The forest seals itself behind us. No wind, no birds – only the muffled sound of our boots pressing into damp moss and the faint drag of the Queen's cloak through the rot-soft needles.
The air presses heavy, thick with the scent of sap and stone, steeped in the kind of stillness that waits for something to move inside it. Beneath that stillness, the ground hums like a buried heart still trying to beat.
The boy's laughter breaks the quiet. It is a small sound, bright yet wrong in the ear. The trees drink it down. Roots twitch beneath the moss, stretching toward the noise. The Queen does not slow.
"He stirs what sleeps," she murmurs, voice steady as a knife drawn slowly.
"What sleeps?" I ask, but she gives no answer. The forest answers instead.
It starts with a pulse – a ripple underfoot rolling through the soil. Roots rise from the earth, slick and muscular, threading through the moss like veins.
Bark splits with a wet sigh, bleeding black sap that smells of iron and honey. The boy presses closer to the Queen, fingers clutching the fold of her cloak. The ground swells – once, twice, then – exhales.
"When fear takes root," the Queen says quietly, "it remembers every form it has ever worn."
The ground gives one long shudder and tears open. A pulse ripples through the soil, pressure that makes my knees soften. The moss bulges, splits, and bleeds black sap that steams when it meets the air.
A serpent erupts from the bleeding ground - ancient, immense, its body woven from the forest itself. Scales of bark flex and grind; its muscles twist with the strength of roots tearing through stone. Eyes of amber hold shifting faces behind the surface. Its breath reeks of sweetness and rot, the scent of old sap burned black. The air hums with its motion, a low vibration that shakes the earth beneath my boots and climbs into my bones.
I freeze. My throat tightens. My heart hammers so violently it aches. The sword is slick in my hand, my palm trembling around the hilt. I should move – run, duck, cry – but fear locks every command inside my ribs. The noise, the smell, the size of it crush even the thought of action.
The beast looks at the boy, and the boy's laughter dies. The world grows still again.
The Queen's hand settles on the boy's shoulder. "He hears what lives beneath the heart," she says, her tone almost tender. "Do not feed him. Fear is his meat."
Beneath the panic, something steadier rises through me. My breath finds rhythm on its own. The world narrows to pulse and weight. The tremor in my arms smooths out until motion feels inevitable.
The serpent shifts, sending a shiver through the earth. Its eyes find the boy first, the light within them twitching. The child's mouth opens letting out a nervous chuckle. The serpent reacts – muscles rippling, the forest bending with the motion.
Then it strikes.
Its head cuts through the air, bark and sap tearing loose with the motion. The serpent coils, dragging trenches in the earth. I raise the sword on instinct. The blow still hits. The shock drives me backward; the ground folds and throws me into the mud. Its breath washes over me – humid and sour.
The boy cries out, high and sharp. The creature thrashes toward the sound, turning back toward the boy. Branches snap overhead; needles rain down. The Queen doesn't move. Her eyes are fixed on me.
I roll, push up to my feet. The serpent drops its head low, eyes narrowing. It slides forward – faster than anything that size should move – its body plows trenches through the dirt, snapping roots like ropes.
The sword hums faintly, warm in my palm. I wait until its shadow covers me and then dive beneath it, scraping through mud and stone. I swing upward. The blade bites under its jaw. Bark splits. Sap bursts out in a bright stream.
The serpent jerks back, screaming. The sound buzzes in my teeth. Sap sprays across my arm and smokes where it touches skin, burning deep..
"Control the pain," the Queen says. "Listen to what it shows you."
I grip the sword with both hands and strike again, higher this time. The blade finds the seam between plates and pries them apart. Warmth runs through my arm – the same pulse that once healed me, sharper now like I can control it. I feel the burns on my arm fading away.
The serpent reels, then lashes its tail. The air cracks. I duck too late. The blow catches my shoulder, sends me spinning. I hit the ground hard enough to see light. For a moment the forest tilts sideways.
"Breathe," the Queen calls. "Pain means you are still alive. Show it where you stand."
I dig my boots into the mud and rise. The serpent looms above, mouth open, strands of sap stretching between its teeth. I draw a breath and step in, dragging the blade along the soft place under its jaw. Light floods from the wound. The serpent thrashes, slamming against the trees. Branches rain down.
Then it catches me.
Its body folds around mine – roots and bark locking tight. Pressure crushes the air from my chest. Armor creaks. I can't breathe. My arms are pinned.
The boy screams somewhere behind the noise.
The serpent's coils tighten at the sound. I feel my ribs creak; a sharp line of pain shoots down my spine. My vision flickers white at the edges. I try to breathe but can't. No air, No voice – just the shallow rasp of someone running out of time. Panic flares hot in my chest,a tide drowning everything else as my body begins to thrash against its hold.
