The rabbit with the nightmare mouth wasn't even the worst part—it was the fact that my kick sent it flying about three hundred feet when I barely put any effort into it.
I push myself up from the dirt road, my enhanced senses immediately cataloging everything wrong with this place. The air tastes metallic, like blood mixed with ozone. The screeches echoing through the forest carry harmonics that make my teeth ache. And underneath it all, there's an energy signature I don't recognize—not demonic, not angelic, not even the strange ki-based power from the Academy realm.
Something else entirely.
"Fucking dimensional rifts," I mutter, brushing dirt from my clothes. The armor beneath my skin pulses with agitation, responding to my frustration and the alien energies surrounding us. "Can't even have a proper teenage fight without reality tearing itself apart."
I close my eyes and extend my senses, searching for any trace of Caleif's unique energy signature. Nothing. Whatever that tear in reality was, it deposited me here alone. The thought sends a spike of genuine panic through me—not for my own safety, but for hers. She's powerful, but she's also trapped in the body of a teenager in a realm where the rabbits have fucking nightmares for mouths.
Another screech echoes through the forest, closer this time. I turn toward the sound, feeling my claws extend slightly as the hellfire in my veins responds to potential threat. Five thousand years in Hell taught me to assess danger quickly, and everything about this place screams predator.
The forest itself looks wrong—trees twisted into shapes that hurt to look at directly, leaves that shimmer with colors that shouldn't exist, shadows that move independently of their sources. It's like someone took a normal woodland and ran it through a cosmic blender set to "eldritch horror."
"Great," I say aloud, partly to hear my own voice in this alien landscape. "From superhero high school to... what, demon forest? Nightmare dimension? Tuesday?"
Something rustles in the underbrush to my left. I spin toward it, my enhanced reflexes putting me in a combat stance before my conscious mind catches up. The movement that emerges isn't another mutant rabbit—it's humanoid, but wrong in ways that make my armor itch beneath my skin.
The figure stands maybe seven feet tall, with pale gray skin that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it. Its limbs are too long, joints bending in directions that shouldn't be anatomically possible. But it's the face that really gets my attention—or rather, the complete absence of one. Where features should be, there's just smooth skin stretched over what might be bone.
"Well, hello there," I say, my voice carrying that metallic resonance that makes reality vibrate. "Don't suppose you know the way back to civilization? Or at least somewhere with fewer nightmare creatures?"
The thing tilts its featureless head, and I realize it's listening. Not just to my words, but to something else—the energy signature of what I am, perhaps. The hellfire burning in my chest, the armor fused with my flesh, the accumulated power of five millennia in the deepest pits of Hell.
Then it screams.
The sound isn't vocal—it's psychic, a blast of pure terror and hunger that hits my mind like a sledgehammer. For a moment, I'm back in the Pit, facing down entities that fed on fear and despair. The familiar sensation actually helps me focus, reminding me of techniques I learned for dealing with creatures that attack the mind rather than the body.
I let the hellfire in my chest flare brighter, burning away the psychic intrusion like sunlight through fog. The faceless thing staggers backward, its too-long limbs flailing as my mental defenses reject its assault.
"Nice try," I tell it, advancing with predatory grace. "But I've had scarier things than you whisper lullabies in my ear."
It lunges at me with inhuman speed, claws extending from fingers that stretch like rubber. I catch its wrists in my hands, feeling bones crack under the pressure of my grip. The creature's strength is impressive—probably enough to tear apart normal humans without effort—but it's nothing compared to what Hell forged me into.
I twist, using its own momentum to spin it around and slam it face-first into the nearest tree. The impact splits the bark and sends the creature sliding down the trunk, leaving a trail of something that might be blood but smells like rotting flowers.
It doesn't get back up.
"One down," I mutter, looking around at the alien forest. "Probably about a thousand more to go."
The screeches from deeper in the woods are getting louder, more frequent. Whatever that faceless thing was, its death throes apparently just rang the dinner bell for everything else in this nightmare realm.
I need to find shelter, figure out where I am, and most importantly, find a way back to Caleif. The Academy seems like a pleasant dream compared to this place, and that's saying something considering I was about to accidentally murder a teenager when reality decided to eat me.
A new sound cuts through the forest cacophony—not a screech or howl, but something almost musical. Singing, maybe, though the melody carries undertones that make my enhanced hearing want to shut down in self-defense.
