Richard's eyes fluttered open slowly, adjusting to the sharp, immediate brightness that pierced the room's gloom.
'Is this…the afterlife?' he rasped, his voice a dry, reedy sound that felt alien in his throat.
'Young Master? Are you awake?'
That Voice! It was a sound Richard had never expected to encounter again. He froze instantly.
'I…I know that voice. Lucien?'
'You're awake! Thank the Heavens, Young Master!' Lucien's reply was laced with genuine, shaking relief.
Richard pushed himself upright almost instantly. The deep, chronic ache that had been his constant companion for decades was suddenly absent. His body felt unnervingly light, unfamiliar in its easy comfort.
His gaze swept across the room, taking in the familiar, heavy oak furniture, the precisely arranged desk, and the thick velvet curtains.
'No way…' he whispered.
He lifted a trembling hand, running it over his face and chest. Smooth skin. No scars, no burns, only the soft, unmarred flesh of youth. The miracle was horrifyingly real.
His heartbeat accelerated, as he realized the truth.
This was his bedroom, exactly as it had been… twenty years ago!
'But....how?' he murmured, the realization striking him with the force of a collapsing structure.
Lucien stood near the foot of the bed. His expression was a careful mixture of concern and relief. He hesitated to speak again for some reason.
Richard didn't utter another word. He simply sat, desperately trying to map the impossible journey that had deposited him back at the point of origin: The Duchy of Frostpeak.
--
[The Duchy of Frostpeak]
The Serdin family was a name synonymous with magical power across the continent, renowned for its formidable lineage of mages.
They held sway over a vast territory located east of the Falconridge Kingdom--the formidable Duchy of Frostpeak.
Richard was the sole heir to this influential house, a family whose history was etched in the achievements of countless archmages.
His father, Duke Voltair Serdin, was recognized as one of the most powerful mages of the era, having achieved the 9th Circle--a feat only a handful of beings on the continent could equal.
The Duchy held immense wealth, yet its terrain proved its most effective defense.
To the east stood the deadly expanse of the Frostpeak Mountains, a perilous labyrinth of ice and relentless blizzards.
The west bordered the Falconridge Kingdom itself, which also presented no real threat. When Voltair had reached the 9th circle, the King of Falconridge had personally sought a defensive alliance, a pact the Duke eventually accepted.
The northern and southern borders of Frostpeak comprised a patchwork of smaller baronies, viscountcies, counties, and a smaller duchy known as the "Dorka" Duchy.
Most counties and smaller territories on this side of the continent pledged fealty either to one of the two duchies--Frostpeak and Dorka or to the Falconridge Kingdom. The rest maintained precarious independence.
Despite its seeming stability, the great Serdin family would, in time, fracture and their downfall could be traced to one man--the seventeenth ruler of Frostpeak, and the second to bear the Serdin name: Duke Richard Serdin.
--
[The Fall of the Duchy]
Following his father's retirement, Richard had inherited the Ducal title. He was already an 8th-circle archmage, yet he lacked the decisive temperament and the political acumen essential for the position.
He became reclusive, shunning all social gatherings, speaking only when protocol demanded, and rarely to anyone outside his personal attendant. His own family openly questioned his fitness to govern, and the power-hungry vassals, sensing a fatal weakness, grew increasingly restive.
In time, the surrounding barons, viscounts, and counts serving under Frostpeak coalesced and dared to rebel, viewing their withdrawn Duke as an easy, isolated target.
The conclusion was tragically inevitable.
The Serdins were crushed, victims of their ruler's isolation and the resulting internal disunity.
That was the calamitous end of the once-great Serdin family and Richard? He was forever branded the worst duke in history of the entire continent. Even with all that, he had somehow survived the attack of the allied territories, but was forced to flee.
--
[Present]
Richard's knuckles tightened as his hand twisted the bedsheet, his mind trapped in the ghosts of his past.
'Lucien?' Richard called out, with his voice still slightly hoarse.
'Yes, Young Master?' Lucien answered, composed and attentive.
Richard paused, gathering his thoughts. The questions were too numerous and the truth was too impossible to explain. Caution was necessary.
'What exactly occurred to me?' he asked, maintaining a calm, inquiring tone. To Lucien, he remained merely a quiet, isolated fourteen-year-old boy.
'You returned from your closed-room training two days ago,' Lucien explained. 'You stated you were exhausted and retired immediately.'
