The horse stood still, wide-eyed, its breath steaming in the cold air.
But it didn't stay still.
It began to walk.
One step. Then another.
Not hurried. Not hostile.
Measured. Inevitable.
With each step, the ground beneath its hooves withered.
Snow curdled to gray slush. Grass blackened. Roots curled like dying hands. The air soured, thick with rot.
The man stepped back, clutching his daughter tighter.
It was coming toward them.
If it touched them, they would decay—like the town. Like the trees. Like everything else in its path.
He held out a hand, voice rough and panicked.
"Wait!"
The entity paused.
Silence fell like snowfall—instant and absolute.
Then, in the stillness, that same warped, broken voice spoke once more.
"Alariel."
Her name hung in the cold like smoke that would never clear.
The man's jaw tightened. He shook his head, his voice low but firm.
"She's gone," he said. "But you already know that."
He looked into the creature's eyes—those bottomless voids of grief and power.
"Why?" he asked. "Why all this?"
He stepped forward now, just once. The baby whimpered in his arms, but he didn't stop.
"The men who did this... they're not here. They didn't rot with the town. They're still out there. This?" He swept a hand toward the ruin beyond the trees. "This isn't justice. This is madness. This is pain with no aim."
He laughed bitterly.
"I never believed in any of this," he said, eyes narrowing. "Not even when she whispered to trees. Not when she spoke of balance and spirits. She said her duty held the forest still. That she was chosen. That her voice mattered."
His voice cracked.
"I thought it was nonsense. Beautiful nonsense. I loved her, but I was a fool."
The creature watched.
"I see the truth now," he said. "But if you keep doing this—keep mourning her like this—you're not restoring balance. You're recklessly killing the innocent."
He stepped forward again.
"I know the pain you feel. I know the weight of it. I want revenge too."
He hesitated—only a heartbeat—but it was enough.
Then he spoke the words like a curse.
"Let me be your blade."
The wind around them stirred. The trees groaned.
"I will point you toward the ones who broke her. Who shattered the balance. Let your rage pass through me—into the right hands."
He swallowed hard, lifting his chin.
"I will not stop you. But if this grief keeps lashing out blind, there will be nothing left."
The entity didn't answer.
It only watched.
And then—
Agony.
It struck without warning.
He fell to his knees. The baby slipped from his arms into the snow.
Fire raced up his limbs. His throat cinched tight. He clawed at his neck, gasping.
Chains.
Spectral. Burning.
They coiled around his wrists and arms, melting through flesh. He screamed, but the sound barely left him—choked by the crushing grip on his throat.
And then—visions.
But not his.
They were hers.
Flashes.
A cold floor beneath her.
Shallow breaths.
Her voice—broken but brave—whispering his name. No fear. No pleading.
Just the silence of someone who had already accepted her fate.
She had endured.
Until her body could endure no more.
He felt it all.
Her pain. Her final breath. The weight of abandonment.
Not fire.
Not chains.
Loneliness.
The chains weren't a pact.
They were a punishment.
"Please," he gasped, dragging himself through the snow. His arms burned, wrists torn open by invisible heat. "Time—just give me time."
He crawled to his daughter and pulled her close, shielding her.
"Let me raise her... to sixteen. Let her be strong enough to survive without me. Then..."
He closed his eyes.
"Then I'm yours. I'll bring ruin to the ones who did this. Just not now."
Silence returned.
The grip loosened.
Air filled his lungs.
The baby cried—loud, alive—and it was the only sound that didn't feel borrowed from a grave.
He looked down at his wrists.
Scarred. Healed—but wrong. The flesh looked aged, like the chains had burned him years ago. His neck throbbed with something permanent.
The memory of her final breath still flickered behind his eyes.
Not his memory.
Hers.
Forced into him. Branded deep.
He pulled the infant into his arms and turned toward the cabin.
His legs shook. His steps were unsure.
But he moved.
He had bought time.
But the chains would not let him forget.
This wasn't mercy.
It was debt.