Chapter 37: Odd Night

The dim glow in her hold slowly faded. Liria's fingers trembled as she released the pendant, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Her head spun, the world tilting dangerously. She barely registered the rush of footsteps before strong hands caught her arms.

"Are you alright?" Dastan's voice was urgent. His chest heaved from exertion, his piercing blue eyes scanning her pale face. "I saw seven of them, but I only killed five. The other two—did you take them down, or did they flee?" His gaze darted around, searching for bodies.

Liria didn't respond. Her lips parted, but no words came. Her face was unnervingly pale, her skin like ice beneath his fingers.

"The spider bite." Dastan's voice wavered, concern deepening. Gently, he brushed her hair aside to inspect the wound on the back of her neck. He expected to see an angry, festering mark, but instead, the bite looked… different. Fading. Healing. Yet Liria was visibly weakening.

Dastan didn't waste a second. He seized her hand, ignoring the unnatural cold seeping from her skin. Tugging her forward, he led her toward the horses. The slain soldiers' abandoned mounts stood among the trees, eight in total.

"I will ride on my own," Liria murmured, her voice faint but laced with determination.

Dastan hesitated. "Are you sure?"

She nodded, though her grip on the saddle was unsteady. When she attempted to mount, her hands trembled violently, betraying her weakness.

"You do not look—"

"Do not baby me," she cut in sharply. "I am not as weak as you think I am."

Dastan raised his hands in surrender. "Fine. Have it your way." But before she could protest, he stepped closer and helped her into the saddle.

And with that, they rode away into the heart of the Ghostwoods.

… … …

The Ghostwoods stretched endlessly, their twisted branches forming a tangled web against the darkening sky. It would take until morning to escape its depths. The silence was unnatural, broken only by the whisper of the wind threading through the leaves, carrying secrets lost to time.

Dastan finally pulled his horse to a stop. "We rest here," he announced. "We can't keep going. It's going to rain, and we need shelter."

Liria scoffed, irritation sharpening her voice. "There is no shelter here. Are you joking?"

"Look up," Dastan said, pointing to their right.

High above, nestled in the thick embrace of gnarled branches, sat a treehouse. The structure was sturdy despite its age, held aloft by massive limbs that looked as though they had grown around it, protecting it.

"I built it when I was a kid," Dastan murmured, a rare smile tugging at his lips. For a fleeting moment, something distant and wistful flickered in his eyes.

Liria didn't respond. Without hesitation, she grasped the rope ladder and began climbing, each step unsteady. Dastan followed closely behind, ready to catch her should she falter.

Inside, the air was dry, the scent of aged wood and memories lingering. A small hearth sat in the corner, its stones blackened from past fires. Dastan wasted no time in kindling a flame, the flickering light casting shadows across the walls. His gaze flicked toward Liria. She had sunk onto a pile of furs, her breaths shallow, her skin a sickly shade of white.

"I'll hunt," Dastan said, grabbing only his dagger. "Stay here. I won't be long."

Liria gave a weak nod, her energy too drained for words.

… … …

By the time Dastan returned, two squirrels in hand, the rain had begun to fall. Heavy droplets drummed against the roof, a rhythmic song of the storm. He skewered the game and set it over the fire, turning it slowly.

"The bite is healing," Dastan mused, studying her closely. "Yet you're getting worse."

Liria didn't respond immediately. With slow, deliberate movements, she took off her white cloak, revealing skin that shimmered under the firelight.

Dastan frowned. "Why are you removing your cloak? It's freezing."

"I feel hot," Liria muttered.

Dastan stared at her, bewildered. "Hot? Your skin is like ice. How can you possibly—?"

"Stop asking me questions I don't have answers to!" she snapped, her voice breaking.

Dastan raised an eyebrow. "Easy, little fox. No need to bite." He chuckled softly, attempting to lighten the mood.

Liria exhaled sharply, guilt flickering in her hazel eyes. "I don't know what's happening to me."

"It's alright." Dastan shifted his focus back to the fire. "You know, people say this forest was once alive with magic. The trees could move, whisper, even obey those who wielded power." His voice was thoughtful, tinged with something almost reverent. "But that was centuries ago. Before—"

"The Aegishjalmur."

Dastan's gaze snapped to her. He nodded. "Yeah." He passed her the roasted squirrel. "Do you believe in it?"

Liria studied the fire, her expression unreadable. "Do you?"

Dastan shrugged. "I believe some of it. The Great War happened. The realms were reshaped. But I think the stories have been exaggerated."

Liria only nodded, her thoughts elsewhere.

… … …

By the time they finished eating, the storm had intensified. Thunder cracked overhead, shaking the heavens, while rain lashed at the walls. The cold slithered in through the cracks, sinking its claws into every living thing within the Ghostwoods.

Then, suddenly, Liria shivered violently.

Dastan's head snapped up. "What's wrong?"

"I—I don't know." Her teeth chattered. She yanked her cloak around her, though minutes ago, she had claimed to be burning up.

Dastan's brow furrowed. "Liria, this isn't normal."

A sudden flash of green light illuminated the darkness outside.

Dastan shot to his feet. Grabbing a torch, he lit it and stepped outside, scanning the rain-drenched forest. Nothing. No movement. No sign of what had caused the eerie glow.

"Well, that's odd," he muttered. "Lightning isn't supposed to be like that."

He turned back toward the treehouse.

And froze.

Liria sat hunched in the corner, her body trembling uncontrollably. Her lips were deathly pale, her skin near translucent. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Dastan dropped to his knees beside her, pressing his palm against her forehead. His fingers recoiled instantly—her skin was even colder than before, like ice infused with something unnatural.

Without thinking, he shrugged off his cloak, then his shirt. The warmth of his bare skin was the only thing he could offer. Lying beside her, he wrapped an arm around her fragile frame, letting her cold fingers press against his chest. He barely suppressed a shiver at the freezing touch.

"This will help," he murmured, stroking her back to generate heat.

"Dastan…"

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

He looked down at her. "Yeah?"

"I saw them," she mumbled. "The guards… They were pulled down. Into the earth."

Dastan frowned. "What?"

"Them." Her breath hitched. "The trees. The roots. They took them."

Dastan's blood ran cold. He stiffened, listening. Outside, the wind howled… but beneath it, beneath the storm's fury—

A whisper.

Something moved in the darkness.

Then, the floor beneath them groaned.