I follow the sound, partly because it might indicate intelligent life and partly because standing still in this place feels like suicide. The dirt road continues winding through the twisted trees, and I stick to it rather than risk whatever might be lurking in the underbrush.
The singing gets louder as I walk, and I start to make out words—or at least, sounds that might be words in a language I don't recognize. The melody is hauntingly beautiful despite its alien quality, and I find myself drawn forward almost against my will.
That's when my five thousand years of paranoia kick in. Beautiful, compelling music in a nightmare forest? That's either a trap or something worse than a trap.
I slow my pace, letting the armor beneath my skin manifest more fully. Claws extend from my fingers, hellfire flickers in my eyes, and the metallic resonance in my voice deepens as I prepare for whatever fresh horror this realm wants to throw at me.
The road curves ahead, and I catch sight of a structure through the trees—not the twisted, organic architecture I was expecting, but something almost normal. A small cottage with smoke rising from its chimney, warm light glowing in the windows, and a garden that actually looks like it might produce edible food rather than nightmare fuel.
The singing is coming from inside.
I approach carefully, every sense alert for danger. The cottage looks inviting, peaceful, completely at odds with the hostile forest surrounding it. Which means it's either a genuine refuge or the most dangerous trap I've encountered since arriving in this realm.
Probably both, knowing my luck.
I reach the front door—solid wood painted a cheerful blue that somehow manages to look normal despite everything else being wrong with this place. The singing continues from inside, a woman's voice carrying that same beautiful, alien melody.
I raise my hand to knock, then pause. Do I really want to announce my presence to whatever lives in the one normal-looking building in a forest full of nightmare creatures? On the other hand, standing on the doorstep like an idiot probably isn't much safer.
Before I can decide, the singing stops.
"Come in," calls a voice from inside—definitely female, speaking in accented English that sounds almost familiar. "The door is unlocked."
Of course it is. Because nothing says "totally not a trap" like an unlocked door in the middle of monster forest.
I push the door open and step inside, ready to fight or flee depending on what greets me.
What I find is possibly the last thing I expected: a perfectly normal cottage interior, complete with comfortable furniture, a crackling fireplace, and the smell of something that might actually be edible cooking in the kitchen.
And sitting in a rocking chair by the fire, humming that same haunting melody, is a woman who looks entirely human except for the fact that her eyes are solid black from corner to corner.
"Hello, Kamen," she says without looking up from the book in her lap. "I've been waiting for you." I look around and sigh. "This can'"t be good. Never is." I mutter as I walk closer to the woman, shes extremely beautiful.
"You're not from around here, that's interesting." She says as she sips her tea. "Nothing gets past you." I say sarcastically and cough.
"You're in a different realm, and unfortunately for you, there is no going back. But fear not, there is more to this place, its similar to your world, there are humans, monsters amd everything in between just no demons or angels. You are in a world known as Elysium. This is your new home." She explains as she sips her tea once more.
"What do you mean similar to my world? So it's like my home world just with different things? What year is it?" I ask dumb founded.
"The last I remember the year is 1562, no significance to you though. But I will say, this world is interesting once you get out of the forest."
I stare at the woman with the solid black eyes, trying to process what she's just told me. No going back? New home? My mind races through the implications while the hellfire in my chest flickers with agitation.
"1562," I repeat, the absurdity of the situation hitting me. "So I've fallen through time as well as space. Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful."
The woman smiles, seemingly unbothered by my sarcasm. "Time is relative between realms. Your world's progression has no bearing on ours."
"And who exactly are you?" I ask, keeping my distance despite the cottage's inviting warmth. Five thousand years in Hell has taught me that comfort is often the deadliest trap.
"You may call me Lilith," she says, setting her book aside. "I'm something of a gatekeeper in these parts."
"Gatekeeper," I echo, not bothering to hide my skepticism. "And what exactly are you keeping in? Or out?"
Her black eyes glimmer with amusement. "Both. Neither. The forest serves its purpose."
I glance around the cottage again, noticing details I missed in my initial assessment. Strange symbols carved into the wooden beams overhead. Dried herbs hanging from the rafters that don't match any botanical catalog I've ever studied. And most concerning, a collection of what appear to be human bones arranged in intricate patterns on a shelf.
