Chapter 82 Deep in the Woods
Damien
By the time breakfast dissolves back into embers and tin cups are stacked away, the camp has already begun to move. The laughter fades into routine, warmth traded for purpose. Blankets are rolled tight and strapped down, packs lifted and shifted from hand to shoulder, armour checked with quick, practised movements that speak of too many mornings spent leaving places behind. Bella stays close to me as we prepare to depart, her cloak drawn in, her pale braid secured again at the nape of her neck. To anyone else, she looks composed, calm, untouched by the chaos of the morning. The bond tells a different story. She is steadying herself, her awareness brushing against mine in quiet pulses, grounding and grounded all at once.
The dragon is entirely too pleased. Snowflake is thinking of futures, he murmurs.
Enough, I warn him.
He recedes, amused but compliant, his presence coiling back into watchfulness. The horses are restless as they’re hitched, hooves stamping against the packed earth, ears flicking toward the treeline and back again as if they’re listening for something the rest of us cannot hear. I run my hand down one familiar neck, murmuring low until the animal settles beneath my touch, though the tension does not fully leave its muscles. The morning is clear, calm and bright. Nothing about it should feel wrong.
We set out shortly after the sun clears the treetops, the caravan stretching long along the mountain road as it curves away from the clearing. Wheels creak in a steady rhythm, leather straps pull taut, and iron-rimmed spokes bite into gravel with a sound so familiar it fades into the background of thought. For a time, there is only movement. Bella rides beside me in the first carriage, her shoulder brushing mine when the road dips, her gloved fingers catching briefly on my sleeve as if to reassure herself, or me, that we are still here, still moving forward. The bond settles at the contact, warmth blooming softly in my chest, and I allow myself to breathe. The mountain road narrows as we climb. Trees crowd closer, their branches knitting overhead until the sky fractures into pale blue shards between needles and leaves. The scent of pine deepens, damp earth rising beneath it, and without command, the horses begin to slow, hooves striking stone with cautious precision. The dragon lifts his head as something shifts. The carriage lurches without warning, wood groaning as one wheel drops into a depression that should not exist. Bella gasps as she’s thrown against me, my arm locking around her automatically as the world tilts.
“Hold,” I snap.
The reins are hauled tight. Horses rear and snort, panic flaring as the caravan grinds to a halt. I’m on the ground before the dust settles, boots striking earth that feels wrong beneath my weight — too soft, too churned, as though something has torn through it recently and without care. Ahead of us, the road ends. Trees lie sprawled across the path in chaotic disarray, trunks split and twisted, roots ripped free from the soil and left clawing at the air like exposed bones. The ground itself is buckled and ridged, earth pushed up in uneven waves that would snap an axle clean through if we tried to force passage. I crouch, pressing my palm to the soil, and Gilfred goes rigid against my shoulder. His small body flattens instantly, claws digging into the leather of my armour as his tail snaps tight around my collar. His skin darkens several shades, breath stilled, eyes locking onto the trees ahead.
“Easy,” I murmur under my breath.
He does not relax.
The dragon inhales, slow and deliberate. This was recently disturbed, he says.
I straighten with unease settling deeper. “We continue on foot,” I decide. “Pack only what you can carry. Leave the rest.”
There is no argument. Only the sound of plans adjusting, straps are tightened, weapons checked, supplies redistributed as the carriages are abandoned where they stand, silent witnesses left behind as we step off the road and into the trees.
We venture off the road onto a makeshift path around the chaos, and at first, the forest is only dense. The kind of woodland that presses close, shadows dappling the ground, sunlight filtering through branches in broken gold. The path we take narrows but remains visible, trodden enough to reassure us this is, in fact, a way to go forward. Then the fog begins to creep in. It's low at first, curling around our boots like breath drawn from the earth itself. It's thin, pale and easy to dismiss as mountain weather clinging to the ground.
Bella tilts her head slightly beside me, her frown faint but unmistakable. “That’s strange.”
I follow her gaze upward. The sky above the canopy is clear. Too clear for there to be fog down here.
“There shouldn’t be fog,” I murmur.
It thickens anyway. With every step deeper into the trees, sound dulls, as if the world itself is being wrapped in cloth. The scent shifts with sweetness creeping beneath the faintly rotten pine, and my chest tightens in a way I do not like. Branches arch where they shouldn’t, bending inward, closing the path behind us until I can no longer see where we came from. The fog clings to my skin, damp and cold, slipping beneath armour and fabric. Then a whisper brushes past my ear. It's not a word—just a sound, and I turn instinctively but find nothing. The dragon remains utterly still.
None of this is real, he says calmly. My vision blurs at the edges. Roots rise beneath the fog, twisting like living things. Trunks stretch taller, bark warping as shadows pool and pull into shapes that almost resemble faces with eyes too deep and mouths too wide. Branches reach, splitting as though fingers are forming, grasping toward us with deliberate intent. The soldiers falter, someone swears and someone stumbles. Bella stiffens beside me, her fear bleeding through the bond in sharp, icy waves.
“Damien,” she whispers. “They’re moving.”
I know. I can see it.
The dragon exhales, patient and ancient. Your body breathes the poison. I do not.
Understanding lands hard. The fog is not just fog; it's some sort of hallucinogenic. I tighten my grip on Bella’s hand, raising my voice even as my own pulse hammers.
“Do not listen to it,” I command. “Do not touch anything you see. Follow my voice.”
The forest answers with a high, distant scream, like a child crying somewhere it should not exist. Gilfred scrambles higher on my shoulder, claws biting as he presses himself flat against my neck, trembling.
The dragon unfurls fully in my mind, vast and unshaken.
Three steps forward, he says. Then left. Do not look up.
I obey, and so do they. I become his mouth, his sight given voice, guiding us through a place that wants to tear us apart using nothing more than fear and breath. And as the woods close in around us, I realise with cold clarity that this place was never meant to be crossed at all.