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Branches cracked. A low rustle, heavy. The sound of the forest fleeing. Creatures scrambled through brush. An exhalation like a storm wind carried through the clearing.

Kitsa screamed.

Idonea’s gut knotted as the daemon stepped from the shadows.

It was a Leshak, a forest guardian’s body hollowed out and puppeteered by a Lesser Noble daemon, its anchor sigil burned into its chest like a brand. Idonea's stomach tightened. Elzhbeta had been in the forest, for this.

Its skin was bark-grey and cracked, glowing from within as if something simmered beneath it. Vines hung from its limbs, twitching with stolen life. Its antlers were jagged, split, blackened with daemon-fire. Its eyes burned a sickly, unnatural yellow.

Its body cast no shadow.

The forest light glowed faintly around it, a poisonous green haze. The air thickened, sharp with the reek of resin and rot.

Idonea’s breath broke. Was this why Elzhbeta was in the forest?

This monster was older than the village. Older than the Templars. A thing bound to the land and corrupted through a sigil she couldn't yet see.

Idonea knew this daemon was not responsible for the witches’ deaths.

The Leshak advanced, whip-vines sprouting from its arms, dragging across the snow.

The Templars raised their weapons, but none moved.

The Grand Templar raised his blade, voice ringing false and loud. “Back, daemon!”

The creature didn’t even turn its head. Its gaze drifted to Kitsa, slow and calculating.

Idonea slid closer. Her fingers flew across the ropes binding Kitsa.

“Keep quiet,” she whispered.

Kitsa’s body stiffened, then stilled. Her breath came shallow. Idonea worked faster, heart hammering.

The Grand Templar shouted again. His men stirred, weapons scraping against armour.

“Hold it!”

The Leshak crouched low, whip lashing, and the ground trembled.

Idonea tore through the final knot. Kitsa sagged against her, freed at last, and she guided her gently behind the tree. For one stupid heartbeat, Idonea nearly hugged her.

Then she stepped out. The Current surged around her, eager, violent. It recognised the daemon’s presence as surely as it recognised her blood. She’d pricked her thumb with her dagger.

She spread her fingers wide, the air crackling around her.

The Templars turned, eyes widening.

“Idonea,” Alcaeus gasped. “No! Run!”

But she couldn’t. The Current clawed at her ribs, demanding release. She dug her heels into the earth, nostrils flaring as the first warmth of blood tickled her upper lip.

The daemon’s whip cracked, striking sparks against armoured shields. Templars flew backward, and the circle collapsed into chaos.

Idonea drew in deeper. Current folded around her palms like molten glass. Her vision shimmered. The daemon’s form swam, too close, too sharp.

“Brothers!” the Grand Templar said, voice high with alarm. “Subdue the witch before she turns it upon us!”

He retreated backwards, away from the daemon, letting others take the brunt.