"Not exactly the welcoming committee I was hoping for," I mutter.
Lilith laughs, the sound both musical and deeply unsettling. "Would you prefer I lie? Tell you there's an easy way back to your Academy? To your friend Caleif?"
The mention of Caleif's name sends a jolt through me. "How do you know about her?"
"The tear that brought you here left... impressions," she explains, rising from her chair with fluid grace. "I can see fragments of your recent past, though the depths of your history remain mercifully obscured."
"Mercifully?"
"For me," she clarifies with another smile. "I suspect your five thousand years in Hell would be rather unpleasant viewing."
The armor beneath my skin shifts restlessly at her casual mention of my imprisonment. Either she's genuinely powerful enough to glean that information from dimensional residue, or she's bluffing based on something she sensed in me. Neither option is particularly comforting.
"If there's no way back," I say, choosing my words carefully, "then what exactly am I supposed to do in this... Elysium?"
"Whatever you wish," Lilith replies, moving to the kitchen area where something simmers in a cast-iron pot. "Live. Adapt. Perhaps even thrive, if you're as resilient as your history suggests."
She ladles whatever's cooking into a wooden bowl and offers it to me. The aroma is enticing—rich and savory with hints of spices I don't recognize.
"Eat," she urges. "The forest drains energy from outsiders. You'll need your strength."
I make no move to take the bowl. "And I should trust food from a woman with void-black eyes who collects human bones because...?"
Lilith's laugh rings out again. "Cautious. Good. You'll need that here." She sets the bowl on a small table between us. "The bones aren't human, by the way. Not entirely. And they're tools, not trophies."
"That's not the reassurance you think it is."
She shrugs, returning to her rocking chair. "Suit yourself. Starve if you prefer. Though I suspect your... unique physiology would make that difficult."
I eye the bowl, weighing my options. My enhanced body could probably neutralize most poisons, and the hellfire in my veins burns hot enough to purge most magical compulsions. Still, accepting food from a stranger in a nightmare realm isn't exactly survival 101.
"Tell me about this world," I demand instead. "You said it's similar to mine but with monsters. What kind of society am I walking into?"
"One that might surprise you," Lilith says, settling back with her tea. "Humans have built cities, established trade, created art and science and religion—all while coexisting with beings they don't fully understand."
"Coexisting," I repeat skeptically. "Like that faceless thing that tried to psychically eviscerate me?"
"The Hollow Ones stay in the forest for a reason," she explains. "The deeper wilderness holds creatures that would make your demonic acquaintances seem positively benign. But the human settlements have their own protections, their own arrangements with the more... civilized non-humans."
I finally sit down across from her, though I still ignore the food. "And where do you fit into all this?"
"I maintain boundaries," she says simply. "Ensure that certain equilibriums remain intact."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting for now." Her black eyes study me with unnerving intensity. "You're something new, Kamen Driscol. Something this realm hasn't encountered before. Neither human nor demon nor angel, but something forged in spaces between."
The accuracy of her assessment makes the armor beneath my skin pulse with discomfort. "If I'm so interesting, why not just kill me and dissect whatever's left?"
Her smile widens. "Who says I won't? But first, I'm curious to see what you'll do. How you'll adapt. What choices you'll make when faced with a world that doesn't know what to make of you."
"I've had enough of being someone's science experiment," I growl, feeling the hellfire in my chest burn hotter.
"Not science," she corrects. "Observation. There's a difference."
I stand abruptly, my patience wearing thin. "As fascinating as this conversation is, I need to find Caleif. If she came through the same tear—"
"She didn't," Lilith interrupts, her expression softening slightly. "You arrived alone, Kamen. Whatever connection brought you to this realm was specific to you."
The finality in her voice hits me harder than I expected. The thought of being truly alone in this place, without even Caleif's familiar presence, sends a hollow feeling through my chest that the hellfire can't quite burn away.
"Then I need to find a way back," I insist.
"There isn't one," she says simply. "At least, not one I know of. The tears are rare, unpredictable. They take but rarely return."
I pace the small cottage, frustration building. "There has to be something. Dimensional gates, ritual magic, something."
"Perhaps," Lilith concedes. "But such knowledge, if it exists, wouldn't be found in a forest cottage."
