonlight trickled through cracks in the canopy, painting the stones silver.
Kieran pushed the roots aside and peered in. The air inside was cooler, stale, but safe enough.
"Smugglers used this place during the border wars," he murmured, running a hand along the stone, "Markings still there—see?"
Bennet stepped closer, brushing his palm over faded carvings half-buried in moss. Circles and intersecting lines etched into the wall, faint symbols of trade routes long erased.
"Still solid," he said finally, "We can rest here."
They collapsed against the stone floor, exhaustion catching up to them all at once.
For the first time since running, Bennet allowed himself to exhale fully. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes, letting the adrenaline ebb from his system as reality began to settle in.
"Think they'll stop?"
Kieran shook his head slowly, "Not likely. We lost them for now, but the Razi don't stop. Not until they've found a body."
A silence followed, heavy and long. Both men sat still, the sound of dripping water echoing softly around them.
Bennet watched the faint light filtering through the roots and then asked, "That happen to you often? Getting caught?"
Kieran exhaled through his nose, a humourless chuckle escaping, "Sometimes. But I've learned better since. You only get caught once if you're smart enough to learn from it."
He glanced at Bennet, eyes half-lidded with mischief, "Hehe... Why ask me like tonight was my fault?"
Bennet frowned, the realization cutting through the haze of exhaustion as he was reminded that it was his fault.
And then the memory hit him—the boy. The alley. The nervous glance. The trembling hands.
His chest tightened as he whispered, more to himself than to Kieran, "The boy… Lucas's age."
He could see that face again—frightened, uncertain, trying to be brave. He didn't speak again for a long time.
Kieran broke the silence first, voice softer now, "Get some rest, Benny. We'll need our strength come morning."
Bennet nodded faintly but didn't move right away.
After a moment, he tugged at his coat, adjusting it out of habit—and felt a faint warmth near his chest. He frowned, fingers brushing against something hard sewn into the inner lining.
He froze, realization dawning as his pulse quickened and a sudden rush of dread climbed his spine.
Slowly, he reached inside and pulled out a small metallic charm, no bigger than a coin, etched with faint red runes that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. The light flickered like a heartbeat not his own.
"Kieran," he said, voice low and uneasy, "Look at this."
Kieran leaned forward, eyes narrowing. For a moment he just stared—then his eyes widened, "Razi tracker."
His tone wavered, and a sharp edge of panic crept in, "You've been marked."
Bennet's gut twisted.
"The boy… he must've placed it. When we passed in the alley," he spoke, the realization hit like a knife, "He must have been forced into it."
Kieran swore under his breath and scrambled to his feet, kicking loose pebbles that clattered against the cave wall, "Shit—shit, hurry. We need to destroy it!"
His voice rose as he stomped down hard on the charm, "Why isn't it breaking?!"
He slammed his boot again, harder this time. The metal only groaned, the red runes blazing brighter, flooding the hollow in a blood-coloured glow. The stone beneath them pulsed, alive.
"Benny, it's activating!" Kieran shouted, fear cutting through his tone. "It's calling them! We need to move!"
The hum deepened into a throbbing vibration that shook the ground beneath their feet. The walls of the ravine seemed to sigh, dust trickling from above.