With unsteady steps, the Iss Drengr forges into the Forest of Fear. Aura’s head of copper curls bounces away, leaving him with a further uneasy sense of what will come.
Legends state that these trials remain in the forest as long as the pilgrim can maintain a logic-bound headspace. If only the mere thought of confronting his fears did not constrict his throat, leaving him struggling to breathe.
Each crunch of the snowy forest floor dims the light of his surroundings until a wave of blackness crashes over him.
His heart pounds against his ribcage as it threatens to burst at the abrupt shift in his environment.
“Aura!” The panic in his tone renders his voice unnaturally higher-pitched.
They are safe in the Forest of Fear. Makt and Lavinia are unwelcome here.
He spins in a vain attempt to make sense of the dark area until he falls face-first onto a plush red carpet.
Hesitantly, he lifts his head and, to his horror, finds himself in the entry hall of Nightwall Keep.
No…he shakes his head.This is impossible. I am in the Forest of Fear.
Pushing to his feet, he takes a few shaky breaths to compose himself. His hands quake at his side as a thousand possibilities race through his head.
Even though the logical solution is that he is still within the woods.
With no way to turn back, he twists through the cold corridors of his personal Abyss, wondering what revulsion the Norn will force him to confront.
As he follows the familiar stone passages shrouded in vivid tapestries of Skalor’s history and landscape, the tightness intensifies in his chest.
Will this end with Lavinia?
His ex-wife?
Makt?
Or Avard, whom he has failed above all others?
Mahogany locks with streaks of white flash out of the corner of his eye, jolting his gut as the Queen’s recognizable hair taunts him with her presence. The faint sound of her laugh raises the tiny hairs along the back of his neck.
I must move through this delusion without losing my mind.
His mantra does little to assuage the brewing disquiet under the surface. The sensation of someone watching him from afar grips what little stability remains within him. There must be a way out—a back door to the woods.
Am I still in the Forest of Fear? Is this all in my mind?
A pinch on his forearm assures him he is not asleep, and all he sees is as real as any day.
The crackling of a fire draws him to the next cracked door. A peek inside reveals the same vaulted space where Lavinia placed the bounty on Aura’s life.
When the door bangs off the wall, a childruns out.
“Papa!” The little boy cries, clutching his leg with a heartbreaking amount of despair for someone of no more than five winters.
“It's okay, boy. Why are you here?” Calder kneels, regretting the decision.
It is like turning back time and gazing into a mirror—the boy bears the same dark hair color and icy eyes as himself.
Yet his nose and mouth are slightly off, yet familiar.
Nothing about this boy resembles his late son, whose straw-colored hair and brown eyes resembled those of his mother, Calder’s ex-wife.
However, the mere existence of this child, even in his mind, feels like a gut punch, and he struggles to understand why the ache from the boy’s bright eyes haunts him so profoundly.
