The Wood spooled before me, its ancient silver bark dark and twisted, leafless branches grasping for the leaden sky. Thick mist clung to the undergrowth, twisting and curling through the sharp thistles, turning paths I’d traveled my thirty years into threats. I hesitated at the threshold, searching the gloom for movement. Behind me, Oakhollow danced with normalcy; roosters crowed, the blacksmith’s hammer rang, and the comforting scent of bread I couldn’t afford drifted on the breeze.
For the past decade, I’d handled any task whispered through the village folk of those missing, for tracking was my strength. Demon blood granted me that much, although it gave little else save for my ochre skin and starch-colored hair. It also labeled me as other, as foul, as threat. Most days I ventured into the village, I became the target of rotten food. On the days their stones weren’t rotten, I gathered what my satchel could carry and brought it home. I ate well on those evenings.
Silence boxed me in, suffocating the last remnants of safety. I adjusted the strap of my satchel; the subtle clink of its contents was a grim reminder of the task ahead. A boy was lost to the Wood two days ago. The desperation pouring from the father’s skin and sewing into mine lingered long after I accepted the coin from his sweaty palms; his flicker of hope—a flicker he had no right to hang on to—gagged me with its presence. Should fate be in the child’s favor, he would never be the same as the Wood emptied the soul of those unfortunate enough to find themselves caught in its embrace, since it was never kind to those too bullheaded to heed its warning. Of which there were plenty, if one listened. The boy would be a shell if I found him. A hollowed-out thing of flesh and bone.
I crossed the threshold, body tight despite my experience.
Light shafts blinked closed and reappeared in abstract dapples. My path, once clear, faded. Roots curled out of the earth, forcing me to reevaluate my current track. The Wood was never the same twice. Today, it closed in on itself, and I puffed a breath, blowing stray hair from my periphery. As I ventured deeper, the air became dense, almost cooler. A cluster of bioluminescent fungi glowed, their caps squeezing light into the darkness. I tapped their tops. They released motes of light that bobbed down an obscured path before wisping into nothingness. A purposeful trill echoed above, and I rooted, listening to the Whispering Jay’s call. Not a song, but a warning. My hand found the hilt of my dagger; something hunted in the Wood, and I lay flat on the ground, becoming one with the ever-changing underbrush. The Jay’s call soared, its alarm trailing behind the bird. When the sound was far in the distance, I pressed on.
A moss-covered log lumbered, blocking my path. I climbed over, casting a glance behind me to ensure the Wood hadn’t noticed my stare. The path shifted again, dangling witch totems swaying from bright red branches. I withdrew my dagger, pulled out a pouch of red brick powder from my satchel, and skulked to the nearest blood tree. Blade coated in powder, I carved tracking runes into the trunk. They flashed green before fading and leaving my hackings behind. Every two hundred steps I repeated the process—tree, earth, stone, it didn’t matter.
At rune thirty, the Wood shimmered and curtained, a glimmering lake taking shape. Lakes meant predators, ones I wasn’t prepared to handle. The scent of my sweat latched onto my nostrils, and I commended the Wood for its temptation, but it wouldn’t swallow me today.
Fifteen feet from the lake’s bank, I reached into my satchel and retrieved the boy’s clothing scraps. His father didn’t want to hand them over to a half-breed out of fear I’d damn his soul—or something like that; I didn’t dwell long enough for his words to matter—and brought the scraps to my lips, releasing a low whistle. The earth trembled beneath me, and I placed a palm on the grass. Wind scooped up golden leaves, stirring them into glittering funnels that sliced and tore at my skin. I slid my gaze left at a gentle rustle breaking through the underbrush. A wog squirrel perched on a broken limb, its six black eyes locked on my position.
“Hello, little one. Have you seen a human child?” I asked, my gaze fixed on a random trunk.
The creature chittered, tail twitching. It darted forward and dug east of me; the direction led to the Mists. How had the child found the worst of all the Wood?
“Thank you for your hospitality.” I pulled out some berries, tossing them near the wog, and headed east.
I’d run out of powder one thousand four hundred and forty-four steps ago, but the Mists unspooled before me, its black tendrils visible in the gloom. Crouched, I riffled through my satchel searching for the herb pouch I’d prepared last full moon. My fingers brushed its sloppily stitched seam, and I yanked it free, shoving my fingers in and crushing the herbs beneath my nose. The metallic scent stung my senses awake, driving away the Mist’s invasion.
Fog snaked around my ankles as I entered. Trees blurred, their shapes molting in the corner of my eye, and muffled sounds were near and far. My name became my refrain, anchoring me to the present. Mist pressed in, shrinking my world to a narrow circle of smeared color until a tiny figure took shape in the distance.