I stop pacing and turn to face her. "Where, then?"
"The Citadel would be your best starting point," she says. "The largest human settlement in this region. Their libraries contain knowledge gathered over centuries, including accounts of other... visitors like yourself."
"Other dimensional travelers?"
"Some," she nods. "Though few survive the forest long enough to reach civilization."
I gesture toward the window, where the alien forest presses against the cottage's boundaries. "And how exactly am I supposed to find this Citadel through that nightmare?"
"The road," Lilith says as if it's obvious. "Follow it east for three days. It will lead you to the edge of the forest and beyond that, to farmlands surrounding the Citadel."
"Three days through monster-infested woods," I mutter. "Wonderful."
"You've survived worse," she observes, those black eyes seeming to look straight through me. "Much worse, if the scars on your soul are any indication."
I don't bother asking how she can see those. Some questions are better left unanswered.
"If I leave now—"
"You won't," she interrupts. "Night falls quickly here, and even you wouldn't survive what comes out after dark. Not yet. Not until you understand what you're facing."
The certainty in her voice gives me pause. I've killed gods and demons, survived five millennia in the deepest pits of Hell. What could possibly emerge in this forest that would give me pause?
As if reading my thoughts, Lilith smiles. "Your arrogance is showing, Kamen. This isn't Hell. The rules are different here. The dangers, unfamiliar."
"Then educate me," I challenge. "If I'm stuck here until morning, make it worth my while."
She considers this, then nods toward the untouched bowl. "Eat first. The conversation will be long, and you'll need your strength."
I eye the food suspiciously once more, then make my decision. I pick up the bowl and take a cautious taste. The flavors explode across my tongue—rich and complex with an underlying sweetness that reminds me of honey but isn't quite the same.
"What is this?" I ask between bites, my enhanced metabolism suddenly reminding me how long it's been since I last ate.
"Venison stew with forest herbs," she replies. "The deer here have adapted to the energies of this place. Their meat carries... properties that might help your transition."
I pause mid-bite. "Properties?"
"Nothing harmful," she assures me. "Think of it as an inoculation. Small exposures to help your body adapt to the ambient energies of this realm."
I should probably be more concerned about consuming mystically-charged meat from an alien dimension, but after five thousand years in Hell, my standards for what constitutes a bad dietary choice have significantly evolved.
"Fine," I say, continuing to eat. "Now tell me what I need to know to survive this place."
Lilith leans forward, her black eyes reflecting the firelight. "First, understand that Elysium operates on principles different from your realm. Magic here isn't demonic or angelic—it's intrinsic to the world itself. The land breathes. The trees think. The stones remember."
"Poetic," I comment dryly.
"Literal," she corrects. "This forest is conscious in ways you can't yet perceive. It tests those who enter, challenges them according to their nature."
"You're saying the forest itself sent that faceless thing after me?"
"The Hollow Ones are drawn to newcomers," she explains. "They feed on unfamiliar energies. But yes, the forest allows them to hunt within its boundaries. Encourages it, even."
I set the empty bowl aside, feeling the strange meat settling in my stomach. The hellfire in my veins seems to respond to it, burning with a slightly different resonance than before.
"What else hunts here?"
"Many things," Lilith says. "The Hollow Ones are merely the most common. There are the Whisperers who steal thoughts and memories. The Crimson Stalkers who collect skin. The Gloom Children who—"
"I get the picture," I interrupt. "Nightmare creatures with nightmare habits."
"Yet all follow certain rules," she continues. "Most cannot cross running water. Many fear iron—not the refined steel of your world, but true cold iron forged without heat. Some can be bargained with, if you know their languages and customs."
"And the ones that can't?"
Her expression darkens. "Those you kill, quickly and without hesitation. Or better yet, avoid entirely."
I absorb this information, calculating survival strategies based on what she's told me. "What about the road? Is it safer than traveling through the forest directly?"
"The road offers some protection," she confirms. "Ancient pacts bind many creatures from harming those who enter the forest. But I must warn you, if you go into town with your current appearance, you will frighten and might possibly be hung due to your… Otherwordly looks. Here, let me change how you look." She reaches into her pocket and pulls a small ring out.
"This ring will change your appearance to whatever you want and it will supress your powers so you dont kill anyone right away."
I eye the ring suspiciously, my hand halfway extended. "And why exactly would you help me? What's your stake in all this?"
