Guilermo carried me deeper into the forest than I had ever dared to go, past the worn trails where festival-goers might wander, past the patrol routes that Sibal's wolves monitored, into a part of the Ironwood where the trees pressed close, their trunks thick and unyielding, and the branches wove together so tightly that the sky above vanished into a dark ceiling. The air was cool, damp, and heavy with the scent of moss, earth, and something older, something primeval that hummed beneath the skin. It was alive, as if the forest itself were holding its breath in anticipation of what was coming.
Finally, he set me down in a small clearing. The ground was soft with thick, verdant moss that cushioned my feet and smelled of rain and secrets centuries old. Moonlight sifted through the dense cano
