I will not cower at shadows. I will not be chased back into prayer and waiting. Whatever this is, whatever has been whispering and watching, I will see it clearly—or I will see nothing at all.
I step forward—and the pasture falls away.
The trees rise around me, close and tall, their trunks slick with damp. The air shifts, cooler, heavier, carrying the scent of wet bark and earth. My torch gutters once, then steadies, its light swallowed quickly by the undergrowth.
My jaw tightens as I go, sounds spilling from me in a low rush.
Doamne miluie?te…
Apara-ne…[19]
The words come woven, braided together—Mama’s prayers slipping into the old syllables Tata taught me. I do not untangle them.
Wet grass bends beneath me as I keep moving. Twigs scrape my ankles. I notice them only distantly, as if through cloth, my steps guided by something I do not name.
Somewhere along the way, a root twists over me, driving my gaze downward. My feet are bare.
Mud streaks my toes; pebbles press and slide beneath my arches—yet none of it hurts. The thought passes through me and is gone. The forest holds me close now, shadows folding and unfolding as I pass.
A croak, low and layered, folds over itself and fills the dark. I stop short.
Above me, the ravens cut across the sky in a dark spill, wings beating hard against the pale disk that grants them light. They pass low and fast, shadows tearing across the clearing, then vanish beyond the trees.
Then it comes again, close behind me. Too near.
Witch.
The space between us collapses as I step back, my shoulder meeting bark. The tree presses into my spine, rough and unyielding, the presence close enough that my skin knows before my eyes do.
Moonlight finds Its face in pieces, dark hair falling loose around it. A pale face, holding the cold light without softening it. Its eyes are deep, dark wells, fixed on me.
A long coat hangs from Its shoulders, cut in heavy lines I do not recognize. The fabric is rich and unyielding, holding its shape with quiet authority, unmoved by the wind that stirs the leaves.
It does not touch me.
Still, heat gathers between us, suffocating. I feel it along my throat, my wrists, the soft places where skin listens first. My breath stutters as it reaches me—earth turned deep and wet, smoke ground into cloth, something acrid beneath it that pulls at the back of my throat.
Blood.
The torch is gone. I don’t remember dropping it, yet my hands are empty, fingers now curled against the bark behind me.
It circles slowly, studying me as one studies flame, head tilting, breath quiet and even. The space tightens with each step. I feel It pass behind my shoulder, feel the air shift where It has been, feel it close again when It returns to my sight, close enough that my breath catches. It inhales, deep and deliberate, as though I am something to be learned by scent alone.
"You shouldn’t come back here."
The voice is low, smooth, threaded with something that coils beneath my ribs, slides along my spine, unhurried.
"Unless you want to be taken."
A tremor runs through me.
"What do you want?" my chin lifts without permission, before fear can stop it. "Why me?"
The eyes shift. Light gathers in them, faint at first, then brighter—red stirring beneath black, unreal, alive. It flickers once, embers drawn into breath.
"Because you called to me."
Its voice lowers, intimate now.