For a moment, I'm sure this is it – the world narrowing to heartbeat and noise and the taste of sap in my mouth.
The Queen voice cuts through, steady and close. "Remember the vow written in your blood," she says. "You've bled, you've burned, and still you stand. Now make the world stand with you. Speak, and it will hear you."
Her words land like a strike. Something shifts beneath the fear – small and deliberate – like the first motion after numbness. The pressure in my chest stops feeling like terror; it feels like tension waiting to break. My heartbeat slows, heavy and even, finding measure and rhythm as the beast crushes around me.
The panic drains out, leaving only weight – potential – something I've never known but still feels like mine. The serpent squeezes again, bark biting into armor, splintered ribs groaning beneath the strain. Heat presses into my lungs. The pain sharpens everything. I taste iron. My vision darkens until there's nothing left but the rhythm of my pulse and her voice threading through it.
I open my mouth, and what comes out isn't breath or voice – it's the sound of everything in me refusing to die. The word hits the air, raw and violent, torn from somewhere deeper than thought.
"Yield."
The air splits. The serpent convulses, every coil locking for a heartbeat – frozen by the word as if the world itself has obeyed. For one suspended moment the pressure lifts – and then the weight drops away entirely.
I fall hard. Pain explodes through my chest; something cracks deep inside. The ground greets me with teeth. Mud surges up, covering me in its cold grip. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs, and what comes back tastes like blood and rot.
Every inhale is a knife. My ribs grind when I move. I feel the pulse of something broken beneath the armor's plates. The serpent writhes above,thrashing blindly – still bound by the echo of my command but fighting it with everything it has. Sap pours from its wounds in slow, smoking ropes.
"Rise," the Queen says, her voice resonating – vast and low –rising from the roots, the stones, even the blood in my veins. "You will not fall here, child of my making. Stand and finish what was begun."
I dig my fingers into the mud and force myself upright. The world tilts. My vision swarms black at the edges. The sword's tip drags through the dirt as I stand.
The serpent's head rears – massive, blotting out what little light remains. Its madness rolls off it like heat: wild, choking, desperate. I can feel it pressing against me, trying to crawl inside my chest, to make my heartbeat match its own furious rhythm. My fear spikes in response, sharp and human. Every instinct screams to run. I don't. I plant my feet and raise my head.
My lips part. My voice cuts the air. "Bow."
The word leaves me like thunder inside bone. It tears from my ribs and burns through my throat, heavier than breath, heavier than will.
The serpent obeys. Bark plates shudder and split as its enormous head sinks, trembling, until amber eyes meet mine. Faces swim behind the resin – creatures, people, reflections – trapped and pleading, then gone. I step forward on shaking legs.
The sword hums in my grip, alive with the same pulse that sealed my wounds before. Light runs down the blade like liquid fire. I raise it high, every muscle screaming, every breath cracking.
"For what tried to end me," I whisper, "and for the voice it gave me."
I drive the blade down.
Steel sinks through the serpent's skull with a sound like stone cracking under frost. Light erupts – white, blinding, holy in its violence. It floods every seam in its body, racing through bark and bone until the whole creature glows like a dying star. Heat surges through the sword, searing into my arms, filling my lungs until I no longer know where weapon ends and flesh begins.
The light implodes, taking the serpent with it. Bark sloughs away, roots withdraw, and what remains dissolves into ash that glitters before sinking into the soil. The air smells of sap and rain.
My knees buckle. I catch myself on the blade now buried in the ground, gasping. Light still runs under my skin, tracing veins, mending breaks one breath at a time. My ribs knit and shift, the pain ebbing to a dull, radiant ache. The world sharpens. Fear quiets.
The forest is still. Only the Queen and the boy remain.
She stands where the serpent fell, armor gleaming faintly in the dim light. The boy hides behind her skirt, small hands gripping the fabric, eyes fixed on the ash. His laughter is gone, yet the air still hums faintly around him – as if something waits to breathe again.
The Queen looks at me. "The serpent was not born wicked," she says. "It drank from what he spills. Every living thing will, if left too near." Her gaze lifts toward the child, then back at me "Fear makes beast of us. But you…" She studies me, eyes narrow, knowing. "You have learned to make it kneel."
I pull the sword free, The light along its edge has dimmed, but it remains warm in my hand. "What was it?" I ask
"A mirror," she says. "Born of him though he does not mean to. He draws madness from the roots and this is what it does to living. They become his shadow. But you lived."
The words settle heavy in the air – part warning, part praise.
She turns toward the forest. The path ahead breathes mist, stretching toward the mountain's shadow. "Come," she says, taking the boy's hand. "The next will not bow so easily."
I follow. Behind us, the soil closes over the serpent's remains. The forest exhales. The light of its madness fades – but not completely. Somewhere beneath the roots, something still stirs.