The fire had burned low by the time the grove decided to speak in earnest.
Alix Teardom lay on her side, facing the dying embers, her cloak pulled tight against the creeping chill. Sleep refused to come. The soul bond was too loud tonight—Donstram's steady heartbeat echoed in her own chest, a rhythm both comforting and invasive. Every time she drifted toward unconsciousness, a flicker of his emotions would jolt her awake: a flash of remembered pain, a surge of guarded anger, the quiet undercurrent of exhaustion he would never admit aloud.
Across the circle, Donstram sat with his back against a fallen stone pillar, sword resting across his knees. He had not moved in hours. His silhouette was sharp against the faint glow of the runes on the altar, a statue carved from shadow and stubborn will. Alix wondered if he slept at all. The bond told her he was awake, alert, but it gave no hint of what thoughts kept his eyes open and fixed on the darkness beyond the firelight.
She shifted, trying to find a position that didn't press against the half-healed gash in her side. The wound had closed faster than it should have, knit together by threads of shared vitality she hadn't meant to offer. Another gift of the bond. Another debt.
A soft rustle came from the blackthorns at the clearing's edge.
Donstram's head snapped toward the sound. His hand tightened on the hilt.
Alix sat up slowly. "You heard it too."
He nodded once, silent.
The rustle came again, closer this time. Then another. And another. Multiple directions. The grove, which had been unnaturally still all evening, now breathed with life that felt anything but natural.
Alix rose to her feet, shadows already gathering at her fingertips. "It's not animals."
Donstram stood as well, sword drawn in one fluid motion. "What then?"
"Echoes given form." She kept her voice low. "The grove remembers too much. Sometimes it… reenacts."
Before he could ask what that meant, the first shape stepped into the firelight.
It was a man—or had been once. Tall, armored in rusted plate that bore the faded crest of an older royal house. His face was gone, replaced by a mask of twisting blackthorn vines that pulsed faintly with crimson light. In his chest, a gaping wound leaked shadow instead of blood. He carried a longsword whose blade was cracked and weeping dark sap.
Two more emerged behind him. One wore the tattered robes of a coven elder, thorns growing from her eye sockets like cruel crowns. The other was smaller, child-sized, dressed in the simple shift of a coven initiate. Its hands ended in thorn-claws.
Donstram exhaled through his teeth. "Ghosts."
"Not ghosts," Alix corrected. "Manifestations. The grove pulls memories from the curse and gives them teeth."
The armored figure raised its sword. The motion was jerky, as if strings pulled it from above. When it spoke, the voice was layered—multiple tones overlapping, male and female, young and old.
"Traitor blood," it rasped. "Witch spawn. You should not be here."
Donstram stepped in front of Alix without hesitation. "We're leaving at dawn. Step aside."
The vine-masked figure tilted its head. "No leaving. Only judgment."
The three manifestations advanced as one.
Donstram moved first. He lunged at the armored one, sword meeting rusted steel in a shower of sparks. The impact rang through the clearing, unnaturally loud. The creature staggered but did not fall. It countered with a swing that should have cleaved Donstram in half. He ducked, rolled, came up slashing at the thing's legs. The blade bit deep, but instead of blood, black sap sprayed across the stones.
Alix turned to the robed figure. It raised thorn-clawed hands, weaving a spell that looked disturbingly like her own. Shadows twisted toward her, hungry. She countered with her own shadows, slamming them together in a concussive burst that sent the creature staggering.
The child-sized one darted low, aiming for her legs.
She kicked it away—harder than necessary. Guilt stabbed her as the small form hit the ground and rolled. It looked up at her with hollow eyes that flickered violet, like hers.
Donstram finished the armored manifestation with a thrust through the chest. It dissolved into writhing vines that withered and crumbled to ash.
He turned just in time to intercept the robed figure as it lunged at Alix's back. His sword took it through the shoulder; it shrieked—a sound like tearing fabric—and dissolved.
That left the child.
It stood slowly, thorn-claws flexing. "You killed us," it whispered, voice high and broken. "All of us."
Alix felt the words like a physical blow. Through the bond, she sensed Donstram flinch.
The creature lunged.
Donstram intercepted it mid-air, sword flashing down. But at the last second, Alix grabbed his wrist.
"Wait!"
The blade stopped an inch from the child's chest.
The manifestation froze, trembling. Then it looked up at Alix with those hollow violet eyes.
"You remember," it said softly. "You were small too."
Alix's throat closed. She released Donstram's wrist. "I remember."
The child-thing smiled—a sad, broken thing. Then it dissolved into mist, leaving only the echo of a child's laughter that faded into the night.
Silence returned, heavier than before.
Donstram sheathed his sword. His breathing was rough. "What the hell was that?"
Alix stared at the spot where the child had stood. "A memory. My memory. The grove… it took something from me and turned it against us."
He looked at her for a long moment. "You stopped me."
"I couldn't let you kill a child. Even if it wasn't real."
"It felt real enough." He rubbed a hand over his face. "You're bleeding again."
She looked down. The wound in her side had reopened during the fight. Fresh blood soaked the makeshift bandage.
Donstram cursed under his breath. He stepped closer, hesitated, then gently pushed her cloak aside. "Sit."
She obeyed, too tired to argue.
He knelt, unwrapping the cloth with careful fingers. The bond hummed as his skin brushed hers—warmth, concern he didn't voice, a flicker of something softer that made her breath catch.
He tore another strip from his cloak, pressed it to the wound, and tied it tight. His touch lingered a second longer than necessary.
Through the bond, she felt it clearly now: not pity. Not duty.
Protectiveness.
He looked up, their faces inches apart. Firelight played across the scars on his cheek, the hard line of his jaw, the storm in his eyes.
"You're a fool," he said quietly.
"So are you." Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Neither moved away.
The moment stretched, fragile and electric.
Then Donstram exhaled sharply and stood. "We need to keep watch in shifts. I'll take first."
Alix nodded, unable to speak past the sudden tightness in her chest.
She lay back down, staring at the stars through the canopy. The bond pulsed gently now, like a shared heartbeat finding rhythm.
Unique insight settled over her as sleep finally crept close: The most dangerous enemies were never the ones who attacked with blades. They were the ones who slipped past your defenses without trying—because they were already inside, whether invited or not. The curse had tried to keep her alone. Fate had other plans.
And in the darkness beyond the fire, the watching presence stirred again.
Patient.
Waiting.
Not for their deaths.
For something far more dangerous.
Their surrender.