'You have been in a deep sleep since then,' Lucien finished.
'Ah...right...' Richard thought. That explanation was plausible. Richard, in his previous life, was a kid who was detached from society under his own will. He never talked with anyone, other than Lucien. And when he actually felt lonely, he would lock himself up in a room and call it "closed-room training".
'What is the date, Lucien?' Richard continued, not letting his emotions take over.
'It is January 3rd, Year 188, Young Master' Lucien replied.
As soon as those words entered Richard's ear, he stiffened up a little, even though he knew that he had travelled 20 years in the past.
This stiffness that he suddenly experienced was because of the recurring memory of his tragic past.
He stood four critical years before he would inherit the Ducal title.
He had been granted a reprieve: Time to correct every fatal error.
He had realized already that following his old, solitary path would ensure the same disaster.
He had to fundamentally alter his lifestyle: his choices, his entire mindset, and, most crucially, his relationships.
The immediate obstacle was how to initiate such a radical change without immediately drawing suspicion.
Then, an idea solidified. The simplest, most direct route involved engaging his family, especially his father, immediately, establishing trust and communication first.
So, richard decided he would speak up that very day, during dinner.
--
[Later that evening, during dinner]
When the time arrived, and the quiet ritual of the evening meal commenced, Richard finally found the resolve to act. Interrupting the uncomfortable silence that typically defined their family dinners, he stated clearly,
'Father, I require your assistance.'
The table instantly fell silent; the soft sound of silverware scraping ceramic vanished.
His mother looked genuinely startled.
Duke Voltair was caught completely off guard. His eyes widened, and an almost poignant half-smile touched his lips.
'Did you just…speak?' the Duke asked, holding a mixture of disbelief and pride in his tone.
Richard's expression remained composed, though inwardly, he sighed heavily.
The fact that the mere utterance of a single sentence could so thoroughly shock a 9th-circle archmage like his father spoke volumes about his former self.
Yet, deep down, Richard felt a wave of satisfaction at their reaction. It finally answered one of the many agonizing questions that had tormented him in his previous life: 'Did my family ever truly care about me?'
That single moment marked a profound change. For the first time in his life, No. For the first time in both his lives, the family dinner felt less confined.
--
[Somewhere in the Palace a few minutes later]
Clara, the newest housemaid, was sharing gossip with Beryl, a much more experienced retainer.
'Did you hear him? The Young Master, he actually spoke! I honestly believed he was mute, perhaps a strange consequence of that intense mage training.'
Beryl rolled her eyes dismissively.
'Mute? He was purposefully avoiding us, dear. He hasn't managed a complete sentence to anyone but Lucien. It is arrogance. Perhaps pure social ineptitude instead.'
A heavy, exasperated sigh came from Thomas, the Duke's personal footman, seated nearby.
'It is a tragedy. The Duke is a magnificent man, a Ninth-Circle Archmage, yet his heir shows greater interest in faded old books than engaging with the living world. Baron Vayne has already begun spreading rumors about the Serdins' "weak lineage" all around.'
'Well, perhaps that narrative is over,' Beryl countered with a sly smile.
'Young Master spoke! The dam of silence has finally burst. Watch how quickly the political wind shifts now that the heir might actually be demonstrating presence.'
Thomas snorted, 'One sentence will not erase years of silence, Beryl. Yet, it certainly offers a much more interesting subject for conversation than the weather.' He paused, his expression turning serious. 'Still, should the Young Master genuinely begin to change…that would truly be....magnificent."
The servants continued to whisper in awe, and somehow, before long, every soul in the estate knew: The silent heir had finally found his voice.
--
The subsequent morning, Voltair summoned him to his private study.
'Come in,' the Duke said, his tone neutral, yet underscored with curiosity. 'What prompted you to seek my assistance, son?'
Richard replied almost instantly.
'I wish to know more about the Falconridge Kingdom's Annual Tournament,' He stated without the slightest hesitation.
'And what precisely do you wish to know?' the Duke inquired.
'I would appreciate any and all information you possess regarding the event's structure,' Richard replied, maintaining his composed demeanor.
'Hmm.' Voltair leaned back in his heavy chair. After taking a slow sip of tea, the Duke began to explain.
