Chapter 6: Into the Woods

Flames roared around him, their heat pressing against his small body like a suffocating hand. Smoke curled into Albion Bell's lungs, sharp and acrid, making every breath a desperate struggle. He stood frozen in the corner of his bedroom, clutching his quilt to his chest as the fire surged closer, consuming everything in its path.

"Albion, don't move!" his father's voice bellowed from beyond the door. "Stay where you are! I'm coming!"

But the fire didn't wait. It licked at the edges of the bed, curling up the walls, spreading faster than a nightmare. The air shimmered, warped by the unbearable heat. Albion's tiny legs trembled, his feet glued to the floor as fear swallowed him whole.

The door burst open, and his father appeared, his silhouette framed by the inferno. His face was lined with desperation as he reached toward Albion, his voice hoarse. "Jump, son! You have to jump!"

Albion's chest heaved, his breaths short and frantic, but his body wouldn't obey. He couldn't move. He couldn't make himself cross the small distance between them. His father's face twisted, panic flashing in his eyes as the ceiling groaned and buckled. Then, with a deafening crash, a beam collapsed between them in a spray of embers and sparks.

"Dad!" Albion screamed, his voice raw and frantic as his father disappeared behind the wall of flames.

The fire surged forward, consuming everything—walls, furniture, air. It swallowed the world whole.

Albion woke with a scream, his chest heaving as he bolted upright in bed. Sweat soaked his thin pajamas, and his heart pounded like a drum in his chest. For a moment, the nightmare lingered, vivid and suffocating. He could still see the flames, still hear his father's voice, still feel the searing heat on his face.

The door to his tiny bedroom slammed open, the sound reverberating through the flimsy walls. Albion flinched, shrinking into himself as his foster father stomped into the room. The man's hulking frame filled the doorway, his shadow stretching across the warped floorboards.

Albion barely had time to breathe.

His chest still heaved, his skin clammy with sweat, his body locked in the phantom grip of the fire.

"What the hell is wrong with you, retard?" the man barked, his voice low and venomous. "You trying to wake the whole goddamn house?"

"I-I'm sorry," Albion stammered, his small hands clutching the threadbare blanket tangled around his legs. "I didn't mean to—"

"Didn't mean to?" The man crossed the room in two strides, his hand shooting out to grab Albion by the arm. His grip was iron, his fingers digging painfully into the boy's skin. "You're nothing but a useless piece of shit. All you do is scream and cry and piss yourself over nothing."

"I'm sorry!" Albion cried, his voice breaking as he tried to pull away. "I won't do it again! Please, I'll be quiet!"

The man's face twisted with disgust. "Shut your damn mouth! You think anyone cares about your pathetic little sob stories? You're nothing but a goddamn government paycheck. That's all you are. And you're not even worth that."

Albion's breath hitched, his small body trembling as tears spilled down his cheeks. "Please, I'll be good. I promise."

"Good?" The man laughed bitterly, shaking Albion roughly. "You don't even know what that means. You're a waste of space, boy."

"What the hell—" His foster father's gravelly voice filled the room, sharp and edged with disgust. His eyes, small and mean, landed on the soaked bedsheets. His lip curled. "You piss yourself again?"

Albion's breath hitched yet again.

"No! I—" He stammered, his voice weak. His skin was damp, cold, but it wasn't—it wasn't what he thought.

It was the nightmare. The heat, the fire, the sweat, not piss.

But the man wasn't listening.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, rubbing his temples like Albion was some unbearable burden. Then, without another word, he dragged Albion by the arm.

Albion yelped, scrambling to catch his balance as he was hauled out of bed.

His grip unrelenting as the boy stumbled to keep up. His bare feet scraped against the cold, warped floorboards, but Albion didn't dare resist. He knew better. Resistance only made it worse.

The night air hit him like a slap as he was dragged outside, feet bare against the cold dirt. The back door banged open, and Albion barely caught himself as he was shoved roughly onto the overgrown grass. He stumbled, landing hard on his knees, the damp earth soaking through his pajama pants.

This was happening again.

He knew what was coming.

His stomach knotted, bile rising as his foster father yanked him across the overgrown yard toward the rusted outdoor spigot. The old hose snaked through the dirt, its rubber cracked and stiff from age.

Albion tried to pull back—just a little, just enough to get a breath, to explain—but the grip on his arm was iron.

"Fucking sick of this," the man spat, shoving Albion forward. His voice was low and tight, the kind that promised this wouldn't be over fast. "I ain't raising a goddamn bed-wetting retard."

