He followed the narrow path toward the heart of the camp where the great fig tree stood. Its enormous trunk was slick with rain, its roots twisting across the ground like living serpents. He sat on one, pulled off his wet shirt, and tried to wipe water from his face, his skin was raw from grappling with the shape in the forest last night. His palms tingled from the broken memory: the shape of the figure, forest-born, shifting, its hand not attacking but reaching into his chest. That moment when he believed he might stop it with steel, but the blade shattered, the flesh parted, and nothing died. Instead, the thing had disappeared in a puff of dust and bark, leaving him bleeding, utterly alive, utterly afraid.
The sun was just reaching into the canopy when others emerged. Grace was the first. She sat beside him, no word at first, just the sound of her breathing in the humid air, in sync with the forest's hush. He looked at her and saw dawn waking in her eyes. She touched his shoulder.
