The air grew colder as Søren followed Bryony deeper into the woods.
Civilization had long vanished behind them, no roads, no power lines, not even the sound of distant traffic. Just the hush of trees too old to remember names, branches reaching like crooked fingers into a pale, grey sky. A heavy mist clung low to the ground, thickening the further they walked.
Søren's boots squelched in the wet moss beneath them, the forest floor soft and damp with decay. Bryony moved ahead, wordless and graceful, as if they belonged here more than anywhere else. They seemed to glide over the ground, their long coat barely brushing the ferns that curled underfoot.
At last, they arrived at a cabin hidden within a ring of ancient trees. The structure looked more like a forgotten shrine than a home, partially swallowed by nature, its wood damp with age, vines crawling up the stone chimney like veins. Moss blanketed the roof. Broken wind chimes clinked softly above the crooked doorframe.
Søren paused at the threshold. For all its decay, the place gave off a strange warmth, as if it had been waiting for him.
Bryony opened the door and stepped inside. A wave of warmth and scent washed over him, smoke, pine, dried herbs, and something simmering. Reluctantly, Søren followed, the door closing behind him with a sigh.
Inside, the world changed.
It was dim but alive. Books and papers were scattered across every flat surface. Dried flowers and roots hung from the ceiling in bundles. Shelves overflowed with glass jars filled with liquids of unknown color and texture.
The fireplace glowed with a lazy flame, and the walls creaked with the settling of old wood. There were no windows, only small slits cut in the walls, like eyes watching the woods.
And then came the voice, bright, musical, and utterly unexpected.
"Well, well, well! The sea hasn't eaten you completely, I see!"
Søren turned, startled. From behind a curtain of hanging ivy emerged a figure that didn't quite belong in any known world.
He stood only slightly taller than Søren, but his presence filled the room like thunder. His face was sharp and cheerful, framed by a wild mane of curly gray hair. Small, curling horns protruded from his forehead, just above curious, amber eyes that glinted with mischief. His ears were long and pointed, tufted with pale fur at the tips. From the waist down, he was covered in coarse hair, his legs bending backwards like those of a goat, ending in dark cloven hooves that clacked gently as he moved.
He held out a hand, smiling wide. "Name's Feran. Resident layabout and forager of dubious mushrooms. And you must be the new ghost Bryony dragged out of the deep."
Søren hesitated before shaking his hand. Feran's skin was warm and rough, like stone that had soaked in sunlight.
"I'm... Søren Mørkeberg."
Feran nodded approvingly. "A good name. Strong. Like something that echoes in a canyon."
Bryony appeared from the kitchen, their sleeves rolled up, a wooden spoon in one hand, herbs clinging to their fingertips. They looked at Feran, then at Søren, and gave a subtle nod, approval, or maybe something else.
Feran flopped down onto a pile of mismatched cushions, his hooves crossed lazily. "You look like you've seen things, Søren. The kind of things that stick behind your eyelids when you try to sleep. Am I right?"
Søren sat on a nearby bench, running a hand through his damp hair. "Something like that."
Feran chuckled. "You're not the only one. Bryony has a way of finding people who've been torn open by the world and patching them up. Not into what they were. Into what they might be."
Søren glanced toward Bryony, who was stirring something in a heavy iron pot. "They saved you too?:
"Oh, absolutely," Feran said, his tone half-playful, half-reverent. "I was nothing but bones and madness when they found me. A creature howling at the moon, forgotten by time. They looked me in the eye and said, 'You're still here. That counts for something.' And gods damn it, they were right."
Søren fell silent, letting the fire crackle between them.
Outside, the forest moaned with the wind. The trees seemed to sway slower than they should, as though something immense moved through them, just out of sight.
Feran leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "Do you remember all of it?" he asked, suddenly quieter. "The sea. The dark. The tendrils."
Søren tensed. "Not all of it. Only flashes. Tentacles. A voice I couldn't understand. Something... watching me. Not with eyes. But, how do you know tha-"
Feran cut off Søren's words. "A gift, then. That you don't remember everything. Some truths dig deeper than bone."
