Jett's POV
The kingdom ended at Oakhaven.
Not officially, of course.
According to the maps brought by merchants from the east, the kingdom stretched for hundreds of miles beyond our village. Forests, rivers, mountains, and even the distant sea were marked in careful ink.
But maps were made by people who had never walked the Greywood.
We knew where the kingdom really ended.
At the old watchtower.
Everything beyond it belonged to the forest.
And nobody with any sense went deeper than they had to.
Oakhaven wasn't an important village.
There was no castle.
No royal garrison.
No court mage.
Not even a proper road.
There were a few dozen houses, a blacksmith's workshop, an inn, a small shrine, and a village square that turned into a mud pit whenever it rained.
Maybe two hundred people lived there.
Farmers.
Woodcutters.
Hunters.
Merchants who had stopped traveling.
People who had been born in Oakhaven and never found a reason to leave.
The kingdom remembered us twice a year.
When the tax collectors came.
And when someone disappeared.
The first time, they took our money.
The second time, they sent nobody.
Nobody in Oakhaven complained about being forgotten.
Being forgotten was safer.
At least, that's what I used to think.
Until the day a wild boar tried to kill me.
"Come on!"
I jumped over a fallen tree.
Something massive crashed through the branches behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder.
Bad idea.
The boar was gaining.
It was enormous.
Too large to be natural.
I'd hunted the Greywood since I was twelve, and I'd learned a few things about the creatures that lived there.
Most animals were afraid of people.
They heard an axe and ran.
They smelled smoke and disappeared.
Even wolves usually kept their distance.
The animals of the Greywood understood something humans sometimes forgot.
People were dangerous.
This thing apparently hadn't gotten the message.
I ran faster.
"What did I ever do to you?"
The boar answered by smashing through another tree.
I reached into my coat.
One knife.
A piece of dried meat.
A length of rope.
No bow.
Of course.
I'd left it at home.
I had a talent for making bad decisions at exactly the wrong moment.
Ahead, the trees began to thin.
The old quarry.
I knew this part of the forest.
If I was lucky, I could lose the animal there.
If I wasn't—
Well.
I tried not to think about that part.
I sprinted toward the edge of the quarry.
The ground suddenly disappeared beneath my feet.
I jumped.
For one terrifying second, I thought I'd misjudged the distance.
Then my hand closed around something.
Rope.
I swung sideways and slammed against the side of the quarry.
The boar charged past me.
It tried to stop.
It failed.
With a tremendous crash, it disappeared down the slope.
I hung from the rope, breathing hard.
Silence.
Then a furious grunt rose from below.
I looked down.
The boar was still alive.
Of course it was.
I sighed.
"You are really persistent."
I pulled myself up.
Then I heard something.
A sound beneath the forest.
Deep.
Distant.
Wrong.
I stopped.
The wind had disappeared.
The birds were silent.
Even the leaves seemed to stop moving.
I knew the Greywood well enough to understand that silence was never a good sign.
The forest was never quiet.
Never.
Then it came again.
Clang.
I stared toward the trees.
Clang.
Metal.
A distant, clear ringing.
Like someone striking a bell somewhere deep beneath the earth.
I waited.
Nothing.
Then a bird burst from the canopy above me.
I flinched.
"Get a grip, Jett."
I said it quietly.
It didn't help.
I grabbed my pack and headed back toward the village.
By sunset, Oakhaven was settling down for the evening.
Smoke rose from the chimneys.
Children ran through the square.
Someone was arguing outside the inn.
A blacksmith's hammer rang somewhere nearby.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
The sound was comforting.
Familiar.
Normal.
Whatever I'd heard in the forest, I'd imagined it.
Probably.
I carried a rabbit over my shoulder as I walked through the village gate.
A woman standing outside the bakery noticed me.
"No money today, Jett."
"I wasn't asking."
"You were thinking about asking."
"I think about many things."
"Stealing bread is one of them."
