The three cloaked figures emerge from the treeline at the head of the gully. The leader wears a crude crown of antlers and carries a gnarled wooden staff. The other two wield rusted daggers. They haven't spotted me yet, but they're scanning the area.

  I whisper the arcane words, feeling the raw power of the void coalesce within me. I point my finger at the antlered leader, and a beam of crackling emerald energy erupts from my hand. The beam slams into the cultist leader, knocking the wind from him. He stumbles but doesn't fall, his eyes blazing with fury as they lock onto my position in the shadows of the gully. "There! The interloper!" he snarls.

  I activate Expeditious Retreat, feeling a surge of unnatural speed flow through my muscles. I backpedal quickly down the gully, putting another 30 feet of distance between myself and the cultists. I'm now about 60 feet from them, with the steep banks of the stream bed offering some cover.

  From his perch on the high bank, Berko lets loose an arrow. It flies true and strikes one of the dagger-wielding cultists (Cultist B) in the shoulder. The man cries out in pain but remains standing.

  The leader raises his gnarled staff and chants in that same guttural tongue. A bolt of sickly green energy streaks from the staff's tip directly at me!

  I react instantly, throwing up a hand and barking the incantation for Shield. A shimmering, translucent barrier of arcane force snaps into existence before me. The sickly green bolt of energy impacts the barrier and dissipates with a sizzling hiss.

  The cultist leader snarls in frustration.

  The cultist Berko shot clutches his wounded shoulder but charges down the steep bank into the gully toward me, dagger raised. He closes half the distance but is still 30 feet away. The other dagger-wielder follows his companion, scrambling down into the gully.

  The cultists are closing in. The leader is preparing another spell. Berko is readying another arrow.

  I focus my will, targeting the antlered leader. A psychic lance, invisible and silent, shoots from my mind toward his. The cultist leader clutches his head and lets out a sharp cry of pain. Silver light flickers behind his eyes for a moment.

  I retreat again, the magical speed granted by Expeditious Retreat propelling me. I don't retreat straight back; instead, I scramble up the side of the gully opposite Berko, using roots and rocks for handholds. I then move laterally along the bank, circling around to put a thick cluster of trees between myself and the cultist leader.

  I end my turn roughly 80 feet from the leader (now with partial cover from trees), and about 50 feet from his two dagger-wielding minions in the gully below.

  Berko fires another arrow at Cultist B, the one he wounded earlier. The arrow strikes true, sinking deep into the man's thigh. Cultist B cries out and collapses to one knee in the gully, grievously wounded but not yet out.

  The leader shakes off the lingering psychic pain and glares at my new position. He raises his staff again, chanting. This time, he doesn't target me directly. Instead, he points it at the ground near Berko's perch.

  A patch of earth and thorny bushes at the base of Berko's bank erupts in a tangle of grasping, animated vines! They whip toward Berko's legs. The vines snap at his ankles but he manages to leap back just in time, avoiding their grasp. He's safe for now, but pinned on his high ground.

  The cultist in the gully clutches his bleeding thigh and tries to stand. He fails, remaining on one knee. He uses his time to try to staunch the wound.

  Seeing his companion down and me on the move, Cultist C abandons chasing me. Instead, he begins scrambling up the bank toward Berko's position, dagger between his teeth!

  I move quickly along the bank, using the trees for cover as I advance toward the struggling Cultist C. He's halfway up, his ascent slow and awkward. He's an easy target.

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  With Hex active, I unleash another Eldritch Blast. The beam of crackling emerald energy lances down from my position on the bank, striking Cultist C squarely in the back as he clings to the slope.

  The blast slams into the Cultist's back. He lets out a choked scream, his fingers losing their grip on the rocky soil. He plummets the ten feet back down into the gully, landing with a sickening thud on top of his wounded companion. He does not get up.

  Seeing the cultist fall, Berko shifts his aim. He fires at the only remaining immediate threat: the cultist leader.

  His arrow flies true, striking the antlered figure in the arm. The leader staggers but remains standing, his focus broken.

