Bard spoke of this place, a hidden village in the depths of the forest where the vólkins live. He described towering warriors, their homes nestled in ancient trees, and strange, ethereal beings that roamed the woods. I knew it existed—at least in theory—but knowing and seeing are two very different things.
This place feels unreal, like I’ve stumbled into another world entirely. The vólkins themselves... gods, they’re enormous. Twice my size, with fur that looks too soft for creatures so dangerous. Their eyes are the worst, sharp and glowing, they cut through me like they can see every lie I’ve ever told.
And the spirits. Little leaflike creatures with faces, flitting around like children of nature. They’re alive. They move and giggle and shimmer, something out of a tale told to scare children into behaving.
The homes here defy logic. They’re built into the trunks of trees so enormous they make human buildings look like toys. The branches cradle each structure like arms. This is a world no human knows. Except for me.
And Noël.
That thought should bring me comfort. We share this secret, this connection.
But I don’t belong here.
Bard said there were only male vólkins. That much was drilled into me during my lessons. But he was wrong. I’ve seen females, tall, graceful, and every bit as terrifying as the males. What else did Bard get wrong? How much of what I was told is a lie? Even the Shadow Guild, with all its resources, doesn’t know as much as they think they do.
And I thought of them as gods.
Two vólkin guards stand outside my cell, their bodies so massive they don’t let the sunlight in. They don’t move, don’t blink, they just stand there as if I’m not here. I wonder if they even acknowledge my existence—or if they’re simply waiting for the order to end it.
No one back at the base would believe this. Not the lieutenant colonel. Not anyone. Gods, even I wouldn’t have believed it if I weren’t seeing it with my own eyes. I can’t even imagine the conversation back in the barracks. All we ever knew was stone and dirt, with a glimpse of nature only when we left the village. Even on the road to Tárnov from Róstan, it was the same. Trees and rocks on one side, the endless ocean on the other.
How would I even begin to tell the rookies about this place? About giant wolves walking like humans, speaking like humans, with their shining, colorful crystals? About the laughing leaves and the living trees?
They’d think I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. Maybe after everything I’ve been through, these living leaves are figments of my damaged imagination. Maybe my mind seeks colors and happy memories at last.
Heavy footsteps break through my thoughts, growing louder as someone approaches the entrance to my living cage of twisted branches and roots. My heart pounds, and I look up, dread curling in my gut.
A figure stands at the entrance.
A female vólkin.
She steps in, rests a big basin full of water near the wall on my right, and turns toward me. Her presence fills the space instantly. She’s tall. Not as massive as the males, but her sleek gray fur, a band of crystals on her wrist, eyes as green as the entire forest, and straight posture give her an air of authority. My gaze flicks to her forehead. It’s bare.
No crystals.
What does that mean? Bard told me that vólkins couldn’t survive without their crystals. That removing them is a death sentence. But here she is, standing right in front of me. Alive.
But then again, I have a pink crystal up my arse.
Her green eyes sweep over me, and I can’t decipher her expression. I also can’t look away. I don’t want to stare, but I can’t stop myself. Every detail—the way she moves, the sheen of her fur in the dim light—it’s a puzzle I don’t have the pieces to solve.
How much of what Bard told me is wrong?
She doesn’t speak as she approaches, and my body tenses. I shrink back, pressing myself against the wall of living wood. Is she going to hurt me?
The thought sounds absurd, even to me, but nothing in this place makes sense. Every rule I’ve ever known has been rewritten, and I’m at the mercy of creatures I don’t understand.
She kneels beside me, her powerful body close enough I can feel the heat radiating from her. Is she going to grab me?
Instead, she extends her hand—or paw. It’s something in between, covered in fur but shaped like a human’s. Tiny talking leaves emerge from her palm. Except they don’t speak now. I guess I wasn’t imagining them. They are leaves, dressed in more leaves.
I stare as they move toward my ankles. The glowing, light blue shackles cling tightly to my skin. Shackles made of weightless ropes that appeared out of thin air when the vólkins restrained me. Bard’s words about energy transfer come rushing back, but none of it prepared me for this.
The leaves reach my ankles, their tiny, expressionless faces focused on their task. Their small hands move around my shackles. I feel something, a strange sensation, like a delicate breeze brushing against my skin.
Before I can process what’s happening, the shackles vanish.
The female vólkin straightens to her full height, and her voice is low but firm when she says, “Her Majesty wants you to bathe and clean the grime off before we heal you.”
