If the forest is unsettling in the day, it’s downright bone-chilling at night. Glowing eyes watch us in the trees, in the distance, high above. Silent and still, tracking our progress. The fog glows faintly, lighting our path, but I still summon a ball of flame to hold out like a lantern. There’s no point in subtlety. The forest knows we’re here. The fae must know, too.

Raze inches closer to my side, so close that our shoulders brush. The flames in my hand cast ghostly shadows up his face from below, emphasizing the hollows beneath his eyes. They don’t look right in his friendly, boyish face.

Weird noises echo through the branches, the hoots of owls, the cries of foxes, the sounds bouncing around so I can never really tell how near or far the source is. Vaguely human-sounding screams and moans and laughter, slicing the night air at odd intervals. There are other sounds, too—like a low hum, like a distant wind, like a squeaking hinge—that I can’t quite place.

I grip my dagger tighter.

I don’t know how long we walk through the forest like that, huddled together, tense, jumping at every crack of a twig. It might be less than an hour or nearly a day. We’ve been in here less than a day, haven’t we?

Time is already losing its shape.

But I can’t think about that. I can’t try to count each second as it slips away from me: that’s how people go mad. I just have to keep moving forward, keep pressing in the direction I truly hope is east.

Left foot.

Right foot.

Left foot.

Right foot.

Don’t count them!

Left foot.

Right—

A new sound distracts me, yanking me viciously from my thoughts. This one is definitely human, carrying from far away. Wailing? Crying? My gaze flicks to Raze to see if he has heard it, too.

He looks confused.

We keep moving.

The human voice gets closer, like it’s walking toward us. It isn’t crying, I realize.

It’s singing.

The closer it gets, the better I can make out the tune. And the lyrics, familiar words I’ve heard a thousand times before on city street corners. It feels familiar—smooth and clear, bright and warm. It’s the voice of a singer, someone who knows his voice and knows how to use it. Whose notes aren’t hollow with perfection but rich with a faint grate and a passion that forces you to really listen.

“I know that voice.”

I look up at Raze, startled. He’s fallen behind a few steps, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are focused on a point in the distance, clouded over with pain. No, with heartbreak.

His mouth drops slightly open as his face goes slack, like he doesn’t understand what he’s hearing—or what he’s feeling. He stumbles forward a step, as if something is pulling him. It takes me a second to find my own voice. “Raze?”

He doesn’t seem to hear me. His feet shuffle again, parting the grass alongside the path. Drifting uncontrollably towards the sound of that voice.