The forest did not release him all at once.
It loosened its grip gradually, trees thinning by degrees rather than parting cleanly. The ground firmed beneath his feet, leaf rot giving way to packed earth threaded with narrow stones that caught faint light when he stepped on them.
Alex followed the path without acknowledging it as one.
He told himself it had always been there.
The air changed as he walked—less damp, less heavy. The smell of rot faded, replaced by something older and cleaner: cold water, stone, faint iron. The sound of the river returned, closer now, its restless movement threading through the quiet like a pulse.
He came upon the bridge without warning.
It rose from the forest floor in a low arch of stone, spanning the river at its narrowest point. The structure was ancient, its blocks uneven and darkened with age, their edges softened by centuries of water and weather. Moss filled the seams. Lichen traced pale patterns along the curve of the arch.
It was too deliberate to be natural.
Alex slowed, stopping just short of the first stone.
The river ran fast beneath it, churning around the base of the supports. The water here was darker, deeper, its surface broken by rocks that forced it into sharp, sudden turns. The sound was louder than before, filling the space beneath the bridge and echoing faintly upward.
Someone sat beneath the arch.
Alex didn't see it at first.
His eyes registered stone, shadow, water—then hesitated, recalibrated.
The shape resolved slowly.
Broad shoulders hunched forward. Thick arms folded loosely over bent knees. Skin the color of wet rock stretched over a frame that was too large to be human, too heavy to move with ease. Coarse hair clung in dark patches along forearms and neck, matted and streaked with gray.
The troll watched the water.
Not Alex.
Its face was heavy-boned, features blunt rather than monstrous. A flattened nose. A mouth set into a neutral line beneath a short, uneven beard. Its eyes—dark, deep-set—reflected the river's movement without tracking it.
Stone and flesh blended together in places.
Patches of its skin had hardened, textured like rock, especially along the shoulders and jaw. Old scars traced pale lines across that surface, cracks filled with dirt and moss as if the body itself had been slowly turning into part of the bridge it guarded.
Alex's breath caught.
He didn't stop breathing—but it changed, shallower now, quieter, as if sound itself might draw attention.
This is still a dream, he told himself.
Of course it was. Dreams are pulled from stories all the time. Trolls under bridges were as old as fear itself.
The troll shifted.
Just slightly.
Its weight settled more fully against the stone, and the movement sent a small cascade of pebbles into the river below. The sound was sharp, immediate.
Alex flinched before he could stop himself.
The troll's eyes lifted.
They found him instantly.
Not with surprise. Not with hostility.
With acknowledgment.
A long moment stretched between them.
The troll did not speak.
It did not rise or bare its teeth or block the way. It simply watched, head tilted just enough to suggest curiosity—or judgment.
Alex swallowed.
"Hi," he said, then hated himself for it.
The word sounded wrong here. Too small.
The troll's gaze drifted to the bridge, then back to Alex.
A pause.
Then, slowly, it moved one arm and pointed.
Not at him.
Across the bridge.
That was all.
No demand. No toll. No threat.
Just direction.
Alex stared at the outstretched finger, thick and blunt, stone-hard at the tip. His heart hammered so loudly he was sure the sound would carry.
"If I walk across," he said quietly, mostly to himself, "you don't—"
The troll's finger twitched once.
Impatient, perhaps.
Alex nodded, though he wasn't sure why.
He stepped onto the bridge.
The stone was cold beneath his feet, solid and unyielding. Each step echoed faintly, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the rush of water below. He kept his eyes forward, refusing to look down at the troll again, afraid that if he did, something would change.
Halfway across, he felt it.
A pressure.
Not physical—not something pushing against his body—but a weight settling behind him, as if the forest itself had leaned forward to watch him go.
He did not turn around.
The pressure lifted as he reached the other side.
Alex stepped off the bridge and exhaled shakily.
When he dared to glance back, the troll had returned its attention to the river, already losing interest. It might have been part of the stone again, indistinguishable from shadow and moss.
The path beyond the bridge widened.
Not much. Just enough to suggest use. The trees drew back a little farther here, their roots less aggressive, their branches higher overhead. The light shifted, thinning, growing paler.
Smoke reached him before sound.
Faint. Threadlike. Almost imagined.
Alex stopped.
The smell was unmistakable—wood smoke, carried on a gentle breeze. Not the acrid burn of trash or oil, but something steadier, warmer.
Human.
His chest tightened.
He walked on.
The forest ended abruptly.
Not gradually, like before, but with a clean edge. Trees gave way to open ground, the earth flattened and cleared, grass worn thin by repeated passage.
Alex stepped out of the treeline and stopped.
The village lay below him.
It was small.
A cluster of buildings arranged around a central space, roofs sloping steeply, their thatch darkened with age. Stone and timber made up most of the structures, their walls uneven, hand-built rather than measured. Narrow paths wound between them, packed earth worn smooth by countless feet.
The river curved along one side of the settlement, gentler here, its banks reinforced with stone. A second bridge—simpler than the first—spanned it closer to the village proper.
Statues lined the outskirts.
Dozens of them.
They stood at the edges of the clearing, set at regular intervals like sentinels. Some were intact, others chipped or cracked, but all faced inward, toward the heart of the village.
Human figures. Armored ones. Cloaked ones.
Monsters too.
They adorned the village the way banners might have elsewhere.
As markers.
As warnings.
As remembrance.
Alex stood very still.
From this distance, the village looked peaceful. Smoke rose from a few chimneys, thin and steady. He could make out movement—figures passing between buildings, too far away to resolve into details.
Life.
Normal, impossible life.
A laugh carried faintly on the air.
Alex's fingers curled slowly at his sides.
"This is still a dream," he whispered.
He said it carefully, deliberately, like a rule that could still be enforced if repeated often enough.
The village did not respond.
It simply waited.