'The tournament is primarily held to unearth hidden talent from across the nation. The King himself observes the final matches and selects a few promising individuals to serve as captains within the royal army. Others who demonstrate ability are recruited into the ranks as soldiers.'
He paused, taking another measured sip before continuing.
'On the fifth day, however, a separate, smaller contest is held specifically for participants under fifteen years of age. Most of these youths are the noble sons representing their families from the surrounding territories.'
'That is…highly informative,' Richard murmured, thinking aloud.
'Did you say something?' the Duke asked sharply.
'Nothing of importance, Father,' Richard quickly assured him.
He had half-expected Voltair to immediately question why someone like him would suddenly express interest in an event. Yet the Duke offered no further comment.
As Richard quietly departed, Voltair did not immediately look back at his papers. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, staring intently at the closed oak door.
'A tournament…' he murmured, a faint smile gracing his lips.
'What could he possibly be thinking..?' Voltair thought at first.
Voltair knew his son possessed genuine brilliance, but that brilliance had been suffocated by crippling shyness and indifference to the world. Richard's silence was a political weakness the ministers were already exploiting.
Voltair nodded slowly, a sense of satisfaction settling over him. He would certainly indulge this sudden curiosity. It was, after all, the first sign of life the boy had shown in years.
--
Richard spent the remainder of the day alone in his room, preoccupied. He could not shed the agonizing weight of his previous life's memories. The mistakes, the deep weakness, the public humiliation--it all remained, as a painfully sharp shard embedded in his consciousness.
He sat by the window, watching the distant lights flicker across the vast land. Snow drifted down lazily, blanketing the outdoor training grounds in a seamless sheet of white. Somewhere in those grounds, the army of Frostpeak trained endlessly, everyday, not showing even a hint of weakness.
Richard recalled how he had avoided these--he had arrogantly believed that magic was the only strength he required. He had thought true power was solely a matter of talent and potential, decided from birth. That belief had been his costliest mistake.
His body had been too frail to withstand prolonged magical combat; his stamina was pitiful. He couldn't sustain a complex barrier spell for more than a few minutes before succumbing to dizziness.
But, unlike last time, that would never happen again.
--
The next morning, long before sunrise, Richard climbed out of bed.
Lucien entered the room with a lit candle, nearly dropping it in shock when he saw his young master already fully dressed in light training clothes.
'Young Master? Why are you awake so early?'
'I am heading to the training grounds,' Richard stated simply, fastening the last leather strap on his boots.
Lucien blinked, thoroughly convinced he had misheard. 'The training grounds, sir? Are you quite serious?'
'Perfectly serious.' Richard glanced at him. 'It has been far too long since I engaged in any practical, meaningful training.'
Lucien opened his mouth to voice a protest, yet seeing the quiet, undeniable determination in Richard's eyes, he simply swallowed the words and nodded reluctantly. 'Then I shall accompany you.'
By the time they reached the grounds, a cold, pale morning light was just beginning to creep over the manor walls. The air was frigid, and the ground glistened with frost.
Dozens of soldiers were already engaged, running laps or performing combat drills under the watchful eye of the knight-captain, Marius.
Their movements gradually slowed as they realized who had approached.
'Is that the Young Master?'
'What is he doing here?'
'Don't tell me he is actually going to train…'
Richard ignored the low murmurs, walking purposefully toward Captain Marius. The man, tall and broad-shouldered, executed a sharp bow.
'Young Master! You honor us with your presence.'
'There is no need for formalities, Captain Marius,' Richard replied calmly. 'I will be straightforward. I intend to participate in today's training.'
The knight hesitated slightly. 'With all due respect, Young Master, these routines are demanding. They are designed for experienced soldiers.'
'That is acceptable,' Richard said firmly. 'Just tell me where to begin.'
After a brief pause, the knight nodded decisively. 'Understood. We commence with a three-lap perimeter run around the grounds.'
Richard joined the line of soldiers without another word. The field was wide and open, the biting cold air sharp against his face. He began to run and the unified sound of boots struck the frozen earth.
The physical strain set in quickly. His body was unaccustomed to such demanding exertion. His lungs burned, and his legs began protesting with sharp pain, yet he clenched his jaw and maintained his pace. The soldiers occasionally glanced at him, expecting him to break rank and quit. He persevered.
By the completion of the third lap, he was drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. His vision momentarily blurred, but he refused to slow or fall behind. When the run finally concluded, he leaned heavily against a wooden post, concentrating on steadying his frantic breathing.
