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EIGHT
T wo steps into the Western Woods, Hekla pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. The legends her grandmother had once told her rang loudly in her ears—frightening and fascinating tales of mythical creatures, of sacred groves and deep-rooted magic.
“They are only stories,” Hekla murmured to herself, though her hand found the hilt of her sword all the same.
Towering pines swayed above bare-branched rowans, vibrant red berries the lone spot of color in these eerie woods.
Sunlight slanted high through the trees, catching on lichen-covered branches.
But the forest floor told a different story.
Bone-dry moss and dead leaves crunched beneath Hekla’s feet while the corpse limbs of bracken ferns rasped eerily against tree trunks.
Ferns and shrubs, tree saplings and mushrooms—all of them were dead. The forest floor was a graveyard.
Hekla peered at the sun-dappled pine boughs above.
Whatever plagued the smaller plants clearly had not yet claimed the larger, hardier trees.
After one last glance back at the farmstead, she forced herself onward, weaving between the stems and tracking deeper into the woods.
It did not take long for her to find the second Spiral Stave carved into a trunk.
Her body tingled with excitement, the knowing feeling inside her only growing more certain: The path she walked led to answers.
As she strode on, Hekla searched the darkness for any sign of the creature she’d spied at the edge of the woods, her hand never lifting from the hilt of her sword.
She listened for the telltale sound of the mist—that eerie muffled heartbeat—yet it was as though a blanket of silence had fallen upon the forest. No birds.
No small woodland creatures. Her gaze landed on a third Spiral Stave, and she pressed onward.
The air grew thicker, tinged with a heavy, earthen scent. In the depths of the woods, the pine trees dominated, their toothy needles clawing toward the sun. By the time Hekla spotted the sixth Spiral Stave, the forest was altogether gloomy.
Then she heard the scrape of dead brush—brittle twigs snapping like bones.
Hekla unsheathed her sword, widened her stance, and held herself absolutely still.
As she stared into the thick brambles, she wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her.
Then a whiskered nose peeked out from beneath a twitching bush.
“A squirrel.”
Hekla chuffed in disbelief. Burning fucking stars. She’d drawn her sword on a bloody squirrel.
With a heavy exhale, she soldiered forward, eyes searching for the next Spiral Stave.
By now, Eyvind would have discovered her absence, and Loftur would be fuming.
Hekla’s stomach twinged with a hint of regret, but she’d come too far to turn back now.
Besides, for the first time in weeks, she was doing something.
The next Spiral Stave was carved into the crusted trunk of an ancient pine. Dry leaves scraped along the forest floor, and she whirled around. The squirrel was a few paces behind her, its russet tail twitching.
“Get out of here!” Hekla waved her arms to frighten it off, but the squirrel stood its ground, watching her with beady black eyes.
With an irritated sigh, Hekla turned back to her task.
The underbrush grew denser, sharp brambles grasping at her cloak and breeches.
Finally, Hekla broke through into a clearing.
Instantly, the air lightened, the scent shifting from acrid pine needles to sweet summer blossoms. Hekla blinked at the soft emerald moss carpeting the clearing.
Why was it not dead and brittle like in the forest beyond?
Indeed, compared to the gnarled gloom of the outer forest, this clearing had the sense of a refuge—an island of calm in wild seas.
In the center of the clearing, stood an enormous tree.
Not a pine, nor a rowan; Hekla had never seen anything like it.
The tree’s thick trunk twisted upward, a handful of yellowing leaves clinging to long, curving branches.
Her eyes traced along the tree’s bark, and a jolt ran through her.
Another Spiral Stave. It wasn’t carved like the others.
This one was twisted into the gnarled whorls of the trunk itself.
Hekla’s mind swirled with unanswerable questions.
Who had killed the Klaernar and scrawled the Spiral Staves in their blood?
Had their aim been to draw someone to this clearing all along?
Despite the lack of answers, her skin buzzed with anticipation as she lifted her hand and grazed her fingers along the rough bark.
Energy surged into her body, her mind flooding with a thousand memories that were not her own: groves of elder trees so enormous their branches scraped the clouds and their roots burrowed to the deepest depths of the earth; a forest teeming with life, with birds and skarplings; frost foxes and flíta; glossy beetles marching over delicate mushroom caps and white lichen unfurling under moonlight.
In the forest’s rich soil, insects wriggled—life forms too small to see with the living eye thrived.
