The departure from the cottage was frantic.
Mark and Mason worked with a grim speed, loading a small wooden cart with sacks of grain, dried meat, and every blanket they owned. Raymond and Amanda stood by the hearth one last time, looking at the home where they had raised eight children. It was a house filled with memories of scraped knees and birthday stews, but now it felt like a target painted against the dark backdrop of the trees.
"We cannot take the main road," Betty warned. She was draped in a heavy wool cloak that Beatrice had found in the attic. The Fae looked stronger now, though her silver eyes remained clouded with a deep, ancient fatigue. "The shapeshifters have scouts. If we walk the open path, we are inviting a slaughter."
"Then we take the Deer Trail," Carlson suggested, his hand resting on the handle of the cart. He looked at Elena, who was helping a shaky Hilary into the back of the wagon. "It is narrow and overgrown, but it leads deep into the heart of the forest. Most villagers are too afraid to go that far."
"Good," Betty whispered. "Fear is a wonderful shield."
They set off just as the first hint of gray light began to bleed into the horizon. The forest was not quiet. The trees seemed to groan under the weight of the night, and the wind carried a strange, high-pitched whistling that made Elena’s skin crawl.
Elena walked at the back of the group with Leah. Every few minutes, Elena would glance at her palms. She half-expected to see them glowing pink again, but they were just pale and trembling from the cold.
"You did well, El," Leah said quietly, her bow gripped tight in her hand. "But you need to rest your mind. You look like you haven't slept in a decade."
"I can't," Elena replied, her voice barely a whisper. "Every time I close my eyes, I see those mice. I see the way their bones snapped. It wasn't just magic, Leah. It felt like... like I was peeling back a layer of the world and changing the rules."
"That is exactly what you were doing," Betty called out from the front, her ears sharp enough to catch a falling leaf. "The Daughter of the Moon does not ask for permission. She commands. But a command with no discipline is a death sentence for the commander."
They had been walking for three hours when the forest began to change. The trees grew taller, their trunks thick with glowing blue moss that hummed with a low frequency. The Deer Trail vanished, swallowed by a carpet of white ferns that crunched like glass under their feet.
Suddenly, the horses pulling the cart stopped. They tossed their heads, their eyes rolling in terror.
"What is it?" Mason asked, reaching for his axe.
A thick, purple mist began to roll across the forest floor. It didn't behave like normal fog. It swirled in purposeful patterns, rising up to form a wall in front of them. From within the mist, a dozen tall, thin figures emerged.
They were not Orcs. They were Wood-Wights—skeletal creatures made of rotted bark and vine, with hollow sockets where eyes should be. They were the guardians of the deep forest, and they did not like trespassers.
The Wights raised spears made of sharpened flint. A low, rattling sound filled the air, like a thousand dry sticks breaking at once.
"Stay back!" Mark roared, stepping in front of the cart.
"They won't listen to steel," Betty hissed, her silver eyes flashing. "Elena! You must speak to them. Tell them who you are!"
"I don't know who I am!" Elena cried, her heart racing.
One of the Wights lunged forward, its wooden spear whistling through the air toward Mark.
"No!" Elena screamed.
She didn't wait for the pink light this time. she threw her hands out, picturing a wall of solid ice. Instead of ice, a wave of shimmering lunar silver erupted from her chest. It hit the Wight, but it didn't turn it into a mouse. Instead, the creature froze. Green leaves began to sprout from its rotted limbs. Tiny white flowers bloomed in its eye sockets.
The Wight dropped its spear and fell to its knees, no longer a monster, but a living, breathing tree.
The other Wights stopped. They lowered their spears, their hollow heads tilting in unison. They didn't see an enemy anymore. They saw a gardener.
Meanwhile, the "Bloodhound’s" journey was facing a much more frustrating obstacle.
Aiden’s magnificent black carriage, pulled by six coal-black stallions, was currently stuck in a mud pit the size of a small pond.
"Silas," Aiden said, his voice dangerously calm. He was leaning out of the window, his expensive silk sleeve dangling dangerously close to a splash of brown sludge. "Tell me why we are stationary."
Silas was standing on a dry patch of grass, holding a purple silk umbrella over his head to shield himself from a light drizzle. "Well, Sire, it appears that the laws of physics do not care for your royal lineage. The wheels are quite buried. Also, the horses have decided they would rather eat this particularly lush clover than pull two tons of obsidian and ego through a swamp."
Aiden stepped out of the carriage, his boots sinking into the mud with a squelch that made him wince. "I could fly, Silas. I could turn into a cloud of bats and be there in twenty minutes."
"And arrive covered in soot and smelling like a cave?" Silas asked, tut-ting loudly. "Think of the first impression, My Lord. The prophecy says 'The Bloodhound shall find his heart,' not 'The damp rodent shall startle a kitchen maid.' Appearance is everything."
Aiden looked down at his ruined boots and let out a long, dramatic sigh that moved the trees around them. "I hate the countryside. Everything is so... moist."
Suddenly, a gray fox trotted out of the bushes. It sat near the edge of the mud pit, its yellow eyes watching Aiden with an expression that looked suspiciously like a smirk.
Aiden narrowed his eyes. "Is that a fox? Or is it Ramela come to mock me?"
The fox let out a sharp, yapping sound that sounded remarkably like a laugh, then turned and vanished into the brush, heading north toward the very forest where Elena was currently turning monsters into shrubbery.
Aiden wiped a smudge of mud from his cheek. "Get the shovel, Silas. If that fox beats me to her, I’m turning you into a footstool."
"Of course, Sire," Silas replied, not moving an inch. "I believe the shovel is under the crate of fine wine. This may take some time."
