Blinking up at it, I tried to catch my breath. A breeze stirred the branches, dry and restless. Dust rose in lazy curls where my movements had disturbed the forest floor.
I whipped around, scanning the clearing—searching for slithering vines or blood dripping from the trees.
Monsters?
There weren’t any.
Just dew-slick bark and rustling underbrush, the morning air cool and biting in my lungs. Relief crashed into me, sudden and staggering. It was just a dream. One of Grigorios’s stories cruelly clawing its way into my sleep, twisted by fear. That’s all. A nightmare.
I exhaled shakily and dropped back onto my elbows, letting the tension leak from my body like steam from a cracked pot.
But then—
My brow furrowed.
No firelight flickered nearby. No scent of ash or smoke clung to my clothes. No sign of theokhèma. No sleeping forms tucked beneath cloaks.
Where was the camp?
I shot to my feet, legs trembling beneath me. I twisted, scanning the trees—nothing. Just forest. Endless rust-colored trunks and gnarled roots sprawling in every direction. My throat tightened. Had I sleepwalked? Had I wandered off in the night without realizing?
I reached up to wipe the sweat from my face—and froze.
My hand was stained red. Dried and cracked, flaking in the creases of my palm like old paint or rusted blood.
Exactly how it had looked after I touched the bleeding tree.
My breath hitched as I scrambled back a step, then another, hands held out like they didn’t belong to me.
I wiped at it, frantically, scraping my fingers against my cloak, against bark, against anything. It wouldn’t come off.
My body moved before my thoughts could catch up, stumbling backward through brush and crackling leaves. The forest blurred around me, every rust-colored trunk the same. Sharp twigs jabbed between the leather straps of my sandals, biting into my skin. I tripped again, nearly crashing into a tree, then veered left, branches clawing at my arms as I forced my way through. I kept glancing back, expecting—no, praying—to hear someone call my name.
But the woods stayed silent.
Squeak.
I froze, one foot suspended mid-step. The sound came again, small and high-pitched. I turned toward it, scanning the undergrowth.
Squeak.
My gaze swept the tangled roots and brush.
Squeak.
I jolted, whirling around, ready for a beast or a threat or …
Certainly not what appeared.
Nestled in the red-dappled moss sat a creature barely bigger than my hand.
Mouse-shaped—but not quite. Its fur shimmered faintly in the slanted morning light, a soft blur of grays tinged with something unnamable, something … other. A long, delicate tail trailed behind it like a ribbon, the end dipped in blood. Its eyes were a pale blue, too pale, almost glowing. They caught the light and held it.
The creature sat on its haunches, staring up at me with unnerving focus. Like it had been waiting.
It wasn’t a monster.
That realization landed soft and startling, a rush of breath in my lungs. My pulse was still wild, still pounding from everything else, but the fear that had seized my chest loosened, just a little. The creature wasn’t lunging. It wasn’t snarling. It was … small. Quiet. Almost delicate.
