It lunged, and the stillness shattered. Teeth clamped shut inches from my throat, the reek of rot and damp earth flooding my senses. I sidestepped, the movement instinctive, but not quite fast enough—the tip of a claw snagged my sleeve and tore it open. Cold air touched my skin.
Steel whispered from its sheath as I drew my sword. I moved in a clean, practiced arc, the kind meant to end a fight before it began. But the thing bent backward in a way no living creature could, the blade missing by the width of a breath. Its black eyes glistened in the moonlight, and in their depths, something shifted.
It smiled.
The sound came next—not from its mouth, but from the ground beneath me. A low, amused chuckle that seemed to come from everywhere at once. The forest was watching.
We began to circle. I studied its gait, each unnatural twitch and bend. My steps were deliberate, my breathing measured. Blade, step, watch. Blade, step, wait. I struck again, but each cut I made closed almost instantly, flesh knitting with a sick, wet sound. The smell rising from it was wrong—not just blood, but stone after rain, grave soil, and something older still.
Up close, its skin looked stretched too tightly over the skull beneath, the seams faintly visible like crude stitches. The flesh twitched now and then, as though something beneath it was trying to crawl free.
It lunged again. This time, I met it head-on, letting the weight of its rush carry it into my strike. The sword punched through its throat, hot ichor spraying across my hands. The creature convulsed, clawing at my arms with surprising strength, before sagging and falling still.
I held the blade in place a moment longer, listening. The heartbeat in the earth slowed, but it did not stop.
With a final twist, I pulled the steel free, wiping it against the grass. Only then did I see it.
Etched into the trunk of a nearby tree, just above eye level, was a mark. Its lines coiled and hooked in impossible ways, the angles seeming to shift if I stared too long. My stomach tightened as I looked at it.
The whisper slid into my ears, intimate and cold. Hungry.
My gaze swept the trees. No figure stood there.
"You'll get nothing from me," I said, my voice low and steady.
A chuckle answered me, curling through my thoughts like smoke. Oh, you will feed me. They all do.
And then the memory came, unbidden.
The market in summer, warm sunlight spilling across the stalls. The air smelled of fresh bread. She stood there, the noble's daughter with eyes that sparkled when she laughed. I was young then, unguarded, foolish enough to think her smile was enough to bridge the gulf between our worlds.
The memory twisted. The laughter stopped. The guards came. The sound of bone breaking was sharp and final.
The forest's whisper returned. I will give you power. Give me your name.
Names are not given lightly. They carry weight, the shape of who you are. To speak it aloud in this place was to give more than breath—it was to hand over my soul.
But what was there left to keep?
The trees seemed to lean closer. The heartbeat in the soil quickened, echoing inside my chest.
"My name," I said quietly, "is Kaelen."