Marius approached, concern visible on his face. 'That is certainly enough, Young Master. You have completed far more than expected.'
Richard shook his head. 'Not yet. What is the next exercise?'
The man hesitated again, then sighed in resignation. 'Push-ups, squats, core work. Standard strength conditioning.'
Richard dropped to the ground and immediately started the next set. His arms were shaking violently after only a dozen push-ups, but he forced himself onward. Every repetition served as a brutal reminder of his old and weak self.
Lucien stood near the edge of the field, his face filled with worry. 'Young Master, please, you must stop! You will collapse at this rate!'
Richard completed his final push-up and looked up. His face was streaked with sweat, yet his eyes were clear and calm. 'Lucien. If I cannot handle this modest level of exertion, I do not deserve to bear the Serdin name.'
That declaration instantly silenced the attendant.
When the physical drills finally ended, the knight led him to a quieter, cordoned-off section of the field reserved for the mages' training. Everything here felt perceptibly different.
Several robed figures were standing in loose formation, diligently manipulating spheres of mana between their hands.
Richard sat down cross-legged on the cold ground and began to circulate his mana.
Mana was the lifeblood of all magic, the current that sustained every spell. Every mage was born with a fixed reserve of mana, housed within a chamber near the heart known as the Mana Core--or simply, the Core. This reservoir could be expanded over time through breakthroughs, or in other words, by advancing to the next circle.
Without having a control over it, even the most gifted mage would be powerless. To control mana was to command the very essence of magic itself.
Richard knew he couldn't just sit down and expect mastery over his mana to come on a whim, but what he DID know was that every journey had to begin somewhere.
His breathing slowed and deepened as he focused entirely on the internal flow. The energy was little in his younger body, yet it was steady, moving through his core like a quiet, reliable river.
He extended his hand, and a small, vibrant orb of clear blue light flickered above his palm. It wavered for a moment. A few of the nearby mages turned to watch, murmuring among themselves.
Richard ignored the voices. He was fixated on the sensation--the powerful pulse flowing through him. His mana was pure. While he was focused on it, the nearby area was filled with a strange, calming sensation, and the veteran mages who were present there were left in awe
When he finally opened his eyes, the ambience faded instantly. The Captain, who was watching, approached him, visibly impressed.
'Your control is truly excellent, Young Master. I had not anticipated this degree of mastery at your age.'
'It is still rough,' Richard said, flexing his tired fingers. 'Refinement will come.'
He stood up slowly, his muscles ached with exhaustion. 'That will suffice for today. I will return again tomorrow.'
'Yes, sir,' the knight acknowledged, bowing slightly. 'We will ensure arrangements are made for your regular participation.'
As Richard turned to depart, a few of the nearby soldiers offered deep, genuine bows. It was not mockery; it was respect. They might not fully comprehend the reason for the Young Master's sudden transformation, yet they could not deny his determination.
Lucien rushed to his side the instant they cleared the training grounds. 'Young Master, what has inspired this change? You have never trained with such intensity before.'
Richard said nothing and only offered him a tired smile.
Lucien studied him for a long moment before finally sighing. 'At the very least, allow me to prepare a strong recovery tonic. You will be cripplingly sore for days.'
'That would be amazing!,' Richard admitted.
--
Later that day, before sleep, he began his dedicated mana circulation once more.
'I have been given a second chance....I don't know how.....but I don't care. I must utilize every second of it, ' he thought to himself.
A gentle knock interrupted his thoughts.
'Young Master?' Lucien's blurted out from outside.
'Dinner has been served.'
Richard rose slowly, even though, his muscles protested. 'I will be there momentarily, ' he replied.
--
[In the dining hall]
The rest of the family was already seated. The rich scent of roasted meat and warm, fresh bread filled the air.
When Richard entered and took his, a slight himt of hesitation ran over his mother's face. His hair was still slightly damp from washing, and faint bruises marked his arms.
'Richard?' his mother asked, concern plain. 'Were you out....training?'
'Yes,' he replied calmly.
Richard continued, 'I was at the grounds testing my mana and endurance. It has been far too long since I engaged in any proper physical work.'
His father looked up from his seat at the head of the table. 'Physical training, you say?'
'Yes,' Richard confirmed. 'I recognize that my body is in bad condition. I shall correct that flaw.'
