With a thought, I send the raven soaring northward. Observe. Report. The psychic tether sharpens.

  I turn and sprint toward the eastern edge of the clearing, angling to intercept the fleeing figure before they disappear completely into the woods. As I run, I whisper the incantation for Expeditious Retreat, channeling arcane energy to push my physical limits. I can feel the burst of speed flowing through me, quickening my steps and sharpening my senses.

  The fleeing figure is moving fast, but they're hampered by the undergrowth. I break into the trees, following the sound of their panicked flight. Branches whip at my face. The air grows colder, the shadows deeper.

  Within moments, I spot them—a ragged silhouette ahead, stumbling over roots and fallen branches. They are not looking back, their entire focus on escape.

  My raven's-eye view floods my mind. It sees the primary ritual site, perhaps half a mile north, nestled within a natural amphitheater of standing stones. The stones pulse with a malevolent, purple-black energy. At the center, a towering obelisk of obsidian reflects the faint starlight with unnerving sharpness. Around the obelisk writhe four cloaked figures, chanting in that guttural tongue.

  And pinned against the obelisk, spread-eagled and bound, is the man whose cries I heard—his body emaciated, his eyes wide with terror.

  But the raven is not focusing on the figures or the victim. It is fixated on something else moving just beyond the circle of stones. Something vast and amorphous, a shifting darkness that seems to warp the very air around it. It pulses in tune with the obelisk, and the chanting.

  The primary ritual site is not merely a conduit. It's a gateway.

  I am almost upon the fleeing figure. I can see the desperation etched on their face, the terror in their wide eyes. They don't notice me until I'm practically on top of them.

  "Stop!" I shout, my voice cutting through the forest's oppressive silence. "I'm not with them!"

  The figure—a young man, no older than twenty, with a gaunt face and wild eyes—stumbles to a halt. He whirls around, raising his crude shortbow with trembling hands. The arrow is pointed shakily at my chest.

  "Stay back!" he gasps, his voice raw with fear. "You broke the Anchor! They'll know! They'll come for us both!"

  He’s terrified, not aggressive. His clothes are peasant garb, torn and stained with mud and what might be soot. He looks half-starved.

  Through my raven’s eyes, I see the scene at the standing stones intensify. The four chanting figures have stopped their circling. They are now facing outward, as if sensing the disruption. One of them—taller than the others, wearing antlers affixed to their hood—points a bony finger toward the south… toward us.

  The bound man at the obelisk slumps in his bonds, unconscious or dead.

  The vast, amorphous darkness beyond the stones ripples.

  I keep my hands visible, making no sudden moves. "I broke it to stop them," I say, my voice low and urgent. "Who are they? What are they doing? Tell me everything you know."

  The young man's eyes dart between me and the northern darkness. His bow lowers a fraction. He’s fighting panic.

  "Th-they call themselves the Unwoven," he stammers, the words tumbling out. "Came to our village—Gallow's Hollow—a fortnight past. Said they needed 'volunteers' for a great work. Offered gold. My... my brother, Arlen, he went. He never came back."

  He swallows hard, tears welling in his eyes. "I followed. Found this place three days ago. They've been... feeding him. To that thing in the stones. Draining his life into the big black rock. The little doll in the clearing—they said it kept the 'harvest' steady. Made it painless." He spits the last word with venom.

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  "Tonight was the final night. The 'True Dreamer' was supposed to wake." He shudders violently. "You broke the doll. The feeding stopped. But now... now they're angry. And it's hungry."

  Through my raven, I see the antlered figure begin to stride purposefully southward, followed by two of the others. The fourth remains at the obelisk, chanting over the slumped form of Arlen.

  The amorphous darkness beyond the stones stretches, tendrils of shadow seeping toward the ground.

  "We have to run," the young man pleads, his voice breaking. "They'll kill us both! Or worse!"

  "Running won't save your brother," I say, my voice cutting through his panic. "Look." I gesture northward with my chin. "Through my familiar's eyes, I see them. Three are already coming this way. The fourth stays with Arlen at the stone. If we run, they'll hunt us down in these woods—or finish the ritual with your brother and unleash whatever that 'True Dreamer' is. Our only chance is to turn their hunt into a trap."

  His face pales further, but a flicker of desperate resolve replaces some of the terror. "A... a trap? With what? I have this bow and five arrows. And you..."

  "I have more than arrows," I reply, my silver eyes gleaming faintly in the gloom. "We have the terrain. We have surprise—they expect a fleeing peasant, not an ambush. And we have this." I point back toward the clearing where the effigy lies shattered. "Their Anchor is broken. Their ritual is wounded. They're off-balance."

  I meet his wide-eyed gaze. "What's your name?"

  "Berko," he whispers.

  "Berko. You know these woods better than they do. Is there high ground nearby? A place where the path narrows? Somewhere we can force them into a choke point?"

  He thinks frantically, then nods, pointing east-southeast. "The old stream bed. It's dry this time of year. The banks are steep—six feet high in places. There's only one easy way down... and up."

  "Good." Through my raven, I see the three cultists—led by the antlered one—moving at a steady, grim pace through the trees. They'll reach the edge of the clearing in less than two minutes.

  "We set up there," I say. "You take the high bank with your bow. I'll be on the opposite side. When they're in the gully, we hit them from both sides."

  Berko takes a shaky breath, then nods again, more firmly this time. The need to save his brother is overriding his fear.

  We move quickly, Berko leading the way through the dense undergrowth toward the dry stream bed.

  Berko leads me to the dry stream bed, a narrow gully snaking through the trees. The banks are steep and overgrown with thorny bushes. He points to a spot where the bank is highest, offering a clear view down into the gully. "I'll be there," he whispers, nocking an arrow.

  I nod and slip silently down the opposite bank, crouching behind a cluster of thick-trunked trees at the bottom of the gully. The waning light barely penetrates the canopy, casting the stream bed in deep shadow. The ground is damp and cold.

  Closing my eyes, I focus my mind. I whisper the incantation for Hex, channeling the subtle energy of the curse. The energy coils within me, waiting to be unleashed.

  My raven sends a mental image: the three cultists have reached the clearing. The antlered figure pauses, sniffing the air like a hound. He points directly toward the east, toward us. They know which way we went.

  They’re moving faster now.

  Berko is perched on the high bank above, arrow drawn, face grim. I can hear his ragged breaths, barely audible over the rustling of the wind.

  I grip my dagger, my heart pounding. The ambush is set.

  The cultists are close. I can hear the crunch of their boots on the fallen leaves.

  Their hunt is about to begin.