Jett's POV
Before the ruins.
Before the lights.
Before Garran died.
I knew how to survive.
That was different from living.
Living meant having a home.
A family.
A future.
Survival meant waking up the next morning.
I had always been better at survival.
Garran taught me how to hunt when I was seven.
He gave me a knife too big for my hand and took me into the Greywood.
I remember complaining.
He told me to complain quieter.
I remember asking why.
He pointed toward the trees.
A rabbit was watching us.
"Because the forest doesn't care how loud you are."
I didn't understand what he meant.
I do now.
The Greywood never cared about me.
It didn't care about anyone.
That was why I learned to respect it.
I learned where deer drank.
Where wolves nested.
Which trees were safe to climb.
Which mushrooms killed you.
Which ones only made you wish you were dead.
I learned how to build traps from wire, rope, bone, and scraps of metal.
I learned to make snares from broken tools.
I learned how to follow tracks through rain.
How to move without breaking branches.
How to tell how old a footprint was.
And most importantly—
I learned when to run.
That skill had saved my life more times than anything else.
By seventeen, I was one of the better hunters in Oakhaven.
Not because I was stronger.
I wasn't.
Not because I had better equipment.
I definitely didn't.
I was good because I paid attention.
A hunter who watches survives longer than a hunter who fights.
That was another thing Garran taught me.
So every morning, before the world started falling apart, I hunted.
Even after Garran died.
Especially after Garran died.
The first trap I checked was empty.
The second had been broken.
The third was missing entirely.
I crouched beside the hole in the ground.
The rope had been torn apart.
Not cut.
Torn.
I touched the broken fibers.
No vision.
Good.
I wasn't sure I wanted to see what had destroyed it.
I moved deeper into the forest.
The trees were quiet.
Too quiet.
Normally, the Greywood was full of sounds.
Birds.
Insects.
Small animals moving through the leaves.
Branches snapping beneath distant paws.
Now there was almost nothing.
I kept walking.
My bow was slung across my back.
Three arrows.
That was all I had.
Garran used to tell me that carrying too many arrows made people careless.
"Three arrows," he'd say. "If you need four, you made a mistake."
I had made a lot of mistakes.
But I had never needed four.
Not yet.
I found deer tracks near a stream.
Fresh.
I crouched.
The prints were deep.
A large male.
Probably alone.
I followed them.
Twenty minutes later, I found him.
He stood between two trees, drinking.
Healthy.
Strong.
Normal.
For the first time in days, I felt relieved.
I slowly reached for my bow.
The deer raised its head.
I froze.
It looked at me.
I waited.
One breath.
Two.
Three.
Then it turned.
I drew the bow.
The arrow flew.
The deer collapsed.
I approached carefully.
I hated killing animals.
Anyone who said otherwise had never hunted properly.
You learned their habits.
You watched them.
You understood them.
Then one day, you ended their life because your own depended on it.
I knelt beside the deer.
"Sorry."
I always said it.
Maybe it meant nothing.
I said it anyway.
I pulled the knife from my belt.
Then stopped.
Something was wrong.
The deer's eyes were open.
Blue light flickered inside them.
I stared.
"No."
The light vanished.
I touched its head.
Nothing.
Just cold fur.
I pulled my hand away.
I considered leaving it.
Then I remembered the village.
People were hungry.
Mara's fields were dying.
The taxes were rising.
Children were eating thinner meals.
So I carried the deer back.
It took almost an hour.
By the time I reached Oakhaven, my shoulders were burning.
Three people came running.
"Jett!"
"What did you get?"
"A deer."
They stared.
One of them actually smiled.
That felt strange.
Food had become something worth celebrating.
Mara came from her house.
She looked at the deer.
Then at me.
"How much?"
"Keep half."
She frowned.
"I can't pay you."
"I know."
"Jett—"
"I said keep half."
She looked like she wanted to argue.
Instead, she nodded.
"Thank you."
I carried the rest toward the market.
The butcher gave me less than it was worth.
I knew that.
He knew that.
Neither of us mentioned it.
"Pelts?" he asked.
"Three foxes from last week."
He examined them.
"Poor quality."
"They're fine."
"Too thin."
"They'll still sell."
He sighed.
"Five copper."
