He's found the deer by accident.
Tracked it half the morning, bow ready, heart steady, the old instincts guiding his feet through frost and pine. He spotted it slumped in a glade, no wound visible. But something was off.
Its flank had bloated. Its eyes were already milky. Skin blistered black across the ribs.
It had only just fallen — the blood was still warm — but rot had already taken root.
He crouched low. Touched the hide. Pulled his hand back.
Too fast. Too wrong.
This was no ordinary decay.
He stood. Turned. And the forest turned with him.
The birds were silent. The wind had stopped.
Even the trees, ancient and tall, held their breath.
Then came the smell — not of the deer, but something deeper. Earthy. Rotten. Wrong.
He looked toward home.
And ran.
The cabin's roof came into view between the trees, quiet as a tomb. Smoke had long stopped rising from the hearth. Snow clung thick to the beams. He knew before his feet hit the frozen path that something was broken.
The door hung open, swinging gently in the breeze.
He stepped into silence.
And saw her.
Hung from the crossbeam of the doorway, chains stretched cruelly overhead. Her body bare, bruised, bloodied. Her head bowed. Snow pooled pink beneath her feet.
He didn't shout. Didn't cry.
Just moved.
He climbed the steps, unfastened the chains with shaking hands, and brought her down — into his arms, into the snow, into stillness.
She didn't weigh what she should. Her warmth was long gone.
He knelt there, holding her like something fragile. Like something that might still come back if he didn't let go.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I should've—"
A sound interrupted him.
Soft. Wet. A cry.
He froze. Swore it was in his head.
Then again — louder. Sharper.
Still holding her, he opened his eyes. Looked around.
The cabin was still.
Then he looked down.
At her.
And something changed.
Her skin shimmered faintly. Not movement — magic. A veil unraveling.
Her belly swelled before his eyes.
Then the blood.
Then the truth.
Nestled between her legs, still slick with afterbirth, was the child. Alive. Crying. Tiny fists clenched against the cold.
His breath caught. The world spun.
She had given birth.
Here. In chains. Alone.
And with her last strength — she had cast an illusion to hide it.
To protect the child from the men who killed her.
The spell held until this moment — until he held her.
And now it was gone.
He stared at the baby. Then at her.
Then he wept — not just for loss, but for what she had done. What she had endured.
What she had saved.
The forest watched. Somewhere deep within it, something confused, enraged by the tragedy, crying out through rot and silence.
Balance had been shattered.
And something old had begun to awaken.