The boy sat motionless at the base of a yellow tree, vacant eyes reflecting in the scattered witchlight. He didn’t stir at my arrival. Angry red welts littered his exposed skin; his clothes were beyond salvage.
“I’m here to take you home,” I said.
He stared through me, not a flicker of understanding crossing his face. I brushed his arm—cool. It wasn’t for me to question the how or the why. This child was a job that would feed me for a fortnight. And on that thought, I hooked my arm under the boy’s and brought him to stand. He swayed like a drunkard, throwing my balance off-center.
“One foot in front of the other, boy.”
My progress was painfully slow; the boy’s damn near dead weight impossible to guide. To coax. Every few steps he veered off course, forcing me to reorient him, but I ground on, senses alert and pinging any sound making its way through the Mist’s walls.
The sounds changed. Faint at first, but with each step, they grew—wet and deliberate, slithering through the Wood’s matter. I breached the Mist’s boundary, and the sounds deepened to a sling-like squish. Tree slugs. I quickened my pace, heaving the boy by the wrist. These beasts engulfed prey whole, but it wasn’t a fast death. Tree slugs’ stomach acid dissolved over days, not minutes.
An object glinted, and I squinted, unable to make out the shape. I deadlifted the boy onto my back, my teeth gritting, and strode toward it, praying it was inorganic. The distended carcass of a river deer formed, slime glistening on its rib bones. Wet dragging closed in from all sides. My dagger was worthless against their amorphous bodies. A cluster of orum mushrooms grew from a rotting log, their speckled orange caps pulsing. I threw the boy down and rushed over, covering my mouth and nose with my shirt’s collar. Dagger unsheathed, I cut the tops, harvesting what my hands could carry.
I whirled at the close squelch behind me and hurled the orum, striking the slug on the head. Spores exploded. The slug’s flesh bubbled and hissed, its keen tearing through the quiet. In sixty heartbeats, its head dissolved into a puddle of phosphorescent goo. The body shook, and it deflated. Two more slugs appeared, and I sprinted to the boy, half-dragging, half-carrying him. The slugs glided over obstacles that slowed me with the addition of the boy.
The outline of the lightning-struck tree broke through the gloom. I swore. The Wood had led me astray from my tracking runes. Before I could orient, a new sound rumbled through, splitting the air and sinking into my bones. Dark and sleek shapes wove between the Ash trees. Bone Bengals. I’d been herded between two threats with an unresponsive boy at my side.
I released the boy and ran to a nearby tree, hoisting myself up on a low-hanging limb. My muscles strained as I climbed out of the predator’s immediate range. Once the boy was doll-sized, I perched on a wide branch and peered down. Five warhorse-sized Bone Bengals launched at the slugs, turning them into pulpy masses. Muzzles soaked, they padded to the boy.
They circled, steam pluming from their noses. The first pawed at him, and he fell over.
Teeth pierced his flesh.
He convulsed.
Bones cracked. Organs spilled onto the ground. His head split in two. An arm flew across the clearing.
Once the Bengals had their fill, they slipped back into the gloom.
I remained on my perch until light birdcall parted the canopy, and I climbed down. My boots sank in the mud as I trod to what remained of the boy. With my dagger, I sliced off the legs of my pants and halved my shirt, fanning the fabric out on the dirt. I collected a rib bone, a hand, what was left of the skull, scraps of his clothes still clinging to his body, and nestled them into the fabric before tying it off. Job complete, I surveyed the area, lingering for a moment, and navigated my way back.
The journey passed in a haze of exhaustion, mind untouched by doubt or regret. When I emerged from the Wood at Oakhollow’s gates, twilight painted the sky in shades of fire.
Villagers paused as I passed, their eyes rounding at the sight of the dripping bundle in my arms. I reached the village square. The boy’s father paced, the gentle clatter of teeth against nail reaching my ears. On his circle, he noticed me, and his eyes lit up, but dimmed when they landed on what I carried.
I approached and set the bundle at his feet. His face crumpled, and he collapsed, hands shaking as he unwrapped his child. A raw cry tore from his throat as he clutched the boy’s broken head to his chest. His grief didn’t last long. It never did.
“You! You swore to save him! You promised to bring him back!”
“I promised to bring him back or news of his fate. I have fulfilled that promise.”
His face darkened. “Curse you! May the void consume you! May you suffer in the deepest pit of Hell, you worthless half-breed!”
The words flowed over me, leaving no mark. I walked to the village head, who stood rigid at the crowd’s edge.
“I failed to return the boy whole,” I stated, reaching into my satchel. “I return two-thirds of the payment.” I grabbed his stiff hand, pried his fingers open, and placed the two copper coins into his palm.