Tari's consciousness returned not with a bang, but with the heavy, rhythmic thrumming of a heartbeat that wasn't her own.
She yanked her eyes open, her breath hitching in the thick, humid air. For a terrifying moment, the world was nothing but a blur of emerald and brown.
'Is this the afterlife? Am I really dead?'
She tried to sit up, but a pulse of white-hot agony shot through her chest, pinning her back down. As the world stopped spinning, her senses began to catalog her surroundings. It smelled of woodsmoke, damp earth, and something savory—roasting meat, perhaps. She blinked, focusing on the ceiling. It wasn't the pearly gates; it was a thatched roof of dried raffia fronds.
She wasn't dead, she was sure of it now. The afterlife surely didn't have a hammering headache or the scratchy texture of a raffia mat against her skin.
Tari looked down at herself. Her sternum and forehead were bound in tight, clean bandages, and her arm was a mosaic of herbal patches and wraps. The memories of the previous night—the snarling muzzles, the crushing weight of the Gargoyle—rushed back with the force of a tidal wave. How was she still breathing?
The room was a marvel of primitive engineering. Wooden racks were stacked with jars of preserved flora, sharpened iron tools, and bundles of dried roots. It was too organized for a beast's lair. This was a home. But who would have the nerves of steel required to build a life in the heart of this carnivorous jungle?
A rhythmic, metallic clink-clink-clink echoed from outside.
Tari forced herself up, suppressing a groan. She tiptoed toward the door, her legs feeling like spaghetti. When she stepped onto the threshold, her breath caught.
They were hundreds of feet in the air. The hut was perched precariously, yet firmly, within the massive, sprawling branches of an ancient tree that made the redwoods of Earth look like toothpicks. A network of suspension bridges made of woven vines and planks stretched out like a spider's web, connecting to neighboring giants. It was a city in the canopy—a concealed fortress of leaves.
Below her, a hooded figure sat by a small, contained fire pit. He was hunched over an anvil made of a dense, dark stone, hammering away at a piece of glowing metal. The sound was deafening, each strike vibrating in Tari's skull.
Desperate for a weapon, she grabbed a sturdy walking stick leaning against the doorframe. She approached the figure, her hands shaking so violently the stick rattled against the wooden platform.
"Where am I? Who are you? Where's my sister?" Tari's voice was shaky and unstable .
The hooded figure paused. The hammer stayed mid-air for a heartbeat, but he said nothing. Then, with a grunt, he returned to the metal.
Clink!Clink! Clink! He ignored her as if she were a persistent fly.
Anger flared through her fear. She stepped around to face him, leveling the stick at his chest. Up close, she recognized the broad shoulders and the dark, weathered cloak. This was the man from the beach. The shadow that had stepped between her and a certain, bloody end.
'He saved my life. I should be offering him a fruit basket and gratitude, not a stick and threats', she thought. But the instinct to survive was louder than gratitude.
"Answer me!"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Easy there, Princess! Put the toothpick down before you poke someone's eye out."
Tari spun around, nearly losing her balance. A younger man was climbing a rope ladder onto the platform, a massive bundle of twigs and herbs strapped to his back. He had a messy shock of hair and a grin that looked entirely too relaxed for a man living in a nightmare.
He dropped his cargo with a heavy thud and burst out laughing at Tari's defensive stance.
"Relax, Missus. If we wanted you dead, we would've let the Hounds finish their appetizers. I'm Silas."
Tari didn't lower the stick. "Where is Aisha? Where am I?"
Silas wiped sweat from his brow, his clothes smelling of moss and cold ash.
"You're in the Penthouse. Best view in Jotunheilm, though the room service is terrible. This grumpy hunk of silence over here is Axle. Don't mind the hammering; he's making a new pig-sticker. And don't touch his beer. He brews it out of fermented fungus and spite. It'll dissolve your internal organs."
Axle gave a low, guttural grunt of disgust but didn't look up.
"I've been asleep for how long?" Tari asked, her head throbbing.
"Two nights," Silas said, popping a small blue berry into his mouth.
"You were lucky Axle was on his night patrol. No one survives the Hounds. They usually don't leave enough behind to put bandages on."
"The Hounds? What were those things?"
Silas's expression flickered, a shadow of something dark crossing his face before the smirk returned. He reached out and gently took the stick from her hand. She let him.
"First, you eat. Then, we talk. You look like you're about to faint, and I really don't want to carry you back inside. My back is already screaming at me," he said, handing her a piece of strange, translucent fruit.
