Chase stood at the edge of the glade, his breath clouding in the air, though the night wasn't cold. The trees that bordered the clearing had bent slightly inward, their limbs twisted like they were listening. Watching. Or guarding something they didn't trust him to reach.
In the center of the glade, where the grass had long since withered to ash-grey, stood the figure. Not quite a man. Not quite a shadow.
It hadn't moved since he arrived.
Chase didn't speak. He couldn't. His mouth felt full of soil, of half-buried words and vows made beneath moons he didn't remember.
But his legs carried him forward anyway. A slow, deliberate step at a time. Each footfall seemed to echo, though there were no stones, no walls. Only the whispering hush of wind skimming too gently for a storm and too steadily for peace.
The closer he got, the more the air changed. Not colder. He would've welcomed cold.
It was older.
