The forest deepened around them as they walked.
It had started as a quiet path—a trail once used by traders and messengers, still worn in places from hooves and pawprints. But within the first half hour, the trees grew thicker. Older. The ground softer underfoot, muffled by moss and years of silence.
Isolde moved ahead with purpose, her satchel tight to her side and her braid tucked beneath her cloak obscuring the ethereal white that may draw them unwanted attention. Alaric walked just behind her, watching everything.
She didn't speak. Neither did he. There was nothing to say. The situation was dark. They were heading into what might become a full blown outbreak.
The birdsong had faded.The breeze didn't move the way it should.And the deeper they went, the heavier the air became.
Alaric scanned the trees. Something about the stillness felt off. Like they were walking into something that had been waiting for them.
"You've been here before," he said, low.
Isolde nodded without looking back. "When I was younger. My mother brought me to this den once during a winter outbreak."
"And now?"
"Now it feels wrong."
They pressed on.
It started as a smell.
Rot, sharp and coppery, not quite death—but something like it. Something unnatural.
Isolde's pace slowed.
"Wait," she murmured, holding up a hand.
Alaric stopped beside her, nostrils flaring. "I smell it too."
She turned slightly. "Can you shift?"
"Not fully. Not anymore."
She glanced at him. "Not even now?"
He shook his head once, sharp. "Not unless it's life or death."
She didn't ask. Didn't press. She simply adjusted her stance, hand drifting toward the hilt of the knife at her hip.
Then came the growl.
Low. Wet. Wrong.
Isolde spun. "Above."
The creature dropped from the tree line like a shadow with teeth.
It wasn't the same as before—not exactly. This one was smaller, thinner, its limbs too long and too fast, as if stitched from parts that didn't belong together. Its eyes were black pits, and its mouth never closed, teeth always bared like it had forgotten how to be anything but hungry.
Isolde ducked as it lunged, drawing her blade just in time to slash across its flank—but it didn't slow. It twisted mid-air, shrieking, claws aiming for her throat.
Alaric stepped between them.
Not with magic.Not with shifting.
Just with raw speed.
He caught the thing mid-air, slammed it against the trunk of a tree with enough force to split bark, and bared his teeth in return—not a snarl, not a roar.
Something deeper.
Something ancient.
The creature's body seized. For one breathless moment, it went still—not from injury, but from fear.
Then it twisted free and ran. Not stumbled. Not staggered.
Ran.
Isolde's chest heaved, one arm still raised defensively. Her knife dropped black.
Alaric didn't move.
She approached slowly, gaze flicking between the retreating shadow and the man in front of her.
"You didn't kill it."
"I didn't need to."
"Why did it run?"
Alaric's jaw flexed. "Because it remembers me. Even if I don't remember it."
A long silence passed between them.
Then Isolde sheathed her knife and stepped forward.
"Come on," she said. "Whatever's out here, it's not done with us yet."
Alaric followed.
The trees watched.
And far behind them, where bark had cracked and sap bled slowly from splinters, a rune began to burn.