Tari stared at it suspiciously. "You still don't trust me?" Silas sighed, looking wounded. "I'm hurt, truly. I'm the nicest guy on this godforsaken rock. You've stumbled into the forbidden zone, Tari. That beach you bumped into, it's the hotspot for everything horrific, the seat of every paranormal nightmare that ever crawled out of a campfire story."
"How do you know my name?"
"The little girl. She hasn't stopped talking about you." Silas smiled, and for the first time, it reached his eyes.
"Aisha is safe. She's at my camp, a few trees over. Tough kid. She actually tried to go hunting with me yesterday. I had to tell her the squirrels here are the size of a T-Rex and yawns hell flames,just to get her to stay put."
Relief washed over Tari so potently she had to sit down on a wooden bench. "She's okay. Thank God."
"Axle told me what happened," Silas continued, gesturing toward the silent smith. "He doesn't talk—vocal cords met a nasty end years ago—but he's the strongest hand we've got. A bit stupid for going on solo patrols in the Hound-lands, but hey, it worked out for you."
Axle let out a low roar, casting a sharp glare at Silas. In the light of the forge, Tari saw the jagged scars that mapped the man's face, disappearing under his hood.
"Anyway," Silas said, turning back to his bag. "You shattered a couple of ribs and had enough concussions to make a pro wrestler jealous. But between the island's herbs and Axle's 'magic' poultices, you're patched up. You'll feel a few stings, but you'll live."
Tari's stomach let out a thunderous growl. Silas chuckled and tossed her a handful of apples that looked remarkably normal. She gobbled them down, the juice sweet and life-giving.
"Are there more of you?" she asked between bites.
"A few pockets. We've evolved. Adapted. You'll get used to the constant threat of being eaten. It's a daily reminder ."
"I'm not getting used to anything," Tari snapped. "I'm leaving. I'm getting my sister and we are finding a way off this island."
Silas stopped rummaging through his bag. He looked at her, his humor evaporating for a fleeting second.
"Well, be my guest. Jotunheilm is inescapable, Tari. I was fifteen when I washed up here. I've been looking for the exit for seven years. It's a maze. A prison where the walls are made of trees and the guards are monsters."
"You just haven't looked hard enough," Tari insisted.
"Hard enough?" Silas laughed, though it sounded hollow. "We call it Jotunheilm because it's a land of giants and horrors. This place is the trash disposal for God's failed experiments. Those Hounds? They're just the puppies. Wait until you see a Nephilim or an Amphi-Dragon. You think a gargoyle is bad? Try a creature that eats your memories before it eats your throat."
Tari froze. "I was attacked by a gargoyle. Near the beach."
"Of course you were," Silas said, standing up and stretching his back until it popped. "Everything you feared as a kid—the monster in the closet, the grabbing hand under the bed—they all live here. The island is alive, Tari. It pulses with a negative energy that turns nightmares into flesh. But hey, at least the weather is consistent."
He patted Axle on the shoulder, and the big man gave a low, almost friendly vibration in his chest.
"Anyway, Jane Doe—oh wait, Tari," Silas corrected himself with a wink. "Buckle up. We're heading to the mountain camp to reunite you with the kid. I've got some 'island fashion' for you: clothes doused in moss and brimstone. Smells like a swamp's armpit, but it masks your scent from the Hounds. It's gonna be a hell of a hike."
Tari stood up, her mind racing. "Silas, wait. Before Axle found me, I saw something. A giant ornate gate at the base of the mountain. It looked... different. Important. Maybe it's the way out?"
The effect was instantaneous.
The ringing of the hammer stopped. The wind seemed to die in the leaves. Even the birds in the distance went silent. Axle turned his head, his hidden eyes burning beneath the hood. A low, menacing growl vibrated in his throat—not a friendly one this time.
Silas didn't smile. His face went pale, his jaw tightening. The sarcastic, joking boy was gone, replaced by someone who looked much older than twenty-three.
"Listen to me very carefully, Tari," Silas said, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "Whatever you do, wherever you go, you do not go near that gate. It isn't a way out. It's the reason this island is screaming."
"But—"
"No 'buts.' Steer clear of that curse if you value your soul, let alone your sanity." Silas turned abruptly, his movements stiff. "The gargoyle was a warning. If you go back there, not even Axle can save what's left of you."
He vanished into the hut, leaving Tari standing on the high platform. The sun was bright, the jungle was lush, but a sudden, icy chill settled in her bones. She looked toward the distant mountain, the image of the ornate, terrifying gate burned into her mind.
If it wasn't a way out, then what was it keeping in?