Chapter 8: “A Voice in the Dark"

The sun had dipped low, bleeding orange and bruised purple over the edge of the forest. Ivy stood at the threshold again, just where the brambles began to curl like fingers across the path. She clutched her shawl tighter, but not because of the cold.

She couldn't keep away. No matter how deep the dread, how strange the pull—something had awakened in her, and it hummed louder with each step into the trees.

The silence of the woods greeted her like an old friend, heavy and expectant. Every twig that cracked beneath her foot sounded louder than thunder. She stepped carefully, basket swinging lightly at her hip, a few salves and a wrapped loaf of honeyed bread inside. A peace offering.

She hadn't imagined that voice. She knew she hadn't. It had rippled through her spine like silk and static. Male. Calm. Amused.

And impossibly close.

"I came back," she murmured. Her voice, breathy and unsure, evaporated into the mist.

Nothing responded.

"I don't know why I expected you to talk again. You like watching, don't you?"

She passed the stone where she'd first found the river-polished rocks. This time, nothing rested on it. No bones. No herbs. Just bare stone, dark with moss and old lichen.

"I brought something," Ivy said, placing the bread down gently. "You probably don't need food. I don't even know if you eat."

A faint breath of wind moved her hair. She stopped, ears straining.

"Ivy."

Her name—spoken so softly, she wasn't sure it wasn't imagined—curled around her like a spell.

She turned slowly.

There. In the shadows beneath the thickest oak—two slits of light. Eyes. Glowing faintly, not like fire, but like dying embers. And behind them, a shape half-formed, as though the forest itself breathed life into something not meant to walk this earth.

Tall. Broad. Wrong.

She didn't run. Her body screamed at her to, but her legs stayed rooted.

"You're real," she said, voice catching on the edges of a sob she didn't understand.

"I've always been," the voice replied. It was deeper now. More formed. Like thunder hiding beneath velvet.

She took a step closer.

His form sharpened slightly. No clear face, but the rough outline of something humanoid. Almost. His limbs moved with a smooth, unnatural grace. Too fluid. Like water wearing the skin of a man.

"Why me?" she asked. "Why do you keep leaving things for me?"

Silence.

Then: "Because you talk."

A strange answer. She blinked.

"That's it?"

"No one speaks to the forest anymore. They scream. They run. They bleed. But you… you sing."

She laughed, dry and half-mad. "That's stupid."

He stepped forward. Closer.

"I like the sound," he said.

Ivy tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry. "I should be afraid of you."

"You are."

"Yes."

He tilted his head, though no face was there to see. "But you came anyway."

She opened her mouth to speak, but then—

His voice shifted, cracked just slightly, like something underneath it broke through for a moment.

"I wonder how soft your bones are."

Her blood turned to ice.

"Wh-what?"

He stepped back, melting slightly into the dark again.

"I wonder how easily I could peel you apart," he said, conversationally, like discussing the weather. "Bit by bit. Would your soul cling to your body, or would it try to run?"

Ivy backed away a step, heart slamming against her ribs.

"But I won't," he said. His voice returned to that calm, velvet tone. "Because you sing. And because I like the way your hands tremble when you lie to yourself."

"I… I don't…"

"You pretend I'm not a monster," he continued, stepping forward again. "You stare into the mouth of a god who eats men and you hope. That's fascinating, Ivy."

She shook her head, eyes stinging.

"Why are you saying these things?"

"I want you to know," he said. "Before you make the mistake of loving me."

"I don't—"

"But you will," he said softly. "And that's what terrifies me most."

She blinked. "You're afraid?"

He laughed. Not cruelly. Not loudly. Just… amused. Like a predator watching its prey try to understand the shape of the knife.

"Yes. Afraid I'll ruin you. Afraid I'll enjoy it."

She said nothing. Her feet were still rooted, her breath shallow.

Then, he whispered, almost reverent, "But I also want to know what your heart sounds like when it breaks."

She stared into the dim glint of his eyes, terrified—and yet...

Still not running.

"You're not going to hurt me," she said quietly.

"Why do you think that?"

"Because you've had a hundred chances. But you keep listening instead."

He went quiet.

The shadows thickened.

"You're strange, Ivy," he finally murmured. "You don't smell like prey. You smell like something I want to keep."

She took a shaky breath. "So what now?"

He stepped back, melting into the dark once more.

"Now," he said, "you keep singing."