"How long do you think you can keep running? How far do you think you'll go?" the bandit leader called into the night, his words tossed to the wind as though daring it to deliver his message to the prey. "Hide and seek, is it? Fine. You go on hiding—I'll go on seeking. And when the game ends, I'll have my bag of gold, the fools who thought they could elude me."
He tilted his head back and laughed—loud, wild, unhinged. The kind of laughter that didn't just echo but carved into the bones of those who heard it. Abruptly, he stopped. Raising the axe from his shoulder, he slammed the blades together in a sharp, metallic rhythm. Clang. Clang. Clang.
One by one, the rest of the bandits joined him, the clash of steel building into a dreadful cadence. Then came the chant—their rough voices melding into a barbaric hymn.
The leader's words alone had been enough to twist Rowenne's stomach with dread. But the clang of iron, the chant rolling through the night—it was the breaking point. Each beat was closer, louder, like a war drum shaking the very air around them. Panic surged through her and the boys. Their breaths grew ragged, their steps quickened. Soon they were half-running, half-stumbling, the snap of twigs and crunch of leaves beneath their feet swallowed in the rising storm of voices and steel.
And Draven—he heard it too. The barbarian's chant was no stranger to him. He knew what it meant: the prey had proven elusive, and the bandits were turning the hunt into terror itself. His jaw tightened as he urged his horse on, each second striking him like a blade. The rhythm grew louder, closer, and through the veil of trees he finally caught sight of torchlight and shadows. They were within reach.
But still—too far.
And too late could be only a heartbeat away.
Rowenne held Alaric's hand with her right and Edmund's with her left. They had nearly reached the hut when suddenly, the bandits' chanting fell silent.
It caught her off guard. She had been counting every verse, cautious not to betray herself whenever they reached the last line of the song. But she had not expected them to halt so abruptly, mid-chant—after only the second line.
Her misstep betrayed her. The faintest crunch of leaves escaped beneath her boot.
One of the bandits swung his torch toward the sound. The firelight caught her form in the shadows.
"Over there!" he roared, pointing directly at her.
In an instant, the whole crew broke into pursuit, their boots pounding the earth in unison as the torchlight surged closer.
"Make for the hut!" Rowenne gasped, pulling the boys forward, her breath sharp and ragged.
From a distance, Draven saw the sudden shift. The broken chant, the torches veering as one—he knew at once their trick had succeeded, and that Rowenne had been discovered. Without hesitation, he changed course, spurring his horse in her direction.
Alaric reached the hut first, nearly stumbling as he flung the door open and lunged inside. Edmund followed close behind, scrambling through the threshold. Rowenne was just steps away when a rough hand clamped down on her shoulder.
She spun, struggling—only to see the man flung backwards, crashing into the dirt.
Draven had arrived. He stood before them now, dismounting smoothly, his presence a wall between Rowenne and the bandits.
Torches flared as the bandits closed in, weapons gleaming: a jagged dagger, a rusted pickaxe, a butcher's knife dulled by age but eager for blood, a cutlass with nicks along its blade, a spiked flail dragging against the earth with a metallic scrape.
They encircled him, eyes lit with the promise of violence. All that mattered to them now was tearing Draven apart—and claiming the prey that waited helplessly inside the hut.
But Rowenne had already stumbled through the doorway. And the moment her foot crossed the threshold—
The door slammed shut.
The world shifted.
Rowenne whirled, chest heaving, only to find herself not in the hut at all, but in a vast, twisted forest cloaked in darkness. Alaric and Edmund clung close, their eyes wide with terror.
This forest was no part of the one they had just fled. Its trees loomed unnaturally tall, their branches curled like claws. The air reeked of rot and whispered with unseen voices. A strange, cold mist drifted across the ground, carrying the weight of something ancient and malevolent.
And then—above them.
A shadow stirred.
A monstrous creature, larger than any bat, glided silently across the treetops. Its wings did not flap but stretched wide, drifting in slow, deliberate passes. Its presence alone pressed down upon them like a suffocating shroud.
Rowenne could feel it. A presence so heavy it pierced her bones.
Alaric and Edmund felt it too—though they could not name the terror curling in their chests.
This was no ordinary forest. It was alive with hunger.
Not just beasts of flesh and fang lurked here, but forces older and darker—things that would delight in feasting upon their very souls.
They had only two choices: to fight and seek an escape they did not know existed, or to wander these cursed woods forever… prey in a prison without end.
In the distance, they heard it first—a screeching unlike any creature they knew, followed by a howl too deep, too guttural to belong to any wolf.
