As time went on, Joshua and David did their best to help each other. Their friendship grew, strengthened by shared struggles and an unspoken bond. Years passed, and they became like brothers, standing together against the challenges of life. They had seen each other through tough moments, whether it was fighting off bullies or facing personal grief. There was a quiet understanding between them, something that didn't need words. They knew what the other needed, and they were always there for each other.
But as the seasons changed, so did David.
Joshua began to notice subtle shifts in his friend—silent, creeping differences that didn't make sense. David, once open and full of laughter, started to keep things to himself. He disappeared for long hours, returning with mud on his boots and shadows under his eyes. His smile became thinner, his voice quieter. When Joshua asked where he had been, David offered vague answers, half-lies wrapped in tired grins.
At first, Joshua gave him space. People grew up, grew apart. But this felt different—like something inside David was unraveling.
One cold evening, as mist curled between the huts and the last firelights flickered out across the village, Joshua watched David slip away again. His movements were cautious. Hurried. His hood drawn low over his face. Something clenched in Joshua's chest.
He followed.
The forest loomed ahead like a mouth waiting to swallow him whole. The villagers called it the Wandering Forest—for good reason. It was known for swallowing paths, confusing direction, and making people hear voices that weren't there. But Joshua didn't hesitate. He needed answers. He needed to know what David was hiding.
Crunch. Dry leaves underfoot. Each step Joshua took was slow, deliberate. The further he walked, the colder the air became. It wasn't just the temperature—it was the silence. No birds. No crickets. Just the whisper of wind brushing past bare branches.
Then came the smell.
It started faint—like damp soil and rotting bark—but grew thicker with every step. A sickly, metallic stench seeped into his nostrils. Blood. Faint, but real. Joshua fought back the urge to gag, covering his nose with his sleeve as he pushed deeper between the trees.
Up ahead, he spotted David. The faint outline of his friend stood near a hunched figure—an old man draped in black cloth, his hands folded behind him. Joshua recognized neither the man nor the crooked path they turned onto.
They walked without speaking, deeper into the forest.
Joshua stayed back, heart pounding in his chest.
Eventually, the trees parted—and the house revealed itself.
It looked broken. Tilted. Wrong. Wooden walls leaned awkwardly, as if trying to fall but held in place by something unseen. The windows were blacked out with thick cloth, and roots twisted around the base like the forest itself wanted to pull it underground. Every part of Joshua screamed to leave. But he couldn't. Not without knowing.
He waited in the trees as night thickened around him. No stars. Just wind and that cloying smell.
David and the old man entered the house.
Time dragged.
Joshua's mind wandered, flicking through memories like pages. David, bruised and quiet after school, hiding behind him from Baba and the others. David laughing the day they stole fruit and ran from the shopkeeper. David crying beside a grave—his parents gone, one after the other. And that promise they made as boys: "We protect each other, always."
A promise that no longer felt mutual.
The door creaked open. Joshua stiffened.
David came out first, pale and silent. The old man followed, his eyes scanning the trees. Joshua didn't move. He didn't breathe. Only when they were gone did he finally rise and approach the house.
The door was slightly ajar.
Inside, the air was heavy. Damp. The smell of blood, sweat, and something burnt filled the air like smoke in a closed room. Dust clung to the floor in patches, disturbed by footprints—David's. A rug, stained and torn, sat in the middle of the room.
Then he saw it.
A small edge of metal peeking from under the rug.
His chest tightened.
He pulled the rug aside, revealing a trapdoor. His hand hovered over the latch. The silence screamed louder now.
Don't go down there, a voice in his mind whispered.
He opened it anyway.
Creak.
The stairs groaned beneath his weight as he descended. Each step was colder than the last, and the air turned thick with rust and rot. The metallic scent of blood hit him like a wall. Wetness clung to the stone walls. It wasn't water.
The chamber at the bottom was small. Cramped. Lit by one flickering candle that barely revealed the horror in front of him.
Bodies.
At least six.
Some were dead—limbs twisted, eyes open and frozen. One had a hand severed, the stump clumsily wrapped in cloth soaked red. Another had deep gashes carved into their chest. One girl's mouth had been stitched shut. Each one had something familiar—faces from childhood, from school.
They were people who had hurt David.
And then, in the corner chair, slumped forward… was Baba.
The same Baba who used to shove David into walls and laugh when he cried. His body was barely alive. One eye swollen shut, lips cracked and bleeding. His shirt soaked in dried blood. When he saw Joshua, something like relief flickered in his face—then shame.
Joshua staggered back.
His breath caught in his throat as the weight of it all crashed down. This wasn't random.
This was revenge.
And David was in it deep.
Before Joshua could move, before he could think of what to do, a voice drifted from the shadows.
"You should've stayed in the village, boy."
Joshua spun around.
Saponu Sebastian stood in the darkness behind him, tall and still. His voice was cold, his eyes colder. He stepped forward, the candlelight catching the sharp angles of his face.
"You've seen what you weren't meant to see," he said. "But maybe… maybe it's better this way."
Joshua backed away. "What are you doing to them? What have you done to David?"
Saponu tilted his head slightly, as if amused. "We are shaping him. Molding him into what he was always meant to become."
Joshua felt his stomach twist. "You're using him."
"No," Saponu said. "He chose this. He finally understands the truth of this world. And soon… so will you."
Suddenly, a hand grabbed Joshua's ankle.
Baba.
Still alive.
Still begging—with his eyes—for help.
And in that moment, Joshua knew: he couldn't leave. Not now. Not with what he knew.
Then Saponu smiled, eyes glinting.
"The house won't let you leave, Joshua."
The trapdoor slammed shut above him.
Darkness.