Chapter 14 - Vera #3
By late afternoon, mist begins to creep through the trunks, thick and low, swirling around our ankles.
It muffles even the sound of our steps. The air tastes of iron, metallic and sharp.
Rourke mutters a prayer under his breath.
Lucian signals us to halt, his blade drawn.
The mist shifts, curling into shapes that almost resemble figures, tall, thin, and faceless.
Abigail whimpers. I press her close, whispering comfort though my own fear rises like bile. The shapes drift at the edge of vision, never solid, never near enough to touch, but always watching. Lucian’s grip on his knife is iron, though even he cannot strike what does not truly stand before us.
We push forward, each step slow, deliberate.
The mist thickens, the figures lingering just beyond reach.
My chest tightens with dread, the air growing colder, until at last we stumble out onto higher ground.
The mist clings to the valley below, writhing like a living thing, but here among the ridges, the air clears.
Abigail exhales shakily, her small hands trembling. I brush her hair back, murmuring reassurance. But inside, I am shaken. The forest doesn’t merely feel haunted; it is haunted, though not by ghosts I can name.
We make camp on the ridge as night falls, the valley below shrouded in mist that glows faintly under the moon.
Rourke refuses to sleep, muttering that he’ll not close his eyes while shadows breathe.
Lucian sits apart, staring at the mist, his expression unreadable.
I sense his unease, though he will not voice it.
I hold Abigail close and whisper Marta’s words to myself, clinging to them as a lifeline. But even Marta never spoke of forests like this, where the silence itself feels alive, and where truths older than memory wait beneath the earth.
As sleep finally drags me under, I dream of spirals etched in stone, glowing with firelight, and of a voice that whispers from the mist: Truth survives…but at a cost.
The ridge is cruel in its silence. Dawn paints the mist below in streaks of silver, but the forest gives no warmth.
Abigail curls against me, her breath shallow with exhaustion.
Rourke sits with his back to a boulder, eyes rimmed red, knife loose in his hand.
He has not slept. None of us truly have.
Lucian stands at the ridge’s edge, cloak snapping in the cold wind.
His gaze never leaves the mist that writhes below, as though waiting for it to rise and consume us.
I watch him in the gray light and think of stone carved with spirals, of truths buried in shadow.
He seems carved from the same stone, unyielding, unreadable, yet burdened with weight none of us can carry.
We break our fast in silence, chewing hard bread that tastes of ash.
Abigail says nothing, her eyes too large, too watchful.
She is learning what no child should: how to be silent, how to endure fear without name.
I whisper stories to her, fragments of truth wrapped in parable, hoping to anchor her.
Her lips twitch faintly, as though she wants to believe.
By midday, we descend from the ridge into thicker forest. The mist trails us, curling low, clinging to our boots.
The pines grow denser, their trunks pressed so close the sky vanishes.
The silence deepens until even our breaths seem too loud.
My wound aches with every step, but I force myself forward. To falter now is to feed the forest.
We reach a glade at dusk. At its center stands a tree unlike the rest, enormous, gnarled, its bark pale as bone.
Its roots twist above ground, tangled like serpents.
Strange markings scar the trunk, spirals echoing those on the stone ruins.
My stomach knots at the sight. Abigail clings to me, whispering, “It’s the same. ”
Lucian approaches the tree, his hand brushing the hilt of his blade. He circles it once, eyes sharp, then stops before a hollow in the trunk. Inside rests a bundle of cloth, brittle with age.
He reaches for it, but I grab his wrist. “Don’t.”
He meets my eyes, steady, unflinching. “You think truth waits only in parchment? Marta believed otherwise.”
His words cut, sharp as the cold. Slowly, he withdraws his hand, though I see the question still burning in his gaze. We leave the glade, the pale tree looming behind us like a sentinel that remembers too much.
Night falls swift and heavy. We shelter in a shallow cave, the fire’s glow flickering weak against the dark. Rourke mutters that the forest is cursed, that it wants us lost within it. Abigail sleeps quickly, exhaustion pulling her under. I keep my watch, Marta’s satchel heavy in my lap.
Lucian sits across from me, his knife catching the firelight. His eyes are on me, though his face is carved of shadow. “You fear the tree,” he says quietly.
“I fear what waits in silence,” I answer. “Some truths were buried for a reason.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods. “And some were buried because men feared their weight.”
I have no answer. My hand tightens on the satchel. I want to believe Marta’s truth is enough, yet doubt gnaws deep. The forest has shown me that there are truths older, heavier, darker. And perhaps carrying them demands more than I can give.
Lucian leans back against the stone, closing his eyes at last. His breath evens, but I know he does not truly sleep. I turn to the fire, watching its glow pulse, fragile against the dark. The mist clings even here, curling at the mouth of the cave like a patient predator.
I hold Abigail closer and whisper Marta’s words again, though my voice trembles. Truth survives wherever there are hands to carry it. The flames flicker as if answering, and for a moment, I imagine the spirals turning, alive beneath the earth.
We endure the night. And endurance, I tell myself, is still defiance.