The morning was a bruise of grey and purple above the bare trees. Elara walked beside Uncle Richard, her small hand swallowed by his grip. He had woken her before the sun, pulling her from beneath the stairs with a strange, soft urgency. He had not shouted. He had not even looked angry. This was new. His voice had been like water, telling her they were going to visit her mother’s grave, a place she had never known existed. Her hand, cut and throbbing from Margaret’s blade, felt too hot inside its ragged bandage. It pulsed with every step. He walked fast, pulling her along the cracked dirt path that led out of town. The air was cold on her face, but a different cold settled in her stomach. Uncle Richard rarely took her anywhere. When he did, it was usually to dump her in the village square while he went to the tavern. This felt different. He kept glancing back at the empty houses, as if someone might be watching them. His breath puffed white in the air, coming in short, sharp bursts. She looked down at her worn boots, kicking at a loose stone. It skittered ahead, then rolled into a ditch. She kept her eyes on the ground, never quite meeting his. That was the safest way. His hold on her arm tightened and loosened, then tightened again. He was not hurting her, not exactly, but she felt the tremor in his fingers. A nervous tremor. He was afraid of something. Her mother’s grave. The words were a feather-light touch of hope, almost too fragile to hold. She had no memory of her mother, only the necklace that was now gone. The grey stone, she thought, was what her mother had left her. Maybe her mother was not really gone. Maybe she was just asleep in the ground, waiting. The thought was a small comfort, quickly smothered by the cold dread that was Uncle Richard. She had never been allowed to refuse him anything. So she walked. She kept walking past the last fence post, past the last farm, into the shadowed edges of the Ashen Wood. The trees here were black skeletons against the bruised sky, reaching bony fingers towards them. He pulled her deeper. --- The air grew colder beneath the thick canopy of the Ashen Wood. The path narrowed to a whisper of dirt between gnarled roots. Uncle Richard stopped, his breath catching in his throat. He looked around wildly, then down at Elara. His eyes were wide and wet. The kind of wet that usually meant he was about to hit her, but his hand hung by his side, shaking. “It’s…it’s for your own good, Elara,” he stammered, his voice thin and reedy. He ran a hand through his sparse hair. “You understand, don’t you? Your aunt… Margaret, she said… she said you were going to ruin everything. Everything we’ve worked for.” Elara watched his hands. They flexed open and closed, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. He would not look at her for long. His gaze slid away, darting to the trees, to the ground, anywhere but her face. The words spilled out of him like dirty water, rushing and confused. He blamed her. He kept saying it was her fault, that she was a problem. A complication. “If you weren’t here,” he mumbled, kicking at a pile of dead leaves, “none of this would be happening. It’s not fair, is it? To me. To Margaret. To Lydia. She deserves this. She does.” His voice rose with a desperate whine. “And you… you’re just in the way. Always in the way.” The throbbing in Elara’s palm pulsed harder, a dull ache that spread up her arm. She felt a shiver, not from the cold, but from the rising heat in her own skin. She was hot, then cold, then hot again. Her vision blurred at the edges. She focused on his hands, waiting. He kept talking, but the words started to lose their shape, turning into a low hum in her ears. He was winding himself up, like a toy spring. He wanted to do something bad. She knew the rhythm of it. He needed to find the courage, or the anger, to finally do it. He kept talking, but he did nothing. He picked up a heavy branch. His grip around it was loose. He stared at the wood, then at her, then at the wood again. His lower lip trembled. He could not do it. He was too afraid. Of what, she did not know. But he was afraid. Of her. Of the stick. Of what he was supposed to do. --- A low rumble vibrated through the ground, a sound that started deep in the earth and travelled up her legs. Elara’s head snapped up. Uncle Richard froze, the branch falling from his nerveless fingers. His face went white. The sound came again, closer this time, a heavy, dragging shuffle through the undergrowth. Something enormous was moving, snapping twigs, crushing leaves. Elara smelled something foul, something wild and ancient. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a trapped bird. Uncle Richard let out a choked cry. His eyes, already wide, stretched impossibly wider. He spun on his heel, not even looking back at her. Not one glance. He scrambled away, tripping over roots, crashing through the brittle branches. His terror was a palpable thing, a hot wave that left her cold. He did not run in a straight line. He just ran. His shape blurred between the black trees, shrinking with every frantic step. The sounds of his panicked flight faded. Then there was only the heavy breathing of the forest, the distant rumble that was now closer, and the frantic thumping of her own heart. She was alone. Truly alone. The trees watched her with their dark, unblinking eyes. Her infected hand burned, a fire spreading through her blood, making her dizzy. She sank to her knees among the roots, her head swimming. The air around her shifted, growing heavy, thick with that wild, rank smell. --- A shadow fell over Elara, colder and deeper than any tree. She looked up, her vision swimming with fever. A massive shape stood over her, dark against the bruised light of the forest. It was huge, covered in thick, matted fur, its head lowered, showing enormous, yellowed teeth. A growl, a rumble that vibrated in her chest, shook the air. Its eyes, two points of dull red, fixed on her. She couldn’t move. Her body felt too heavy, too hot, too cold all at once. This was it. Then, a strange warmth bloomed in her cut palm. It was faint at first, like a single spark, then it spread, rushing through her veins, chasing away the cold dread. The warmth intensified, a silent, rising heat that made her whole body tingle. It was not the fire of her fever. This was different. This was soft, like summer rain, and it smelled faintly of wild roses. From the cut in her hand, a thin, pale light began to rise. It was barely visible, a shimmering outline, like smoke that had caught the sun. It expanded, growing into a hazy, shimmering wall between her and the beast. It was not bright enough to illuminate the forest, only a faint, internal glow, almost like a breath. The beast let out a surprised huff. Its red eyes blinked once, twice. It took a single, shuffling step back, away from the light. Its growl died in its throat, replaced by a low whine. It did not understand. The light, frail as it was, held it at bay. --- The thin light flickered. It was fading, shrinking back towards Elara’s palm. The warmth in her blood began to drain away, leaving her colder than before. The scent of roses was gone, replaced by the rank, wild smell of the beast. The light guttered, a final weak pulse, then winked out completely. It was gone, faster than it had come. Elara felt a sudden, profound emptiness, a hollow ache where the warmth had been. Something inside her had been spent, used up, leaving her brittle and tired. The beast recovered its courage. Its low whine turned into a guttural snarl. It took another step forward, then another, its massive head lowering, ready to strike. The red points of its eyes were fixed on her once more. Then a shape appeared, not light, not beast.

The Ashen Wood