There were places you avoided if you wanted to survive long in this world. Elderhollow was one of them. It didn’t need monsters to kill you—only time. With its warped paths distorting sound and twisting your sense of direction, it was almost as if it wanted to trap you.
Quinn appeared to be unfazed. She sat tall in the saddle, eyes scanning the dark without fear. I didn’t want to look weak in front of her. Especially not now. I pressed my lips together, nodded when Branrir gave the signal, and fell into line at the rear.
Branrir led, Thistle and Vesper behind him. Quinn next, and then me.
I kept my head down, every nerve on edge, telling myself I was fine. That I was imagining it. The trees weren’t shifting. The sound I kept hearing behind me was of my own invention.
I hate this place.
“Come on, Mav,” Thistle called over her shoulder. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I scoffed. “Ghosts would be preferable to the Elderhollow.”
Quinn gave me a sympathetic grin. “Perhaps Branrir could share a story or some history to pass the time?”
Branrir’s chest puffed with pride. “I’d be delighted! What about a history of the Saints?”
“Sounds like the perfect topic for me to nap through,” Vesper snarked.
“I for one would be very interested,” Quinn encouraged.
I couldn’t help but smile. It was clear she was doing this formy benefit, trying to keep my mind off our surroundings. She was thoughtful in a way most people never cared to be.
“There are twenty-four Saints,” Branrir began. “Two for each of the twelve elder deities—the old gods and goddesses. Long before the council of five built Avandria, the brothers’ people worshiped those twelve across the sea, on continents and islands they left behind.” He shifted in his saddle. “Each pair of Saints was said to be mortal once, chosen to bear the god’s virtues in the new world. They carried the gods’ favor upon their skin, the pattern different depending on which god had blessed them. Those marks vanished when the old ways fell, or so the temples insist.”
He cleared his throat before continuing. “The names have changed, of course. The old gods are little more than legends now. If you look closely, you’ll find echoes of them: the way winds and tides whisper to Tempests, in how verdant fields obey the commands of a Hedge, in the way embers of warmth never dim in Hearths.”
Although I found the subject to be tediously boring, I couldn’t help but be grateful for the distraction. The forest pressed close, but the stories kept the shadows from wrapping their hands around my throat.
“...and that’s why you never bring chocolate cake to a dragon’s mating ceremony,” Branrir concluded.
He’d told stories as we rode for hours, but the light never changed. Not that there was much to begin with. The canopy above was a tangle of limbs so dense it stitched the heavens shut. The deeper we went, the more the shadows clung. Wet. Watchful. Unmoving in a way that was unnatural. My horse’s ears twitched every few steps, catching sounds I couldn’t place—low, distantcalls that didn’t quite sound like birds. They were wrong. Off by a half note, or in a minor key. As if someone was trying to hum a lullaby through a mouthful of river stones.
The ground squelched beneath the horses’ hooves, damp enough to hold the imprints of their steps—and yet, the ground never held our trail. No churned earth. No trace at all. As if the forest were closing in behind us, eliminating every sign we’d ever been there.
And then I saw it.
That tree.
It looked like every other at first glance—tall, warped, split halfway up the trunk—but something about it snagged in my memory. The split looked like a mouth, gaping mid-sentence, moss drooling from the corner. I’d seen it before. I was sure of it.
But I didn’t say anything.
Not until we passed it again.
Andagain.
My pulse began to thrum, low and irritated. I tugged on the reins to slow my horse.
“Look here,” I called to the group, squinting through the gloom. “This is the third time we’ve passed this one.”
Branrir twisted in his saddle. “What are you talking about?”
“That tree.” I pointed with a gloved hand. “The one in a drunken stooper.”
He squinted from behind his enormous spectacles. “They all look the same.”
“Not like this one.”