Lilith's black eyes gleam in the firelight. "Let's just say I'm invested in maintaining certain... balances. You're an anomaly, Kamen. A being of immense power dropped into a realm unprepared for what you represent."
"So this is about control," I say, still not taking the ring. "Keeping the monster on a leash."
Her laugh is like broken glass wrapped in silk. "If I thought you could be leashed, I wouldn't bother with the ring. This is about survival—yours and theirs. The humans of this realm have developed methods for dealing with monsters. Methods that, while insufficient against your full power, would still cause considerable... inconvenience."
I finally take the ring, feeling its weight—heavier than it looks, with strange symbols etched into the metal that seem to shift when I'm not looking directly at them.
"How does it work?" I ask, turning it between my fingers.
"Put it on and focus on how you wish to appear," she explains. "The illusion will form around you, masking your true nature from both sight and magical detection."
"And the power suppression?"
"A safeguard," she says simply. "For when your temper gets the better of you."
I bristle at that. "I have perfect control."
Her expression tells me she's not impressed. "Tell that to the boy you nearly killed before the tear took you."
The memory of Ryu's blood-spattered face flashes through my mind. Okay, so maybe my control isn't perfect. Five thousand years in Hell didn't exactly teach restraint.
"Fine," I concede, slipping the ring onto my finger. It adjusts itself to fit perfectly, which should be concerning but barely registers on my current scale of weird shit happening.
I focus on an image of myself—not the transformed being I've become, but something closer to human. Tall but not unnaturally so. Strong but not obviously superhuman. Eyes that don't glow with hellfire. Skin without the subtle metallic sheen of armor beneath.
The change ripples over me like water, a cool sensation that starts at the ring and flows outward. I look down at my hands and see normal human fingers instead of the claws I've grown accustomed to. The constant burn of hellfire in my chest dampens to a manageable warmth.
"Fascinating," Lilith murmurs, studying my transformation. "You chose to appear almost exactly as you did before Hell claimed you."
I glance at a small mirror hanging on the cottage wall and see a face I barely recognize anymore—the face of a professor, a scholar, a man who believed knowledge could bridge the gaps between realms. Before everything went to shit.
"It's practical," I say, not wanting to examine my choice too closely. "Unremarkable. Forgettable."
"Nothing about you is forgettable, Kamen," she says with an unsettling smile. "But the disguise will serve its purpose."
I flex my fingers, testing the limits of the ring's suppression. I can still feel the armor beneath my skin, still sense the hellfire in my veins, but it's muted—like viewing a bonfire through frosted glass.
"How long will it last?"
"As long as you wear the ring," she replies. "Though I should warn you—the suppression isn't absolute. Strong emotions, particularly rage, will strain its capabilities. Push hard enough, and it will shatter."
"Good to know," I mutter, already calculating scenarios where that might be useful. Or catastrophic.
Lilith rises from her chair with that same fluid grace that marks her as something other than human. "You should rest now. The journey to the Citadel will be taxing, even for one such as you."
She gestures toward a small door I hadn't noticed before. "There's a bed through there. I've placed wards around the cottage that will keep the night creatures at bay."
I hesitate, still not entirely trusting her motives. "And where will you be?"
"Around," she says enigmatically. "I have my own duties to attend to when darkness falls."
I don't like it, but my options are limited. Stay here in this warded cottage with a mysterious woman who at least hasn't tried to kill me yet, or venture into a nightmare forest at night where apparently even my hellforged power isn't guaranteed protection.
"Fine," I agree reluctantly. "But if this is some elaborate trap—"
"You'll what?" she interrupts, those black eyes reflecting nothing. "Kill me? Destroy my home? Rage against a realm that doesn't even know you exist yet?" She shakes her head. "Save your threats, Kamen. They're unnecessary and, frankly, beneath you."
The dismissal stings more than it should. I'm not used to being spoken to this way—not since my return from Hell, at least. Most beings who know what I am either fear me or try to kill me. This casual disregard is... new.
"One more question," I say as she moves toward the door. "Why help me at all? Why not just let the forest have me?"
Lilith pauses, her hand on the latch. "Because despite what you've become, there's still something in you worth salvaging. Something even five thousand years in Hell couldn't burn away completely."
