The mist never thinned.
It slithered between the trees like a living thing, damp and clingy as cobwebs, curling around Elowen's throat like fingers that weren't entirely convinced they didn't want to choke her. It clung to her skin, cold and relentless, seeping through her clothes, soaking into her bones. Every breath she took tasted of wet bark, old rot, and something faintly metallic, like the forest itself was bleeding beneath the moss.
Each step felt heavier than the last. Not because of exhaustion, though that was certainly knocking at the back of her skull like an overeager woodpecker, but because the ground gave way beneath her boots with a soft, squelching sigh. Moss swallowed her footfalls, silencing her presence as though the forest had already decided she wasn't worth hearing.
She trailed behind the man who had saved her life, if one could call "hurling a spear through the eye socket of a forest-beast while simultaneously insulting her reflexes" a rescue. He walked ahead, long strides unhurried, the hem of his black cloak brushing against the undergrowth like he belonged to the shadows. He didn't even glance back.
Because of course he didn't. That would require the tiniest spark of empathy, and clearly, that had died inside him decades ago, probably strangled by the same mist that now tried its luck with her.
Elowen's fingers clenched around the book pressed to her chest, its leather cover still warm despite the chill that had soaked into everything else. She hated the silence stretching between them, hated how the trees seemed to lean in like gossips with nothing better to do, eavesdropping on her humiliation. The forest didn't just listen—it waited. Like it knew something she didn't.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Damn it.
"You never told me your name," she finally said, voice raspier than she intended.
The man didn't stop walking. Didn't slow either. "I don't remember offering it."
Elowen narrowed her eyes at the back of his head. A generous head, really, perfect for throwing rocks at. "You saved me. Doesn't that… mean something?"
He did glance at her then, just briefly, his eyes silver, sharp, and utterly disinterested. Like a cat sizing up a beetle and deciding it was too boring to bat around. "It means you were too weak to survive the first beast this forest sent at you. If I hadn't intervened, you'd already be fertilizer."
"Oh, charming!" Elowen's jaw tensed. "You could've just left me there."
"I could have," he said, with all the emotional investment of someone commenting on the weather. Then his gaze shifted, sharp as a knife unsheathing. "But the forest doesn't bring people here by accident. If you're trapped, you have a purpose. I want to see what that purpose is before you die."
"Before I die?" he said casually, like he was ordering tea, black, no sugar, with a side of inevitable doom.
Elowen bristled, her spine straightening despite the ache creeping up her legs. "You talk as if my death is certain."
He didn't even blink. "It is."
So that was that then. Death was on the itinerary. Right after 'follow emotionally constipated stranger through murder-forest' and just before 'unlock the secrets of the world's creepiest book.' She glanced down at the tome clutched in her arms, as if it might suddenly sprout a helpful diagram or a "for dummies" chapter. No such luck. She thumbed open the cover again and stared at the lonely sentence scrawled across the first page:
'Find nine keys to save your father.'
"Yeah, right. Easy, like a scavenger hunt. Only with teeth."
She looked up again just in time to realize they were no longer walking. The mist had thinned slightly, not vanished, just receded enough to reveal a lopsided hut nestled between the roots of an enormous tree. If Elowen hadn't known better, she would have thought the tree had grown around the building, swallowing it into its bark like it was trying to digest the thing.
The hut looked... exhausted. The roof sagged in the middle like it had given up somewhere around the last century. Moss had claimed most of the outer walls, leaving only glimpses of rotting wood and rusted hinges. A crooked chimney coughed out a single puff of greenish smoke that smelled faintly of burnt thyme and something she didn't want to identify. And yet somehow, it was still standing. Not inviting, exactly, but definitely present. The man pushed open the warped door without a word. It shrieked like it was being murdered.
Elowen hesitated at the threshold. "Do all your charming rescue missions end with dragging terrified girls into haunted root-huts, or am I just special?"
He didn't answer. Probably because he was already rummaging through a cabinet inside, tossing out half-rotted jars like he was looking for snacks. Or poison. Could go either way.
Inside, the hut was just as dismal. One wall was lined with shelves, all of which were occupied by jars filled with suspicious contents...eyeballs, maybe? Or mushrooms. Possibly both. A table in the center held what looked like a dissected map, bloodstains, and a knife so curved it looked decorative. A single candle lit the space with a trembling orange glow, casting long shadows that danced like they were trying to escape.
Elowen stepped inside, the floor groaning under her weight like it resented the intrusion.
"So," she said, hugging the book tighter, "is this where you murder me, or are we having tea first?"
The man looked over his shoulder, one brow raised. "If I were going to kill you, I wouldn't invite you inside. I'd do it where the forest could clean up afterward."
"Oh," she said, blinking. "Comforting."
"You asked."
He tossed a cloth over the knife on the table. Whether to put her at ease or because he was tired of looking at it, she couldn't tell. And she didn't ask. Instead, she sat, because apparently, her legs had declared a mutiny, and glanced around again. The place didn't look like it had been lived in, exactly. More like someone passed through every now and then, using it as a temporary stop between bad ideas and worse outcomes.
"So what do I call you, if not your name?" she asked, picking at a chip in the table's edge.
There was a long pause. Then: "Call me Azazel."
"Elowen," she replied automatically, then frowned. "Wait. Is that actually your name or just what I'm supposed to call you?"
He smirked. Just slightly. "You're catching on."
"Great!!" sarcastic, emotionally unavailable, and cryptic. Her absolute favorite kind of mysterious stranger.
Azazel sat across from her, folding his arms. "Now tell me everything. From the moment you found the book to the moment the beast almost swallowed you. Don't leave out anything."
She hesitated. Then opened the book again, letting her fingers rest against the aged pages.
The sentence hadn't changed. 'Find nine keys to save your father.'
And suddenly, the silence in the room didn't feel quite so empty. The shadows pressed closer. The candle flickered. Outside, the mist whispered. And somewhere deep within the forest, something answered.
"I don't know... anything..." she breathed. "All I know is that I was in the Kaelith—a realm between heaven and earth—when the plague broke out. It swallowed every living thing there, including my mom... My dad was dying too, and I didn't have any money. So, I entered a martial arts competition where only men were allowed, just to earn something. That's when a mysterious woman—an angel, I called her—appeared and gave me this book. She said if I found her nine keys, she'd take care of my father and my little sister. I said yes. But I don't know how I ended up here."
Azazel's eyes narrowed, glowing faintly. "Nine keys, given by an angel..." he said slowly, his voice like distant thunder. "There's no such thing as 'keys'...not the way she described them. She likely misled you... or used the word to hide the truth. Whatever she wants, it's not as simple as finding objects. It never is."