For a brief moment, a deep silence settled in the dining room. Then, the Duke smiled faintly, 'That's good to hear,'
His mother, too, nodded in quiet approval.
After dinner concluded, Richard politely excused himself and returned to his room. He lay on his bed thinking that tomorrow, and every following day, he would be present at the training grounds. He would go not as a fragile mage, but as a man dedicated to rebuilding himself from the foundation up.
The day's rigorous training had certainly exacted a toll, yet it was a welcome, honest pain. He loosened his collar and stretched his shoulders.
'A decent start,' he murmured, rotating his wrist to ease the stiffness. His mana control, surprisingly, felt more stable than he'd anticipated for his age.
Lucien entered quietly, holding a small tray with a steaming ceramic cup. 'Young Master, your recovery tonic.'
'Ah, impeccable timing.' Richard accepted the cup and nodded his appreciation. 'What is the general sentiment regarding today's events?'
Lucien hesitated. 'The servants were quite shocked, to put it mildly. No one expected you to train alongside the soldiers. However, if I may say so, I think they were genuinely impressed.'
'That is acceptable,' Richard said, leaning back slightly. 'Let them discuss it. That is preferable to being completely forgotten.'
Lucien chuckled softly, a sound of gentle approval. 'You have changed, Young Master. It is a good change.'
Richard offered no verbal response. He simply gazed out the window, watching the snow continue to drift across the training grounds.
--
The following few days adhered to a strict, identical pattern. Richard woke before dawn, joined the soldiers for their arduous physical drills, and then trained quietly alone afterward to meticulously refine his mana control.
His body, initially fragile and rebellious, began to experience a steady adaptation. The deep burning in his muscles lessened day by day, and his breathing grew markedly steadier. He avoided reckless pushing, instead building a strong, unbreakable rhythm.
By the end of the week, even the most skeptical ones had completely stopped questioning his presence.
'Morning, Young Master!'
'Good to see you back with us!'
The soldiers had grown accustomed to his quiet, determined figure running alongside them. Moreover, his focused silence spokevolumes.
In mere days, Richard had almost completely changed the way people around him, thought of him.
It did not take long for word of this change to reach the Duke.
One evening, as Richard was reviewing a few old, detailed notes on fundamental elemental theory, a sharp knock came at his door.
'Young Master, His Grace wishes to see you in his private office,' a butler announced from outside.
Richard stood immediately. 'Now?'
'Yes, sir.'
He followed the butler through the dim corridors of the manor. When he entered, Duke Voltair Serdin was seated behind his massive oak desk, carefully sorting through a pile of parchment.
'Father, you requested my presence?'
Voltair looked up, his sharp eyes scrutinizing Richard for a long moment before he gestured for his son to sit. 'You have been training with the soldiers everyday now, isn't it?'
'That is correct,' Richard replied in a respectful manner.
'That is entirely unlike you.' Voltair leaned back slightly. 'When I first heard it, I assumed they were rumors, until, Marius himself confirmed your commitment.'
Richard met his father's eyes calmly.
For a moment, the Duke remained silent. But eventually spoke, "You sound different, son. You're way more grounded than before."
'I have had sufficient time to deeply reflect, Father.'
Voltair folded his arms, considering. 'In that case, I have a matter for you to attend to.'
Richard tilted his head slightly. 'An assignment?'
'A small mission,' Voltair clarified.
'There have been increasing, unusual activities recently reported in the northern villages. I was preparing to dispatch one of our routine reconnaissance teams to investigate; instead, you will go.'
He paused, looking directly into Richard's eyes. 'You will be safely accompanied by Knight Commander Gareth and a senior mage. I want you to observe how the world outside truly operates. Consider this a test.'
Richard considered the request for a moment before giving a firm nod. 'Understood.'
'Good.' Voltair returned his attention to the papers. 'You will depart tomorrow morning. Report directly and only to me upon your return.'
As Richard stood to leave, Voltair added, his voice firm, 'And Richard--do not treat this like any other lesson from a textbook. Treat it as reality. Here, the world won't wait for you. There is a crucial difference between the two.'
'I will,' Richard promised, executing a small, respectful bow before walking out.
--
[The Next Day]
Morn arrived with an eerie quiet. The snow had intensified overnight, blanketing the entire region of Frostpeak in a stunning vista of silver and white. Richard stood by the training yard, watching as the knights diligently prepared the robust carriage that would transport him north.