Before I can ask what she means, she's gone, slipping out into the darkness with barely a sound.
I'm left alone in the cottage, the fire crackling in the hearth, the strange symbols overhead casting odd shadows on the walls. Outside, the forest has gone silent—not the peaceful quiet of normal woods at night, but the tense, watchful silence of a predator waiting to strike.
I move to the small bedroom and find it simple but comfortable—a bed with clean linens, a basin of water for washing, a small window shuttered against the night. More symbols are carved into the wooden frame of the bed and across the lintel of the door.
Protection wards, my enhanced senses tell me. Powerful ones.
I sit on the edge of the bed, turning the ring on my finger. The disguise holds steady, my reflection in the small mirror above the basin showing a face I'd almost forgotten. The face of someone who believed in something beyond survival and power.
The face of a fool, perhaps. But a familiar one.
Sleep comes surprisingly easily, despite everything. Perhaps it's the wards, or the strange meat I consumed, or simply exhaustion from dimensional travel. Whatever the cause, I drift off with one last coherent thought:
Tomorrow I enter a world that doesn't know what I am. A clean slate, of sorts.
I wonder how long it will take me to ruin it.
Morning arrives with birdsong that sounds almost normal, if you ignore the occasional harmonics that make my teeth ache. I wake fully alert, a habit five thousand years in Hell burned into me. The cottage is quiet, no sign of Lilith's return during the night.
On the table in the main room, I find supplies laid out—a pack containing food, a waterskin, a knife that looks to be made of that "cold iron" she mentioned, and a rough map sketched on parchment. A note in elegant script reads simply: "East. Three days. Trust nothing that speaks without a mouth."
"Cryptic as ever," I mutter, examining the supplies. The food is simple but hearty—dried meat, hard cheese, something that might be bread but has an unusual purple tint. The knife is surprisingly heavy, its blade dull gray rather than the shine of steel.
I check the ring, making sure the disguise is still in place. My reflection in the window shows the same unremarkable human face as last night. Good. One less thing to worry about.
Outside, the forest looks different in daylight—still wrong in fundamental ways, but less immediately threatening. The trees sway slightly though there's no wind I can detect. The colors are too vivid, shadows too dark where they fall across the dirt road.
I shoulder the pack and orient myself using the position of what I assume is this realm's sun. East should be... that way.
The road stretches ahead, winding through the twisted trees. I can't see more than a hundred yards before it curves out of sight. Three days of this. Three days through a forest filled with nightmare creatures that even Lilith seemed concerned about.
But it's not like I have a better option.
I start walking, keeping my senses alert for any sign of danger. The disguise dampens my abilities somewhat, but I can still detect more than any normal human would. The scents of unfamiliar vegetation. The subtle vibrations in the ground that suggest movement in the underbrush. The occasional flash of something watching from between the trees.
The first hour passes without incident. The road is well-maintained despite the hostile environment, suggesting regular travel or at least maintenance. I wonder who's brave enough—or desperate enough—to keep a path clear through this nightmare.
As if summoned by my thoughts, I hear something approaching from behind. Not the stealthy movement of a predator, but the deliberate progress of... wheels?
I turn to see a cart coming around the bend, pulled by what might generously be called horses if horses had six legs and scales instead of hair. The driver is human, or at least human-shaped—an old man with a face weathered by years of sun and wind.
He pulls up when he sees me, eyeing me with the wariness of someone who's survived a long time in dangerous territory.
"Hail, traveler," he calls, his accent thick but understandable. "Rare to see a lone wanderer on these roads."
I consider my options. Ignore him and continue on? That might seem suspicious. Engage and risk revealing my unfamiliarity with this world? Also risky, but potentially informative.
"Hail," I reply, keeping my distance from the cart. "Just passing through."
The old man snorts. "Nobody 'just passes through' the Whispering Woods. You're either running from something or looking for something."
"Maybe both," I say, which earns me a cackle.
"Honest, at least. You headed for the Citadel?"
I nod, seeing no reason to lie about my destination.
"Well, you're in luck then," he says, patting the bench beside him. "So am I. Twice-monthly supply run. Climb aboard if you've a mind to. Safer than walking, though not by much."
I hesitate, assessing the offer. On one hand, transportation would speed my journey considerably. On the other, it means close quarters with someone who might notice if my disguise slips.