Rowenne's eyes darted across the shadows, trying to make sense of their surroundings, but nothing was familiar. Above them, where sky should have been, there was only darkness—streaked with ceaseless lightning that arced from one end of the forest to the other.
Leaves drifted from the trees—yet instead of falling, they hung suspended in the air. Time itself seemed to halt.
Then came the wind. A biting cold that rolled toward them and stopped when it reached their bodies, wrapping them in its icy hold.
The noises grew louder. The screeching, the howling, the cacophony of unseen things—closer now, drawn to them.
Alaric and Edmund clung to Rowenne, trembling.
And then, in a split second, the stillness shattered.
The leaves fell in torrents. Lightning cracked brighter, tearing the heavens apart. And beneath the storm of sound came another horror—wails, screams, cries of countless voices. Thousands of them. And within the chorus, hundreds more shrieked the same desperate plea:
"Help me."
Their bodies froze. Minds screamed run, but their legs would not move. Terror rooted them. And as they stood paralyzed, the ground began to shift beneath them.
A creeping cold climbed their legs. They looked down—only to see the earth swallowing their feet.
Adrenaline surged. With a desperate lunge, they tore themselves free, sprinting in blind panic—only to scatter in different directions.
Realizing too late, they turned, trying to regroup. But the forest betrayed them.
The trees themselves moved—sliding swiftly into place, forming barriers. Trunks shifted like hunters corralling prey, until the three were separated.
Each step sank deeper. The longer they lingered in one spot, the faster the earth consumed them. They had no choice but to keep running.
But where they ran, and what awaited them ahead—they did not know.
What chased them, however, knew exactly where they were. And it was closing in.
The forest seemed to follow a pattern—if it could be called that—as a single path unfurled before each of them. Just one way forward. Their feet sank ankle-deep into soil that felt alive, trembling with the terror of whatever was coming. Driven by desperation, they ran.
But before they could reach the end of each path, the trees shifted again, groaning as they moved, branches twisting, trunks sliding, the forest rearranging itself. The path changed.
And again.
And again.
It became clear—they were being led somewhere. The forest itself was guiding them. They had no choice but to obey, for the trees closed in tightly behind them, and the moment their feet touched the earth, it seemed to swallow, pulling them down if they hesitated.
They ran, lungs burning, hearts hammering, every breath a prayer to reach whatever end the path promised.
Finally—the forest stilled. The trees ceased their dreadful shifting, and the path no longer changed. Before them stretched a single, long corridor of woodland, each with its own end waiting in the shadows. With no other choice, they pressed forward, and each arrived at a different ending.
At Rowenne's end, nightmares made flesh awaited her: gigantic scorpions with stingers like jagged spears; two-headed, winged beasts that hissed and screeched; gorgons whose eyes glowed faint and venomous; serpentine hounds with snapping maws; and shadowed giants, their bodies stitched from bone and sinew. All of them snarled, frothing with hunger, as though they had been starved for ages—awaiting her as their feast.
At Alaric's end, an army of dead souls drifted like black smoke, hollow and endless. Their forms shifted between shadow and bone, their faces gaunt with despair. The moment their eyeless gaze fell upon him, they wailed. Their cries were piercing, breaking against his mind. Some voices rose above the others, desperate, accusing— "Save me!"
At Edmund's end, there was only a maze. A labyrinth of high, stone walls, stretching far and twisting into infinity. Its entrance yawned open, a void of uncertainty. Fear rooted him to the spot. His heart told him not to enter, but the silence of the maze was more dreadful than any roar.
And there stood Rowenne, Alaric, and Edmund—face to face with their doom. None of them dared to confront what lay before them. Instead, instinct drove them to turn and run.
By some cruel mercy, the trees did not shift, and their doom did not give chase. They tore through the woods, following the only path that led away from the terror behind them. Any path—so long as it was not the one they had fled.
They ran until their lungs burned and their legs screamed, yet hope sparked when the path seemed to open ahead. That fleeting joy eased the weariness in their feet, urging them onward with renewed desperation. At last, they stumbled to the end—only to collapse to their knees at the sight awaiting them.
They had returned.
Rowenne stood once more before the creatures.
Alaric faced the dead souls.
And Edmund stared again at the endless maze.
Their hopes shattered in an instant, breaking harder than before they had dared to believe. What loomed now was worse, sharper, as though hope itself had betrayed them.
The forest felt mirrored—an endless reflection of terror, trapping them in the cruelest of circles.