“Sirscha, we can’t stop.” Saengo’s fear bleeds into mine until there’s no distinction between our feelings, only an icy certainty that we should keep running.

So we run. The shadows grow darker. Night settles into the woods. Our cloaks glow faintly, but it’s a meager light.

My imagination can only be blamed for so much, because I’m convinced the trees are pressing closer. The branches shake and dip, reaching. The roots shamble after us. Saengo knocks aside a branch that drops into our path. It snaps, but not before ripping her hood off her head.

Something spindly snatches my braid. I yank my hair free, and we both dash into a sprint. My heartbeat drums in my ears. The wailing grows, rising up like a chorus of banshees. Skeletal fingers grasp at our legs, scoring the old leather of our boots and catching in the loose fabric of our pants.

The roots lift from the ground like risen corpses. Dead earth cascades from their pale, exposed flesh. Saengo leaps to avoid one and then gasps when it shoots out, catching her foot. She sprawls into the dirt.

“Saengo!” I drop beside her, pulling at her arms to get her to stand.

A branch strikes her temple. She flinches and scrambles back. Spidersilk tangles around her legs. Another branch whips across my cheek, stinging as it breaks skin. The pain sharpens my senses, cutting through my fear. Cursing at myself, my hands find my swords, and I stand. The roots unfurl, revealing sharp ends that strike out. I split them in two. Suddenly, the woods shriek, enraged.

The trees writhe, the bark buckling and cracking open. Faces emerge from within, straining against the decaying wood. Their eyes are wrinkled burls. Their mouths scream their anguish and outrage. I recoil, my own scream frozen in my throat. The faces twist away, sinking back into the wood, but they’re quickly replaced with more—snarling, screeching, weeping sticky black sap from those horrific eyes. Branches like fingers grasp at our clothes, our skin, our hair.

Saengo draws her own sword and finds her feet. A trickle of blood slides over her cheekbone from her temple. With a fierce, shaking breath, she whispers, “Courage.”

The heat in my chest sears as if trying to melt the skin off my bones. I gasp at the pain. Something cold wraps around my ankle. I slash at it, suddenly furious.

This is not how we die. Not here. Not in this wretched place, and not by the hands of creatures that should be long dead. Together, pressed back to back, our swords flash, severing branches and scoring trees. That scorching heat, a power that can only be my craft, blazes bright and pure.

Every branch clawing at us crumbles. The roots, too, scatter into the dirt like sand.

“What?” Saengo whispers, confused.