Draven's eyes hardened. A trap.
Shadows peeled from the tree-trunks like damp parchment, coalescing into human shapes beneath the slivered moon. Five of them, perhaps six—difficult to count when their outlines kept flickering between substance and smoke. Their cloaks hung wrong, as though draped over emptiness; light brushed the fabric, then vanished as if swallowed. At their sleeves, ghost-green sparks crawled along tendons, skipping from knuckle to knuckle like sickness made visible.
Draven's pupils narrowed. Green illumination meant soul-binding runes—unstable, prone to backfire but lethal in close quarters. The red glow under their hoods confirmed the order: Soul-Reapers, disciples of carrion gods who harvested spirits as currency. He adjusted his stance a fraction, weight settling on the balls of his feet, cloak swinging open just enough to free both hilts.
"The Ghost-Hunter walks again."
