The forest was a black wall, endless trunks pressing close like watchful sentries. Draven followed the men, their torches spitting sparks, their blades catching dim light. His father swaggered ahead, louder with every gulp from his flask, barking about how he’d slay anything that dared come close to the valley.

Draven tried to keep pace, eyes darting between the shifting shadows. Each rustle made his shoulders stiffen. Each crack of a branch was a warning. The air was heavy with damp earth and smoke, and beneath it, something colder — the faint tang of magic, like metal on his tongue.

He hated it. He hated the way the forest seemed alive, listening, waiting. He hated that Kaelen was home alone, clinging to nonsense about their mother. And most of all, he hated the ache in his chest — the hole she had left.

His fists clenched. His thoughts grew darker. She left us. She chose them. She deserves whatever fate she found.

The shadows seemed to move with his anger, thickening around his feet. He didn’t notice.

Upstairs, Kaelen pressed the egg close, whispering soothing words as it shivered harder than ever. The veins along its surface blazed silver, filling the small box with light.

“Shh,” Kaelen whispered, terrified. “It’s okay, I’m here—”

But the egg wasn’t listening.

It pulsed in rhythm with something else — something far away. With Draven. Every surge of his anger, every tremor of fear, sent the egg quaking. The light grew stronger, so bright it stabbed Kaelen’s eyes. He winced, trying to cover it with the rag, but the glow seared through the cloth as if it weren’t there at all.

“Stop, please stop—”

The egg jerked violently, knocking against the box. Then, with a crack like lightning splitting the sky, it blazed.

The room drowned in silver light.

Kaelen cried out, throwing an arm over his face, but the glow pierced through his eyelids, a burning brilliance that erased everything. His ears rang, and for a terrible moment his body refused to move — his limbs frozen, breath shallow.

He collapsed backward, half-blinded, the afterimage of the glowing egg burned into his vision.

And still it pulsed. Slow. Relentless. Alive.

—--

The torches hissed as the men pressed deeper into the trees. Their bravado cracked; laughter had given way to mutters, mutters to silence. Only their boots thudded on the soft earth, too loud in the stillness.

Draven’s skin prickled. The forest didn’t feel right. It pressed close, thick with damp, every breath tasting of mold and smoke. He tried not to look too hard at the way the torchlight bent, stretching the shadows in ways that weren’t natural.

Then something moved.

A ripple passed through the undergrowth, as though the dark itself shifted. The men froze, blades half-drawn.

“What was that?” one hissed.

Another cursed under his breath, pointing his torch toward the treeline. “There—”

The shadows lunged.

Not beasts, not fae, but shapes — long and reaching, spilling across the forest floor like smoke. They slid over roots, up trunks, across the men’s boots. One torch sputtered out as if smothered. Another was ripped from a hand, swallowed by the dark.

“RUN!”

The shout broke them.

Men scattered, their torches flaring wildly as they sprinted through the trees. Panic lit their faces brighter than flame. Draven’s heart slammed in his chest, but his legs moved with them, stumbling over roots as he was swept along in the chaos.

He didn’t see what took the first man — only heard the scream, sharp and cut short, as though the forest swallowed it whole. The others didn’t stop. They didn’t even notice until later.

Behind them, the darkness heaved and writhed like a living thing, stretching higher than the torchlight, chasing them down the path.

Draven’s lungs burned. His legs ached. But worse than fear was the pull in his chest — the same tug as before, stronger now, as if the shadows belonged to him, or he to them. For a wild, breathless moment, he almost turned, almost reached for them—

But the forest vomited them out.

Suddenly they were in the open, stumbling into the fields near the valley’s edge. The men collapsed, gasping, clutching their knees, their torches casting a wild glow against the huts in the distance.

It wasn’t until a panicked headcount that someone shouted the truth:
“Where’s Joahn?”

The silence that followed was louder than any scream.

Draven’s father cursed, swore the man must have run the wrong way. But Draven knew better. The shadows hadn’t let go of him. And deep down, he felt that same cold weight coil inside himself — as if some part of the forest had followed him home.

The men stumbled into the valley, torches still spitting as they regrouped by the longhouse. Sweat slicked their brows, eyes darting toward the dark tree line behind them as though the shadows might follow.