I smiled.
"Only when it smells this good."
She shook her head.
"You're lucky Garran taught you manners."
My smile faded.
Garran.
My foster father.
I never called him that.
At least, not aloud.
But he was the only father I'd ever known.
He'd raised me.
Taught me how to hunt.
How to repair tools.
How to sharpen a blade.
How to build a fire.
And, most importantly, when to run.
I kept walking.
Our house stood at the northern edge of the village.
It had once been a smithy.
Now it was mostly a workshop.
Tools hung from every wall.
Broken farming equipment filled one corner.
Old horseshoes covered another.
A heavy workbench stood in the center.
Garran had built almost everything himself.
I placed the rabbit on the table.
Then I noticed the door.
It was open.
I stopped.
I was certain I'd locked it.
Slowly, I pulled my knife.
I stepped inside.
"Garran?"
No answer.
Bedroom.
Empty.
Kitchen.
Empty.
Storage room.
Empty.
Then I heard something.
Knock.
I froze.
Knock.
The sound came from beneath the floor.
I crouched.
Pressed my palm against the wooden boards.
They were freezing cold.
Then I saw something.
Not with my eyes.
Inside my head.
A black corridor.
People running.
Fire.
Blood.
A woman screaming.
A name.
My name.
Then it vanished.
I jerked my hand away.
My heart was pounding.
I stared at the floor.
Garran had always forbidden me from touching the boards near the back wall.
I'd never understood why.
Now I wanted to know.
I stood.
Walked toward the wall.
One step.
Another.
My fingers touched the floorboards.
"Jett."
I spun around.
Garran stood in the doorway.
His coat was covered in mud.
Blood stained his sleeve.
And he looked at me as though he'd just seen a ghost.
"Garran?"
He closed the door.
Locked it.
Once.
Twice.
"Where were you?" I asked.
"Out."
"You've been gone all day."
"I know."
"You're bleeding."
"It's nothing."
"That's blood."
He didn't answer.
Instead, he walked toward the fireplace.
He reached behind it.
Something clicked.
A hidden compartment opened.
Garran pulled out a small metal box.
I'd never seen it before.
Symbols covered its surface.
I couldn't read them.
And yet—
I understood them.
LET IT SLEEP.
I stared at Garran.
"What is that?"
He said nothing.
"What happened in the forest?"
His eyes narrowed.
"You went into the Greywood."
It wasn't a question.
I nodded.
"I heard something."
"What?"
"A bell."
Garran went pale.
I'd never seen him look afraid before.
"How many times?"
"Twice."
He closed his eyes.
"It has begun."
"What has?"
He looked at me.
For a moment, I thought he was going to tell me.
Instead, he whispered:
"The past."
Before I could ask what he meant, the village bell rang.
Once.
I turned toward the door.
Twice.
Voices rose outside.
Three times.
Garran reached beneath the table.
Four times.
He pulled out a sword.
I'd never seen him hold a weapon before.
The blade was black.
Not dark steel.
Not iron painted black.
Black.
As if it swallowed the light around it.
I couldn't look away.
Something inside my chest moved.
The blade began to tremble.
Garran noticed.
His face changed.
"Jett..."
"Dad?"
The word slipped out before I could stop it.
I had never called him that.
Not once.
Garran looked at me.
Then came a scream from the western gate.
Another.
Horses began to panic.
Something crashed outside.
Garran stepped between me and the door.
"Stay here."
"What is happening?"
He opened the door.
Cold evening air rushed into the workshop.
Smoke was rising above the rooftops.
People were running through the streets.
And beyond the village, where the Greywood began, I saw something between the trees.
A light.
Blue.
It pulsed once.
Twice.
Then I heard a voice.
Not outside.
Inside my head.
Jett.
I froze.
The black blade in Garran's hand began to tremble violently.
And somewhere deep beneath the Greywood, something ancient answered with a single, enormous strike.
CLANG.