The forest had the quiet of a predator. A canopy of blood-streaked clouds hung heavy over the twisted branches, their skeletal silhouettes like grasping hands caught mid-plea. Beneath them, the ground crunched underfoot, brittle leaves mingling with the pale shards of bone scattered like offerings—or warnings. There was no wind, no birdsong, only the deafening stillness of a place forgotten by time, but not by purpose.
Cassian stood at the center of it all, the weight of the skull cold in his hands. Its surface was etched with runes so intricate, so alien, they seemed to shift under his gaze. He turned it over carefully, as if it might crumble, or worse, come alive. His breath plumed in the chill air, uneven, like a man staring into the abyss and daring it to blink back.
He looked down at the markings cut into the dirt at his feet. The sigils weren’t his work—this was old magic, the kind that dug its claws into the soul of a place and refused to let go. But it was his blood streaking the grooves now, dripping from a cut across his palm where the blade had bitten too deep. The sting was nothing compared to the heat building in his chest, the fire that had driven him this far, to this place.
“This better be worth it,” Cassian muttered, his voice low and hoarse. He wasn’t sure if he was talking to himself, or to the grove. Maybe to whatever was supposed to be listening.
The air shifted around him, the faintest rustle of something unseen brushing past his ear. His grip tightened on the skull. A chill ran down his spine, but he held his ground. The whispers came next, soft and low, like the edge of a blade dragging against stone.
“Closer...”
Cassian’s jaw clenched. That voice—it wasn’t new. It had come to him in dreams, in fleeting moments when his mind wandered too far from the mundane. It had promised him vengeance, power, clarity. It had whispered his name in ways that made it sound less like a person and more like a question.
He tilted his head back, letting the blood-red sky bear witness as he raised the skull higher, his voice steady, rough with exhaustion. “You wanted me here. I’ve come. Now show me what you’ve got.”
The grove exhaled, the trees groaning as if they were stretching awake. Shadows deepened, curling at the edges of his vision. A pressure began to build in the air, in his chest, and then in his skull, a low hum that grew louder with every heartbeat. The runes on the ground flickered with faint light, and Cassian could feel it now—something pulling, dragging him toward whatever lay beyond the veil of this world.
The voice came again, this time clearer, sharper.
“Are you ready to pay the price?”
Cassian’s lip curled into a bitter smile. His free hand clenched into a fist, the sting of his wound grounding him. “I’ve already paid,” he growled. “And I’m not leaving empty-handed.”
©Genevieve Mazer, 2025