Bao stumbled as rough hands yanked him away from Jin. A tall, dour guardsman shoved him down a narrow path, separating him from the others. The forest pressed in around him—roots twisted like gnarled fingers, branches woven into a nearly solid canopy above. Shafts of light pierced the gloom in thin, trembling slivers, casting moving patterns on the damp earth that seemed to shift as he stepped. The air smelled of wet moss, decaying leaves, and something faintly metallic that made his stomach churn. Every crack of a twig or rustle of underbrush made his heart leap; the forest seemed to be listening.
He craned his neck to see the way they had come. Jin was gone, moving down another path that curved and twisted out of sight. Shadows pooled thickly among the trunks. Were the shapes he glimpsed gravestones? Broken tree stumps? Fallen statues? He could not tell. Each step seemed to make the darkness deeper, swallowing the path behind him, the forest growing older, silent, and indifferent.
Where are we going? Bao wondered. And why are there two separate groups? The questions pressed against his chest like stones, and his stomach churned with dread.
A faint flicker of light appeared through the trees. Bao squinted, straining. He could just make out a cluster of huts and dilapidated barns, leaning and warped, their roofs patched with reeds and scraps of metal. Smoke spiraled lazily from a crooked chimney; the scent of burning wood mixed with the dampness of the earth. A single lantern swayed on a tall pole in front of the largest house, casting a dim, golden circle on the muddy path. Shadows stretched long and quivered, and the stillness seemed unnatural, as if the village itself were holding its breath.
One of the guards muttered under his breath, "It's a shame we have to leave these unwanted children with the Outcast."
His companion shrugged, eyes flicking to Bao and the others. "Yeah, but what are we supposed to do? We're just following orders."
"I hope they aren't too rough on them," the first guard added in a low, uneasy voice.
The children were shoved forward, their small feet squelching in the mud. Doors creaked open, and villagers emerged—faces pale and drawn, clothes patched and grimy, hair matted or streaked with dirt. Their expressions were wary, wary enough to make Bao's stomach twist. They glanced at each other and back at the children, muttering in hushed tones. They were ordinary, and yet the quiet made Bao's skin crawl.
Then came the sound that froze his blood: thud… thud… thud.
Shadowy figures appeared from between the trees and huts, clubs swinging in precise, brutal arcs. Two children crumpled instantly; three more staggered under the blows before collapsing into the mud. A high-pitched whimper cut through the night, followed by a dull groan. Bao's pulse hammered.
He tried to run. His legs pumped desperately, but a rough hand clamped onto his arm and yanked him back. He kicked blindly, but the leg beneath him was solid as stone. The club swung down. Bao twisted frantically; it glanced across his cheek, splitting his lip and sending a jolt of pain through his skull. He felt the thrum of each blow in his bones, every strike stretching out in slow, terrifying seconds.
Another swing came, striking the crown of his head. Darkness closed in, thick and suffocating. His vision shrank to pinpricks of light: the swaying lantern, the silhouettes of guards, the shadowed faces of villagers. The scent of smoke and earth lingered faintly, mingled with sweat and blood. Every sound was amplified—breathing, the slap of clubs against flesh, the sobs of other children.
Bao felt the weight of the forest pressing down, ancient and indifferent. He thought of Jin, separated from him, the uncertain fate that awaited the other children, and the strange, dimly lit village where danger waited behind every hut. And then there was nothing but silence