  Enraged and wounded, the leader glares first at Berko, then at me. He seems to realize the tide has turned. Instead of casting another spell, he raises his staff high and brings it down hard on the ground.

  A wave of palpable dread erupts from him—a psychic scream of fury and despair that washes over both Berko and me. The wave of psychic horror washes over me, but my mind—tempered by the alien truths I've already glimpsed and shielded by my patron's gift—stands firm. I feel only a cold, clinical detachment from the fear.

  Berko's eyes go wide with primal terror. He drops his bow, turns, and scrambles away from the edge of the bank, fleeing deeper into the woods to the east. The cultist pinned under his dead companion groans. He manages to shove the body off and struggles to his feet, clutching his wounds. He looks at his fallen ally, then at his fleeing leader's back, and makes a decision. He turns and begins limping hurriedly after Berko, not to chase him, but to escape the gully entirely.

  I focus my will. The psychic curse that felled the minion lifts from his corpse and flies like a shadowy arrow to settle upon the antlered leader. I point my finger at him again. The Eldritch Blast screams across the distance, striking the cultist leader in the chest with concussive force. The blast hits with devastating effect. The cultist leader is thrown backward off his feet. He lands hard on the frost-crusted ground, his staff clattering away. He lies still, a dark stain spreading across his robes.

  The guttural chanting from the north has ceased. An eerie silence falls over this part of the woods, broken only by the moaning wind and the ragged breathing of the fleeing cultist.

  Through my raven's distant sight, I see: The fourth cultist at the standing stones has stopped chanting. He is staring northward, toward the amorphous darkness beyond the obelisk. That darkness is no longer pulsing rhythmically; it is writhing, as if agitated. The bound man, Arlen, still hangs limp from the obelisk.

  I move cautiously across the bank to where the antlered cultist lies. The stench of ozone, burnt cloth, and spilled blood is strong. My silver eyes scan him first—no magical auras cling to his body or his simple, ragged robes beyond the fading residue of his own spells.

  A quick search reveals:

  - A gnarled wooden staff: It's just that—a twisted length of dark wood, worn smooth in places from use. It has no innate magic but was clearly his focus.

  - A small leather pouch tied at his belt containing 12 gold pieces and 5 silver pieces.

  - A crude iron dagger tucked into his boot.

  - Most interestingly, tucked inside his robes is a folded piece of vellum. It's covered in tight, spidery script in Common.

  The note reads:

  "The Anchor holds fast at the old oak. The Conduit weakens but still breathes. The harvest is nearly complete. The Dreamer stirs. When the third chant concludes at moon's zenith, the Gateway will thin enough for a Whisper to pass. Bring the final offering—the one who bears the silver sight. His pattern is unique. It will please the Dreamer and strengthen the hold."

  It's signed with a rough drawing of a coiled spiral—the same sigil that was on the effigy.

  To the north, through my raven's eyes, I see the lone remaining cultist at the standing stones suddenly turn and run, abandoning the obelisk and Arlen entirely. He flees into the woods to the northwest.

  The writhing darkness beyond the stones seems to... lean forward. A tendril of pure shadow detaches and lazily brushes against the obsidian obelisk.

  The one who bears the silver sight.

  The phrase echoes in my mind as I stare at the vellum. My hand instinctively rises to touch the skin beneath my own silver eyes—the permanent, alien gift from my patron.

  The evidence is damning. The note was found on the leader of this hunting party, who came directly for me after I broke their Anchor. They weren't just defending their ritual; they were collecting me. "His pattern is unique." The cult, "The Coiled Promise" or "The Unwoven," doesn't just want to harvest life-force. They are trying to feed something—a "Dreamer"—and they believe my particular… configuration… would be a potent offering.

  A cold knot tightens in my stomach. This isn't a random encounter. My investigation into the ledger, my journey here… was I drawn? Or have I been a target all along?

  Through the raven's eyes, I watch that shadowy tendril caress the obelisk. Arlen still hangs there, a silent conduit to whatever horror lies beyond.