"What's the catch?" I ask directly.
The old man grins, revealing teeth that are surprisingly white and even. "Smart. The catch is you help guard the cart if trouble comes. And it always comes, one way or another."
"Fair enough," I agree, approaching the cart. The six-legged not-horses eye me nervously, their nostrils flaring. They can probably sense what I really am, despite the ring's disguise.
"Name's Thorne," the old man says as I climb up beside him. "Most just call me the Cartman, though."
"Kamen," I reply, seeing no reason to lie about that either.
"Strange name," he comments, flicking the reins to get the creatures moving again. "Not from around here, are you?"
"That obvious?"
"Your clothes, your speech, the way you move," he says with a shrug. "The Woods have a way of collecting strays from... elsewhere."
I'm grateful for the casual admission. It means I don't have to work as hard to hide my origins—though I still need to be careful about revealing exactly how far "elsewhere" actually is.
"The Woods collect strays?" I ask, settling into the cart's bench. The motion of the six-legged creatures is surprisingly smooth, despite their alien appearance.
"Aye," Thorne nods, his weathered hands steady on the reins. "Tears in the world, some call them. Holes that open up and swallow folks from other places. Most don't survive long enough to tell about it."
"But some do?"
"Some." His tone suggests this isn't a conversation he particularly enjoys. "Usually end up in the Citadel eventually, if they make it out of the Woods alive. The Lord Mayor's got a special interest in... unusual arrivals."
That doesn't sound ominous at all. I file the information away for later consideration.
The cart rolls on through the twisted forest, and I find myself studying the landscape with new eyes. Now that I know what to look for, I can see signs of the tears Thorne mentioned—places where the trees grow in perfect circles around patches of empty ground, where the air shimmers with residual dimensional energy.
"How often do these tears appear?" I ask.
Thorne shrugs. "No pattern to it. Could be years between them, could be three in a month. The Woods decide, not us."
We travel in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the steady rhythm of not-horse hooves and the creak of cart wheels. The forest around us remains watchful but not actively threatening—perhaps whatever creatures lurk in the shadows recognize Thorne as a regular traveler and know better than to attack.
That theory gets tested about two hours into our journey.
The not-horses suddenly stop, their scaled heads rising in unison as they sniff the air. Thorne's expression darkens as he reaches for something beneath his seat—a crossbow that looks like it's seen considerable use.
"What is it?" I whisper, my hand instinctively moving toward the cold iron knife Lilith provided.
"Whisperers," Thorne says grimly. "They're trying to get into the beasts' heads. Won't be long before they try ours."
As if summoned by his words, I hear it—a sound like wind through leaves, but carrying fragments of words. Not quite voices, but close enough to make my skin crawl. The ring on my finger grows warm as it works to maintain my disguise against whatever psychic probing the creatures are attempting.
"Cover your ears," Thorne advises, raising his crossbow. "Don't listen to what they say. They'll use your own thoughts against you."
But I can already feel them trying to worm their way into my mind, seeking memories and fears to exploit. What they find, however, isn't what they're expecting.
Five thousand years of Hell have left my psyche scarred in ways these creatures can't comprehend. When they try to access my memories of torment, they encounter torments that predate their existence. When they reach for my fears, they find something that learned to embrace terror as a tool.
One of the Whisperers screams—a sound like breaking glass mixed with dying wind. Then another. Within moments, the entire pack is fleeing deeper into the forest, their psychic assault collapsing under the weight of what they tried to consume.
Thorne lowers his crossbow, staring at me with new interest. "Well," he says slowly. "That's not something you see every day."
I realize I'm sweating despite the ring's suppression of my abilities. Whatever just happened strained the disguise considerably—I can feel it flickering around the edges.
"What do you mean?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
"Whisperers don't just give up," he explains, still watching me carefully. "They latch onto minds and don't let go until they've drained everything worth taking. For them to flee like that..." He trails off, clearly considering possibilities I'd rather he didn't.
"Maybe they found easier prey elsewhere," I suggest weakly.
Thorne's laugh is dry as desert sand. "Sure, lad. That must be it."
He doesn't press the issue, but I can feel his attention on me for the rest of the day. The comfortable anonymity I was hoping for has already started to crack, and I'm not even out of the forest yet.
This is going to be a long three days.