Every breath he took emerged as mist, coiling momentarily.
Lucien hurried toward him, carrying a satchel filled with potent recovery tonics and a small, well-honed dagger.
'Everything is ready, Young Master. Sir Gareth--a Tier 7 swordsman--and Elwin--a 6th-circle mage--will accompany you precisely as instructed.'
Richard nodded and adjusted the heavy cloak around his shoulders.
'Excellent. Let's Depart then.'
As the stable hands finished securing the last of the supplies, Duke Voltair suddenly appeared on the steps of the manor.
His powerful presence immediately brought all activity to a halt.
'Richard,' the Duke said, his voice ringing clearly against the bitter wind. 'Observe, learn, and think before you commit to action.'
Richard bowed slightly. 'Understood, Father.'
Voltair studied him for a moment. 'Good. Then you may proceed.'
The carriage began rolling out from the manor gates, and Richard settled back into the plush seat. Lucien rode alongside on horseback, close enough to respond instantly if needed. Elwin, a stoic man in his fifties with streaks of gray in his beard, maintained a watchful silence. Sir Gareth adjusted the greatsword strapped across his armor.
--
The journey north was cold and tedious. For two full days, the carriage wheels ground loudly over frozen earth and packed snow. Richard spent the time in focused contemplation, occasionally observing the passing landscape--dense, dark pine forests that bordered the wild, unforgiving mountains. He had heard of this region; it was historically a hunting ground.
On the third day, they reached the first settlement, Oakhaven. It was a small, desolate cluster of weathered wooden houses huddled tightly against the biting wind. The villagers who emerged looked gaunt and terrified.
Gareth spoke first, in a commanding voice. 'We are here under the Duke's direct order. What exactly has been occurring here?'
The village elder, a trembling man, stepped hesitantly forward. 'Sir Knight, it is the Crimsonfang Wolves. They have always kept to the forests, but now they attack in broad daylight. They are bigger, faster, and unlike the beasts we remember.'
'Crimsonfang Wolves?' Richard murmured, recalling the creatures from his old textbooks. They were large, yet a modest patrol could easily disperse them.
'Show us the tracks,' Richard instructed, his clear, concise voice cutting through the rising tension.
The elder led them to the immediate edge of the forest line. The snow was heavily churned, and a distinct, coppery smell--the unmistakable scent of blood--hung in the air. Gareth immediately pointed to a clear set of paw prints.
'Impossible,' the knight muttered, kneeling to examine them. 'These are undeniably a wolf's, but look at the sheer size. And the claw depth. A regular Crimsonfang does not possess this much weight.'
Suddenly, Elwin, the mage, sharply interrupted Gareth. 'There's mana in the atmosphere, but…it is severely unusual.' Elwin's tone was heavy with fear.
Richard's heart sank immediately. Corrupted mana was not a natural phenomenon; it strongly indicated a deliberate, hostile, and malign influence. This was an intrusion by a dangerous outside force.
'Dark Magic?' Richard thought, his gaze sweeping the silent, dense forest line.
They followed the tracks deeper into the woods, leaving the fearful villagers behind them. The silence of the woods became thick and oppressive.
After an hour, they reached a small, partially frozen stream. The tracks led directly across it into a shadowy clearing.
'Remain behind me,' Gareth warned, slowly drawing his greatsword. 'I hear something moving.'
Richard and Elwin positioned themselves cautiously behind the knight. Elwin began charging a defensive spell, an anxious blue glow enveloping his trembling hands.
The sound grew suddenly louder: a guttural, wet snarl, followed by a sickening, unmistakable wet crunch.
Gareth crept to the edge of the clearing and instantly froze.
He didn't speak; he slowly raised his hand, palm flat, the universal signal for an immediate, silent retreat.
Richard felt a chill that had nothing to do with the freezing air. The sound of tearing flesh continued, far too loud, far too deep for a common wolf.
As the wet crunching finally ceased, the creature seemingly paused its meal.
The soft stir of pine needles was the only sound left. Richard listened harder, and then he caught something--a deep scrape, the movement of something immense, adjusting its weight.
The atmosphere seemed to tighten around him, charged with a dark presence that felt aware, focused, and too near.
In that instant, Richard understood--whatever waited in the clearing was beyond anything he had imagined.
--