“Not a word of this,” Draven’s father snapped, voice low but sharp. He herded the others close, his face blotched red from drink and fear. “We say it was a fox. Another fox. Same as last time. Nothing more.”

One of the younger men shifted uneasily. “But Joahn—”

“Ran off,” Harlan cut in. “Lost his nerve. Happens. If we speak of shadows and vanishing men, we’ll rouse panic. Do you want the elders thinking we failed? Do you want children too afraid to fetch water at dusk?”

The circle of men muttered, shame and fear twisting their faces. One by one, they nodded.

Draven’s fists clenched. His throat felt raw as he stepped forward. “That’s not what happened. They deserve to know. We all saw—”

The backhand came fast and hard.

Pain cracked across his cheek, his vision bursting white. He hit the ground, the dirt cold against his palms. The world rang in his ears.

When it cleared, the men were looking at him. Not with pity. Not with outrage. But with the cool indifference of men who had already chosen where they stood.

“Keep your mouth shut, boy,” his father growled, looming over him. “This is how men protect their home.”

Draven’s heart thundered. He wanted to scream, to spit blood and truth into their faces. But the weight of their stares pressed down harder than his father’s hand. If he spoke again, he would be alone. He would not belong — not to the men, not to the valley.

So he swallowed. Hard. “Fine,” he muttered, forcing the word out past the burn in his throat. “It was a fox.”

His father smirked, clapping him hard on the shoulder as if he’d passed some cruel test. The other men nodded their approval, the lie already settling into their bones.

They trudged home in silence, torches guttering low. Draven’s cheek throbbed with every step, but worse was the taste of the lie in his mouth.

When they reached the house, Kaelen was curled in bed, blanket pulled to his chin, his small body rising and falling in the rhythm of deep sleep.

Draven lingered in the doorway, watching his brother’s calm face, almost envying it. He didn’t notice the faint glow beneath the covers, silver veins pulsing against the cloth. Kaelen’s small hands clutched the egg tight to his chest, as if holding onto the only truth that mattered.

Draven turned away, jaw tight, and lowered himself onto his own straw pallet.

The night stretched long and heavy, the forest’s shadows still clinging to him

The next morning the village square buzzed with voices, brighter than it had been in months. Men gathered around the well, puffing their chests, their laughter sharp in the cold morning air. Women leaned in from doorways, children tugged at sleeves, eager for scraps of story.

And the men gave it to them.

“A fox big as a hound, bold as daylight,” one boasted, waving his hand like he was painting the beast into the air. “We drove it back easy — no match for us.”

“Fastest thing I’ve ever seen,” another added, miming a slash of his blade. “But we showed it what steel feels like!”

Draven’s father stood at the center of them all, flushed and loud, spinning the tale into something glorious. He described how the fox’s eyes glowed red, how its teeth could shear through bone, how the men of the valley had proved their strength yet again. He never once mentioned the shadows. Or Joahn.

And the others laughed. They clapped him on the back. They drank in every word.

Draven stood at the edge of the crowd, the band of pain still sharp across his cheek. Each laugh twisted in his gut. He saw Joahn’s wife standing there, wringing her hands, eyes darting over the gathered men. Every time she opened her mouth to ask, someone talked louder, their story drowning her out.

He wanted to shout. To drag them all back into the forest and show them what had really happened. But when his father’s eyes flicked to him, hard and warning, Draven stayed silent. His mouth tasted like ash.

Instead, he forced a smile when someone looked his way. Nodded when another man clapped his shoulder. The lie settled into his bones, heavier than any truth.

From behind him, the elders watched. Elder Bran’s sharp gaze lingered on the men, on Draven’s father, and then on Draven himself. His lips thinned, but he said nothing. Not yet.

Kaelen didn’t notice any of it. He crouched by the fountain with the other children, chasing minnows with a stick, his laughter carrying on the wind. His eyes, bright with secret knowledge, kept flicking toward the house. Toward the glowing thing hidden under his blanket.

Draven caught the look, though he didn’t understand it. He only turned away, jaw tight, as his father’s voice rose above the others, claiming victory that was never theirs.

And all around them, the village cheered.