Bryony's voice floated from the kitchen. Calm, cool, precise. "We remember what we're meant to. The rest... waits."
Søren looked at them. The way their shoulders moved as they stirred. The way their back curved slightly, like someone used to bearing heavy weights, physical or otherwise. There was a strange comfort in the way they occupied space, quiet but undeniable.
Feran smiled again, but this time it was gentler. "Welcome to the refuge, Søren. It's not paradise, but it's far from the worst place to be forgotten."
***
The table was old and uneven, its surface marked with scratches, burn stains, and strange carvings that didn't resemble any language Søren knew. The chairs creaked under even the lightest weight, and the dim firelight made the wood glow with an amber hue.
On the table sat three bowls, each filled with a thick, pale porridge. Steam rose from the surface, carrying a faint scent of salt, ash, and something metallic.
Søren sat stiffly between Bryony and Feran. The room had grown quieter, the air heavier. None of them moved. None of them picked up a spoon.
Søren's eyes shifted from the bowl to Bryony. They sat with their hands folded neatly in their lap, eyes fixed on the steam as if reading something hidden within it. Feran, for once, wasn't smiling. He stared at the bowl with a strange expression, neither reverence nor hunger, but something in between.
The silence stretched until Søren could no longer bear it.
"Are we… not going to eat?"
Feran looked up, and his grin returned, though smaller now tight around the edges.
"Oh, we are," he said cheerfully. "Don't worry, Søren. You'll be fine. You've been through worse, haven't you? I bet you're starving."
Søren nodded slowly. Feran wasn't wrong. His body ached, his muscles buzzed with fatigue, and his stomach had been a hollow pit since they left the city.
So he picked up the spoon.
The porridge looked ordinary smooth, slightly lumpy, pale grey like overcooked oats. But as he raised it to his lips, a sharp, unpleasant scent met his nose, like rotting seaweed and iron.
Still, he forced himself to taste it.
The moment it touched his tongue, Søren gagged.
The texture was wrong... too wet, too slick, like swallowing mucus. The taste was worse: bitter, briny, and strangely warm, with a tang of old blood. It filled his mouth like seawater pulled from a dead thing. His stomach turned instantly, and his throat spasmed with the urge to vomit.
He moved to spit it out but Feran's hand shot out fast, unnaturally fast, pressing firmly over Søren's mouth.
Feran's eyes locked onto his. No longer playful. No longer kind.
They were wide, burning, unblinking.
"You swallow it," he said quietly. "No matter what it tastes like. That's the rule."
Søren froze, eyes wide with panic.
"Don't fight it," Feran added, voice still low, but now with a strange, almost fatherly firmness. "It's not poison. It's a beginning."
Bryony did not intervene. They sat still, watching the fire, as though what was happening didn't concern them.
With trembling muscles and a heart pounding against his ribs, Søren obeyed.
He forced the porridge down his throat, every inch of the journey unbearable. The moment it hit his stomach, a wave of nausea swept over him, but he clenched his fists, gritted his teeth, and kept it down.
Feran slowly removed his hand.
"Good," he said, smile returning as if nothing had happened. "You're already doing better than I did on my first bowl."
Søren coughed, wiping his mouth, his body trembling.
"What... what was that?" he rasped.
Feran reached for his own spoon, swirling the porridge slowly.
"It's food," he said simply. "Real food. Not the kind that feeds the body but the kind that feeds the part of you that changed. The part that doesn't belong to the world you knew."
Bryony finally spoke, their voice soft but deliberate. "The Sibil inside you is hungry. You cannot starve it. If you try, it will feed itself... and you won't like what it chooses."
Søren's breath came in short bursts. The taste still clung to his tongue like oil. He looked down at the bowl again. The steam had stopped rising. Now it sat there silently, like a still pool waiting for another offering.
"Eat," Feran said with a kind smile. "It gets easier."