Halven lies in the mud where Kynes left them, one hand shaking, the other jabbing at the seal on Kynes's palm. The gold threads have burned out, but their heat has not faded. It gathers there like a bruise of light.

The forest tightens around them. Black motes drift harder. The air presses down, heavy as wet cloth, and Kynes's marked hand answers with a sick violet pulse.

The seal is active, not dormant.

From deeper in the trees, three shapes shift into view at the edge of the fog, hooded and still. They do not rush. They wait, as if for a signal only they can feel.

The other two agents spread apart, boxing the path while the pressure in the woods swells toward a crushing hush. Kynes stands at the center of the beacon, and the hunt begins to close.

Kynes lifts his hand and the air obeys. The nearest agent locks first, throat and ribs cinched by invisible force, then folds inward with a sharp, puppet-like jerk.

The Leftmost Agent drops without a sound, hood caving into the mud. Black motes swirl around the body as Kynes shifts the pressure sideways.

The Middle Agent stiffens against the crush, boots scraping furrows in the path, then goes still. Fog hisses through the gap where breath should be.

The Rightmost Agent turns to flee, but the force catches them mid-step and drives them down hard. Their predatory calm breaks into a single, stunned spasm.

Halven recoils in the mud, staring at the three bodies, then at Kynes's glowing palm. The beacon on the seal flickers brighter, as if the woods have noticed the order of the killings.

The path falls briefly silent except for the thickening fog and the soft drift of black motes. Three hooded shapes lie crumpled ahead, and Halven is still last, alive, and wide-eyed.