Soon, Noël. Soon, you’ll regret ever thinking you could escape me.
The third letter was the final push. By then, I was already obsessed with the idea of getting rid of her. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And the writer knew exactly how to make me act.
I know how to help you. Take her to the vólkins’ territory. She’ll never return. You’ll be free, and the village will never know. After all, you know what happens to women who defy the laws of Tárnov.
It was almost too easy. The letter suggested the idea, but it felt like my own. I could kidnap her. And so I did. But now she’s out here, playing with my mind.
Once I get my hands on her, I won’t even bother with the vólkins. I’ll take my time, savor every moment of her suffering. She’ll cry, she’ll beg, and I’ll relish her every tear. I want to break her, to see the fire in her eyes extinguished, and when she’s nothing but a shattered, whimpering mess, I’ll make her endure it all over again.
I grin at that mouthwatering thought.
We walk deeper into the forest. The trees seem to close in around us, denser than I remember. A strange hush hangs over the woods, the usual sounds of birds and animals oddly absent. I glance at Gregor and catch a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
“Don’t tell me you’re spooked by the stories,” I say, my own voice almost trembling.
Gregor smirks, but there’s no humor in it. “The vólkins aren’t roaming here, Arnold. You’ve said it yourself.”
But something is off. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being watched. My fingers tighten around the hilt of my sword as we continue forward, the silence scraping at the edges of my sanity.Snap.
I whirl around, eyes scanning the area. For a split second, I see her. Noël. A flash of her dark hair disappearing between the tree trunks.
“There!” My voice cracks, and I break into a run, heart hammering as I crash through the bushes. She’s there, just ahead, slipping through the trees like a ghost.
“Arnold!” Gregor shouts behind me, but I don’t stop. I can’t. I have to catch her. My boots pound against the ground, my breath coming in sharp inhales as I chase after her.
But then— She’s gone.
I skid to a halt, chest heaving. I look around frantically. No footprints, no broken branches, no sign of her at all. The trees are silent. My pulse thunders in my ears.
“Arnold, you’re losing it,” Gregor says when he catches up to me. He’s panting, sweat beading on his forehead. “There’s no one here.”
I open my mouth to retort, but something stops me, a low, distant whisper, like someone calling my name.Arnold. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I grip my sword tighter.
“You hear that?” I ask, voice low.
Gregor shakes his head. “Hear what?”
I turn back to the trees, eyes narrowing. The sound is gone, swallowed by the terrifying silence of the forest. But I swear I heard it, my name. It was my fucking name!
“Let’s go,” I mumble. We push forward again, farther into the heart of the forest.
It’s my first time so deep in the wild. We mostly trained at the base or in the woods around Tárnov. We never went this far, not even during the most intense trainings. The trees here seem new to me. Taller, darker, with twisted roots that rise from the earth like skeletal hands. The atmosphere grows heavier with every step. Dusk slowly falls, silencing the familiar sounds, the breeze, rustling leaves, birds perched on branches. All of it is replaced by a weird quiet, making me sweat.
It feels as if something lurking within the thicket is watching me. Every shadow seems to move as we do, every branch snaps under something unseen. The farther we go, the more unsettling it becomes. The ground grows rough, tangled with roots and moss, as if the forest is resisting us, urging us to turn back.
I need to see her dead.
I should be more confident. I’ve led countless expeditions, navigated dangerous terrain, and fought battles that most men wouldn’t survive. Yet this place... It’s different. The forest here feels alive with malice, like it’s watching us, watching me, waiting.
Sweat drips down my forehead to my mouth, slipping between my gritted teeth.
A few steps later, something catches my eye—massive claw marks slashed viciously into the trees. I stop to inspect them. They’re not just big, they’re brutal, like something tore through the trunk with great force. I trace my fingers along the jagged grooves, feeling the depth. Shit. Whatever did this wasn’t just marking territory, it was showing off its strength. I’ve never seen anything like it.
“What in the . . . ?” I murmur.
Gregor steps close, his eyes widening as he takes in the markings. “I don’t like this, Arnold.”
Fear flickers in his voice, and I feel it too. The stories of the vólkins, beasts lurking in the shadows, waiting to rip any man who dares to enter their territory to pieces, start to feel a little too real.