"I didn't—" Albion choked on his own words, but it didn't matter.

The hose came alive.

A blast of freezing water slammed into his chest, and the shock of it ripped the breath from his lungs.

Albion stumbled back, gasping, choking as the spray hit his face.

It was ice-cold, suffocating.

He tried to shield himself, but his arms were too small, his body too weak. The pressure knocked him down, his knees slamming into the dirt.

"Yeah, you like that?" His foster father's voice was mocking, sneering. "Maybe I should leave you out here all night. Let the cold teach you to control yourself."

Albion's teeth chattered as the water kept coming, soaking his thin pajamas, burning against his skin in its own way.

It was like the fire in his dream—except this time, he wasn't burning.

He was drowning.

His breath came in ragged gasps, his body shaking uncontrollably, but he didn't fight back.

Fighting made it worse.

It always made it worse.

The hose finally shut off, and Albion slumped forward, his small fingers digging into the dirt. His whole body quaked, his lungs struggling for breath.

His foster father snorted. "Pathetic."

Then came the final blow.

"Stay out here," his foster father snapped, his voice cutting through the night. "And don't even think about coming back inside until you learn to act like a goddamn human being."

The door slammed shut, leaving Albion alone in the cold, dark yard. He sat there for a long moment, his small frame trembling as the man's words echoed in his mind.

Retard. Piece of shit. Government paycheck.

The cold bit at his skin, the damp air chilling him to the bone, but he didn't move. Tears slipped silently down his cheeks as he stared at the rickety fence at the edge of the yard, its broken slats giving way to the dark forest beyond.

Finally, Albion pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt weak, but he forced them to carry him toward the trees. The forest was dark and silent, its shadows pressing close, but Albion didn't hesitate. The woods had become his sanctuary, the only place where the weight of his foster father's words couldn't follow.

The forest was alive with whispers—the rustle of leaves, the chirp of crickets, the distant hoot of an owl. Albion weaved through the trees with the ease of familiarity, his small frame slipping between the gnarled trunks and low-hanging branches. The farther he went, the quieter the world became, until the sounds of the house were nothing but a distant memory.

He stopped beneath the wide canopy of an ancient oak, its gnarled roots forming a hollow at its base. Albion sank down into the cradle of roots, pulling his knees to his chest as he let the cool night air wash over him. The nightmare still clung to him, vivid and unshakable. He could still hear his father's voice, still see the flames devouring everything.

"Why did you leave me?" he whispered into the darkness, his voice breaking. "Why didn't you take me with you?"

The words hung in the air, unanswered, until a soft voice broke the silence.

"You're going to cry forever?"

Albion's head snapped up, his breath catching in his throat. A woman stood a few feet away, her silhouette bathed in the faint glow of the moonlight. Her crimson gown shimmered like liquid fire, and her alabaster skin seemed to glow faintly in the darkness. Dark wings arched behind her, their feathers shifting with the breeze, and horns curved elegantly from her head, catching the light like polished onyx.

"Who are you?" Albion stammered, his voice trembling.

The woman smiled, a slow curve of her lips that sent a shiver down Albion's spine. "You can call me Bea," she said, her voice smooth and rich. "And you, little one, look like someone who could use a friend."

Albion pressed himself against the oak's roots, his small hands gripping the bark as if it could shield him from her. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

Bea crouched, her movements fluid and graceful, her wings folding neatly behind her. "I want to help you," she said simply. "You seem… lost."

"I'm not lost," Albion said quickly, though his voice wavered. "I'm fine."

Her smile widened slightly. "Of course you are," she said lightly. "And that's why you're out here, all alone, crying your little heart out."

Albion flushed, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. "You don't know anything about me."

"Oh, but I do," Bea said, her voice softening. "I know you've been hurt. I know you've lost more than anyone should. And I know you don't believe you matter."

Albion's throat tightened, and his voice broke as he said, "That's not true."

"Isn't it?" Bea tilted her head, her horns gleaming in the faint light. "Where are they, Albion? The people who are supposed to care for you? The ones who are supposed to protect you?"

Albion couldn't meet her gaze. His hands curled into fists as he whispered, "Why do you care?"

Bea reached out, her fingers brushing a strand of hair from his face. "Because you're not like them," she said softly. "You're special, Albion. There's something inside you, something powerful, waiting to be awakened."

Albion's eyes flickered awake. He was in his small, dim bedroom, his chest heaving, the memory of Bea's voice and her words clinging to him like a warm shadow. "You are not like them. You were never meant to be." For now, he would endure. But deep within, a spark had been lit—a spark that refused to die.