— Hope

  Consciousness returned to Hope not as a gentle waking, but as a rusted spike driven straight through her temples.

  She gasped, but the sound died instantly against a heavy, calloused hand that clamped down hard over her mouth. Panic flared, hot and sharp. She thrashed, trying to pry the hand away, but her limbs felt like lead, entirely unresponsive.

  She was engulfed in absolute, suffocating darkness. It was like being sealed alive inside a lightless vault. She should have been terrified. Her pulse should have been tearing through her throat. Yet, beneath the immediate shock of the restraint, a bizarre, unnatural stillness settled over her. The person pinning her to the forest floor radiated a cold, heavy gravity that felt strangely… safe.

  "Uhm, humpf humm, mmmmmmmp!" Hope protested weakly, her muffled voice vibrating against the stranger's palm.

  A faint, ghostly luminescence pulsed beside her head. It wasn't a firefly. The pale light bled from the iron head of a spear resting in the mud. In that fleeting, erratic glow, Hope saw the scarred face of the warrior who had butchered the Nightwalkers. The woman was crouched directly over her, scanning the impenetrable black canopy above.

  The spear's glow died, plunging them back into the void.

  The warrior leaned in until her lips brushed the shell of Hope's ear. Her whisper was a raspy, abrasive scrape, barely louder than the rustle of dead leaves.

  "Do not speak. Do not move. Just follow my instructions."

  Hope’s nose wrinkled involuntarily beneath the hand.

  "I want you to move your head," the rasping whisper continued. "Up and down for . Side to side for . Do you understand?"

  Hope swallowed hard and moved her chin.

  "Good. Have you encountered any creatures tonight other than the Nightwalkers?"

  "Did you know the Endless Night was arriving today?"

  "Are you a Lamparina?"

  "Your body isn't marked by the ash of a veteran. You're just an Ember. No... you managed to recklessly channel the Volcano Forge earlier. Your rank is Ember, but your raw output is Campfire. Am I right?"

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  "Listen to me very carefully," the warrior breathed, the threat hanging heavy and absolute in the freezing air. "If you want to survive the next hour, I will remove my hand from your mouth, but you will remain completely silent. You will act as if your jaw is sewn shut. You will obey me without a single question, because if you hesitate, I will leave you to the dark. Nod if you understand."

  Hope thought bitterly.

  The rough hand slowly slid away from Hope's face. True to her silent promise, Hope didn't make a sound.

  The warrior pulled back into the gloom. Hope heard the soft rustle of leather and the intake of a deep breath. For a few agonizing seconds, the woman whispered an incantation in a language that sounded like grinding stones, her hand pressed flat against her own chest.

  When the warrior pulled her hand away from her sternum, she was holding a sphere of pure, freezing blue fire.

  Without a word of warning, she shoved the flame directly into Hope's chest.

  Hope arched her back, a silent scream tearing at her throat. It didn't burn. It was a suffocating, glacial cold that bypassed her ribs and sank directly into her heart. It felt intensely invasive, like swallowing a shard of dry ice. But as the cold spread through her veins, the blinding agony in her shredded leg vanished. Her torn muscles knitted together beneath the skin; her exhausted lungs expanded freely. When the freezing sensation finally settled into a dull, pulsing ache, Hope realized she could move perfectly. She felt stronger than she had before the Nightwalkers attacked.

  Hope thought, her mind racing,

  The scarred woman’s earlier words echoed in her memory. Hope stared up at her savior's silhouette. In the pitch black, the woman's eyes caught the ambient, unseen magic of the forest. One burned a vibrant, piercing blue. The other—which had been a milky gray during the fight—now possessed a faint, eerie, luminescent green edge.

  Hope decided silently, lacking a real name for the terrifying stranger.

  Iris reached down, grabbed her spear from the dirt, and tossed a heavy brass object onto Hope's stomach. It was her Lamparina.

  Hope ran her fingers over the cold glass. The wick was completely dead. A heavy knot formed in her throat. The dogma of her order was clear: Her magic was gone. Her dream of becoming a Storyteller was dead in the dirt.

  She clipped the useless brass lantern to her belt and scrambled to her feet, hurrying to catch up with Iris, who was already melting into the treeline.

  The environment around them was oppressive. The sky was an unnatural, absolute black—devoid of stars, moons, or the subtle textures of clouds. The Endless Night had swallowed the world whole.

  Hope stuck close to the warrior's heels, terrified of being separated. Iris moved with silent, predatory grace. The only visual anchor Hope had was the iron head of Iris's spear, which occasionally pulsed with that faint, ghostly light, illuminating the etched symbol of a raven perched atop a chained book. Every time the weapon flashed, Iris abruptly changed their direction, navigating an invisible maze.

  But as they walked deeper into the oppressive, suffocating dark, Hope realized something strange. The freezing blue ember nestled inside her own chest was pulsing in perfect rhythm with Iris's footsteps. It was a tether. Even if the spear's light died forever, even if the forest swallowed them in absolute blindness, Hope knew with chilling certainty that she could close her eyes and follow that cold ache straight to the scarred woman.