Delicate threads connected each plant in the forest, nourishment pulsing through them from elder to sapling.
She was slumbering on a bed of moss and lichen, her grimwolves all around her, thick gray coats rising and falling with each rhythmic breath.
But beneath it all, a low, shrill sound crescendoed with each beat of her heart.
Horror and anger and desperation thrashed through her.
The cycle reversed—nourishment stolen, sucked from the forest, an unending hunger, devouring all in its path.
It was coming for her, too, eager to Turn her to its cause.
She had to protect herself at all costs, even if it meant going dormant to survive.
The sound reached its apex, a blood-curdling screech that was the sound of nightmares.
And at last Hekla understood—the scream was coming from the tree.
She stumbled back with a gasp. The woods swarmed back into view, and Hekla clutched her hand to her chest, staring at the tree. Had she lost her gods-damned mind? But the feel of coarse wolf hair lingered on her fingertips, the despair and rage still churning through her blood.
The squirrel chittered from a branch on the strange tree, and Hekla leapt back. Red tail twitching in agitation, it released another string of angry sounds.
It was time to leave. Hekla turned on her heel just as the ground beneath her rumbled. She was filled with prickling awareness, swiftly followed by the sense of being hunted.
A low, steady thump sounded from distantly within the woods.
No , thought Hekla, desperation clawing through her. It couldn’t be. But the pulsing grew louder, and Hekla knew she was not imagining it.
The mist was coming.
Her hand moved to the hilt of her sword, yet she knew there was no weapon to vanquish this foe. None had survived the mist’s deadly embrace. Her only chance was to flee.
Hekla drew her sword anyway and hacked at the brambles encircling the clearing, desperate to get back into the open forest so she could dig in her heels and run.
The heartbeat’s rhythm picked up, though the beat was still distant.
But the sound of it climbed up through her boots and vibrated her bones.
I’m coming for you , it seemed to say.
Ripping her cloak free from a sharp branch, Hekla burst out of the thicket, stumbling between branches and over rocks.
But she was in the open forest, and an ember of hope sparked to life.
The battle thrill coursed through her veins, powering her limbs.
She had to get out of these woods. Had to get away from the mist. Had to warn the others so they could get to safety.
She passed a familiar stump, recognized a distinct, forked rowan, but Hekla knew she was still too far from the Braksson’s steading, that the pulsating beat grew too rapid. ..
She cast a desperate look over her shoulder and immediately wished she hadn’t. Thick white mist slithered between tree stems with impossible speed. And in that moment, she knew: Escaping this thing was not possible.
Hekla had never been one to run from death. And so, she paused. Turned to face it.
“Well met,” she said, hefting her sword.
The mist undulated in time with the rapid heartbeat, sweeping closer. But Hekla held her ground. Greeted her destiny. Swung her blade as the mist engulfed her.
It was much like being plunged underwater, only in reverse.
She emerged from the deathly stillness of the woods into utter chaos.
Discordant sounds assaulted her ears, while monstrous creatures danced around her.
Inside the mist, the forest transformed into a place of devastation.
Trees, bald and lifeless; moss, gray and crisped.
Beneath it all, a webwork of black fire was woven in the soil.
The pulsating rhythm of the mist was distant yet all around her, its anger growing faster with the beat.
She could feel it permeating her senses, invading her throat, and seeping into her skin.
It searched out the tethers of her life force and free will, eager to break and reforge—to Turn her to its cause.
Nausea overwhelming her, Hekla sank to her knees, all hope bleeding from her slowly. Nothing could save her from the mist.
She was filled with too many emotions to count: dismay that rather than protect Istré’s people, she’d only join the ranks of their dead; a strange sense of emptiness she did not care to examine too closely; but most potent of all was her gladness that she would leave this realm with a sword in her hand.
She’d chosen this life, and thus, this death.
And with that, a curious sense of peace drowned out the chaos.
But as Hekla readied herself for death, a snarl met her ears, air brushing her face as a large figure leaped past her. Hekla blinked. It was an enormous grimwolf, its size rivaling a horse’s. In sharp contrast to the dying forest all around her, this wolf teemed with vitality. With light.
The mist hissed with anger, repelling away from the beast’s form. The wolf turned. Met Hekla’s gaze with bright yellow eyes.
Cover your ears. Close your eyes , said a voice in her head.
Dazed, Hekla obeyed.
A thunderous sound filled the air all around her as a lightning-bright shock rippled down her spine. And then, she knew no more.