"Eight."
"Six."
"Seven."
"Done."
He handed me the coins.
Seven copper.
Enough for bread.
Maybe salt.
Maybe oil.
Not enough to repair my boots.
I put the coins into my pocket.
A hand grabbed my shoulder.
I turned.
Marek.
One of the village boys.
He was holding a dead rabbit.
"Found this near the northern fields," he said.
"That's not where rabbits live."
"I know."
I looked at the rabbit.
Its fur was wet.
Its body was stiff.
There was no wound.
"What happened?"
Marek shrugged.
"It was just lying there."
I crouched.
I touched it.
Nothing.
No memory.
I tried again.
Still nothing.
That bothered me more than it should have.
Every object remembered something.
At least, most did.
A knife remembered being sharpened.
A hammer remembered every strike.
A dead animal should have remembered the last moments of its life.
But this rabbit remembered nothing.
It was like something had erased it.
I stood.
"Don't eat it."
Marek's expression changed.
"Why?"
"Just don't."
He looked annoyed.
"Food is food."
"Not that."
He stared at me for a moment.
Then threw the rabbit into the ditch.
I watched it disappear.
"Jett?"
I turned.
Harlan stood behind me.
He looked at the rabbit.
Then at me.
"You felt it too."
I didn't answer.
His face went pale.
"How long?"
"What?"
"How long have the animals been wrong?"
I looked toward the Greywood.
"Days."
Harlan nodded slowly.
"Then it's spreading."
"What is?"
He looked at me.
For once, he didn't pretend not to know.
"The Greywood."
That wasn't an answer.
But before I could ask more, a horn sounded from the road.
Another tax wagon.
Everyone groaned.
I almost laughed.
Almost.
The collector's wagon entered the village.
Same polished boots.
Same soldiers.
Same stupid smile.
Except this time, there were more soldiers.
Six.
I counted them automatically.
Six soldiers.
Two horses.
One wagon.
No healer.
No mage.
No reason for that many men unless someone expected trouble.
The collector climbed down.
"Jett."
I frowned.
He knew my name.
"You know me?"
"I know everyone who causes problems."
"I don't cause problems."
He looked at the ruins of Garran's workshop.
"That's not what I heard."
My hand moved toward my knife.
He smiled.
"Relax."
I didn't.
His eyes moved toward the Greywood.
Then back to me.
"You hunt there often?"
"Sometimes."
"Seen anything unusual?"
I said nothing.
He waited.
"Animals?"
"Some."
"Ruins?"
My stomach tightened.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
"Which ruins?" I asked.
His smile disappeared.
"The ones that have appeared recently."
I stared at him.
"Why?"
"Because the kingdom is interested."
That was the first honest thing he'd said.
"Why?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he stepped closer.
"Stay away from the northern forest."
I almost laughed.
"That's where I hunt."
"Find somewhere else."
"Why?"
He looked toward the trees.
For the first time, he seemed genuinely afraid.
"Because you're not the only one hunting anymore."
Then he climbed back into the wagon.
The soldiers followed.
I watched them leave.
My hand was still resting on my knife.
Not because of the soldiers.
Because of what he'd said.
You're not the only one hunting anymore.
That night, I checked every trap I had left.
Empty.
All of them.
Except one.
The final trap sat deep in the Greywood.
I found it just before midnight.
The rope was still intact.
The bait was gone.
Something had triggered it.
But nothing was caught.
Instead, there was a mark in the mud.
Seven lines.
Around a circle.
I stared at it.
Then I heard movement behind me.
I turned.
Nothing.
I reached for my bow.
A branch snapped.
Something ran between the trees.
Fast.
Too fast for a deer.
I drew an arrow.
"Who's there?"
Silence.
Then—
A voice.
Not human.
Not animal.
Something between the two.
It whispered from the darkness.
"Jett."
My blood froze.
I stepped backward.
The forest seemed to lean toward me.
Every tree.
Every shadow.
Every root.
I raised my bow.
But there was nothing to shoot.
The voice whispered again.
"Run."
I didn't question it.
I ran.
Because Garran had taught me many things.
How to hunt.
How to fight.
How to survive.
But the most important lesson was the simplest.
When the forest tells you to run—
You run.