The road bent west, then north, winding through low hills and sparse woods. Eryn kept walking. The knife at his belt felt heavier than it truly was, a strange comfort against his hip. His spear—splintered from days of use—he still carried, though he had sharpened its tip again and again on river stones.
The forest loomed closer with each passing day. Travelers on the road gave him odd looks; no child his age wandered alone with weapons. Some muttered prayers under their breath when they saw the direction he walked. Once, an old woman warned him outright, "Don't go near those trees, boy. There are things in there that ain't human."Eryn only nodded and kept walking.
By the fourth day, he stood on the very edge of that dark forest. The trees rose like ancient pillars, their branches woven thick overhead, blotting out the sun even before he stepped inside. The air was damp, full of moss and decay, and the wind carried a distant groan like something breathing far below.
Eryn hesitated. His heart hammered in his chest. He could almost hear Leya's voice—Don't go too far, Eryn, it's scary in there!—but he shook his head, jaw tightening."Scary," he muttered to himself, "is nothing now."
He stepped into the shadows.
Hours passed. The path twisted, sometimes disappearing altogether. The deeper he went, the quieter the world became until even the birds stopped singing. He found signs of old ruins—a stone arch half-swallowed by vines, a broken altar scarred by claw marks. He crouched to inspect them, knife in hand, senses sharpened by hunger and purpose.
Night began to fall, turning the forest black and endless. He found a hollow between two moss-covered rocks and crouched there, arms wrapped around his knees. The silence felt heavy, but his mind burned with memory—the man in the clearing, bottle in hand, not even turning his head as demons slaughtered everyone. Eryn's teeth clenched.
He whispered to the darkness, "I'll find you. I'll make you answer."