The trees swallowed her.
The gate's clang still echoed in her skull, but already the village was a memory smoke on the horizon, torches dwindling like fallen stars. Each step carried her deeper into the dark, where no path guided her and every shadow seemed to lean closer.
Her breath came in ragged bursts. The rope burns on her wrists stung with every movement, raw reminders of where she had been bound. Her chest ached as though she had left more than her home behind her heart, her name, her place in the world.
But the forest did not care.
The canopy pressed low, branches clawing at her cloak. Night birds cried and fell silent, leaving only the thrum of her pulse. The ground beneath her boots grew softer, damp with moss and hidden roots that threatened to trip her. Every sound magnified the crack of a twig, the hiss of leaves and each one made her flinch.
The Watchers were here, she felt them, not seen but known, like the weight of a hundred eyes hidden behind bark and shadow. Their presence pressed against her skin, prickling, testing.
"Leave me," she whispered, though no one was near enough to hear. Her voice cracked in the silence. "I'm not yours."
The oak's voice stirred faintly in her blood, but weaker now, as if even it feared to speak too loudly. Stand, or fall…
Her knees buckled, she sank against a tree trunk, drawing her cloak tight around her shoulders. Exhaustion dragged her down, but she dared not close her eyes. Not here. Not when the forest itself seemed to breathe with hunger.
And yet her body betrayed her. Her eyelids grew heavy, her breaths slower.
Dreams came jagged, torn by memory: the square's fire, the villagers' faces twisted in fear, Tomas standing between her and the axe. And then Kieran. His eyes gleaming silver black, his voice whispering her name from the shadows.
Her hands twitched in sleep, sparks flickering faintly at her fingertips. The ropes were gone, but the weight of them lingered, pressing her down into the earth.
When she startled awake, the forest was silent. Too silent.
She wasn't alone.
Shapes shifted between the trees tall, thin, bending unnaturally, as if the forest itself had grown legs. The Watchers.
Their forms loomed at the edges of her vision, never fully seen, but their presence pressed on her lungs until every breath felt stolen.
Aira scrambled to her feet, back pressed to the tree, fists clenched though her wrists still burned. The sparks came again, faint but stubborn.
"Stay back," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I'll fight you if I have to."
The Watchers did not move closer. But the forest leaned in, listening, waiting.
And in the silence, another sound rose softer, weaker.
A cry.
Human. Somewhere deeper in the woods.
Her heart lurched, she should run, should hide. But the cry came again, sharp with pain.
And Aira, even broken, even hunted, could not turn away.
She stepped into the dark.