The woods no longer whispered, holding its breath instead. It began with a smell — coppery and faint — like old wounds reopened.
Bren was the first to notice — stride broke, his hand hovering at his belt.
"You smell that?"
No one answered at first.
Then Kara said:
"Like rust."
Low, as always, said nothing.
They continued, more slowly now. The path had narrowed again, hemmed in by trees that were too close and too tall. There were no birds, no wind, just the hush.
Not even Caster, who goaded fear as though it were a debt it owed him, cracked a joke.
The earth changed too. The leaves gave way to dirt, dirt to rock — the bones of something older than roads. Carvings barely stuck out beneath the moss. It seemed to have an intentional shape and spirals — circles with broken centers.
"Old trail?" Renn asked.
"Nah, no trail," Brae grunted. "Not anymore."
That was when they heard it.
It was a low, wet sound like a breath drawn in through a throat half-remembering how to breathe.
They froze, but it came again, ahead.
Bren stepped forward, slow and deliberate. Axe half-raised. Low turned, not in the direction of the sound — but in the direction of Brae.
"You brought me from the grave," he said. "But not all of me came."
Then he pointed, not toward where the sound seemed to be coming from, but at the shadows near the caster.
Caster spun, however, he was too slow.
A flash of something behind a tree. It was not seen — like cold water gushing into boots.
"Run!" bellowed Brae.
They ran, not out of strategy — but nature. The forest no longer kept its distance. It closed in. Trees towered. Mist thickened. The light grew thin and shook. And behind them was a sound like something sniffing, and laughing.
It came.
They ran crookedly among the trees, stumbling over roots that hadn't been there a moment prior. The woods changed. Or maybe their heads did. Caster swore, loud and human — it was odd sounding here.
Kara made no noise whatsoever. Her knife was out, the blade low. She moved like she'd been taught to move towards danger.
Renn fell, but Bren pulled him up one-handed.
Limbs grasped at them, snagging skin, and clothing. Every step in made the woods less real, like they were walking into something that had never been mapped on any map.
Only Low walked, not fast, but not slow either — just walking.
The rope still hung from his wrists. It dragged along the ground, whispering through the underbrush, and not a single twig snapped beneath his feet.
They exploded into a confused clearing — sudden and sharp as if they'd been expectorated from a mouth. The trees ceased in a ring, and within there was nothing, no birds, no crickets, and no wind.
Just a stone.
A monolith protruded. It was perhaps 12 feet high. Its face was smooth but weathered. Covered in the same spirals as the path and the Carvings was weeping moss that looked like open sores. The apex had cracked, but the divide was too clean as if bitten.
Brae whirled, panting, axe ready. He counted them all, and by his count, they were all there.
No, not all of them were here.
"Where's Caster?"
No one answered.
Renn spun, her eyes wide with breadth.
"He was behind me. He was—"
Low stepped forward, his face undisturbed, unmoved. He strode to the stone and laid his hand on it.
The carvings deepened — with memory. A low hum began, a note without a pitch, less heard than felt. It crept into their bones, vibrating through their ribs, buzzing their teeth.
And in the direction they'd come from, a sound.
Not footsteps or a growl, but just a click — crisp and rhythmic. Claws on stone, like.
Kara pulled out her sword. Bren stepped in front of Renn. Brae stepped up next to Low — not to guard him, though. To guard all the rest from him.
"What is that?" Kara's voice was taut.
Low still didn't answer.
Then the noise once more — nearer. Like a hand with too many knuckles, knocking the world to determine if it were hollow.
Brae poised his axe at the tree line.
"Caster!" he bellowed. "If you're playing tricks, I'll skin you myself!"
There was no answer, yet something did come out, or unfolded.
It was Tall. Cloaked in shadow as though it was night itself for flesh. It had no face, kind of like the Requiem, but its shape gave the impression of one — and in that impression was every face, writhing like fire.
Renn screamed when she saw it. Kara held her ground. Bren whispered a prayer to a god who had long stopped hearing and Brae raised his axe.
And Low? He stepped between them and the creature. Like a man greeting a former lover, he didn't quite remember.
The creature tilted its head.
Low nodded, then said, softly:
"You're early."
The thing paused, as the air tightened.
Then it spoke.
"YOU ARE NOT WHOLE."
Low's expression didn't alter, with no promise of altering.
"Neither are you."
"YOU OWE ME NAMES."
"They're buried. Like I was.
The creature then leaned forward.
"THEN I SHALL FEAST UNTIL I AM FILLED."
It raised one of its tall, multi-jointed arms. The branch-like fingers, or spears, maybe bones?
Brae tensed, but Low stepped into the movement and thus the creature stopped.
And Low breathed:
"I remember what you were called. Once."
The mask rippled, then melted. The forest creaked, not in pain, but in acknowledgment.
The creature shrieked — a sound that sent the trees back and froze blood.
And in that scream, something left. Not the creature, but something else — Caster.
He stumbled out of the trees, gasping, nose dripping blood, eyes wide with something he could not speak. He fell, into a crawling position, clawing at the air.
That creature had drained him.
Kara ran to him. Bren helped her drag him to safety. He was alive, barely.
Brae did not notice, as his eyes were completely focused on Low.
Low had turned to the group again, as if nothing had happened.
"The road ahead's broken," Low said. "You'll want to take the hollow path."
Brae simply stared at him, dumbfoundedly.
"What the hell was that?"
Low shrugged as a response, calm as dusk.
"Not death," he said, "not yet."