Chapter 9
1610 Words
The transition was so violent it felt like the world had physically snapped. One second, we were sprinting through the dappled gold of a late afternoon; the next, a suffocating, unnatural night had slammed down upon the forest. It wasn't a sunset. It was as if someone had dropped a heavy black shroud over the canopy, snuffing out every trace of warmth and color.
I couldn’t keep my feet. My balance, suddenly shaky from the four-hour trek, completely failed me. I stumbled over a root I couldn't see, my knees slamming into the dirt, but Ashthorne didn't let me fall fully. His grip on my hand was a vise, dragging me back up and forcing me forward. He was weaving through the ancient trunks with a terrifying, fluid grace, never slowing down, never giving me a second to catch my breath or find my center.
"Ashthorne, wait—" I gasped, the air feeling thin and metallic in my lungs.
He didn't answer. He couldn't. His entire focus was on the path ahead, but I managed to wrench my head to the side, looking back at the trees we had just passed. My heart didn't just thud; it clenched with a physical, agonizing pain.
The forest was dying in real-time.
In the span of seconds, the vibrant, ebony-barked trees began to liquefy. The bark turned to a weeping, oily black sludge, and the leaves curled into ash before they even hit the ground. It was a fast-forward of decay, a rot so aggressive it felt like a scream in the silence. The sight of it—the sheer, senseless destruction of something so beautiful—sent a surge of grief through me so sharp I almost doubled over.
"Ember! Focus!" Ashthorne’s voice cracked like a whip, jarring me out of the horror. He yanked me forward, his eyes wild. "Don't look! Just run!"
I tried. I really did. I stumbled through the dark, my boots catching on the dying earth, my breath hitching in my throat. And then, the unthinkable happened. Ashthorne let go.
The sudden absence of his grip sent panic flooding through me so fast it stole the breath from my lungs. I pitched forward, barely catching myself, heart slamming against my ribs.
His hand slipped from mine, and the sudden loss of contact felt like falling off a cliff. My face paled, the blood draining away as I watched him step away from me. He’s leaving me, the thought shrieked through my mind. He’s giving up on me. I opened my mouth to beg, to scream for him to come back, to tell him I’d run faster, I’d be better that I'd do better —anything not to be left alone in this rotting darkness.
But Ashthorne didn't run away. He stopped.
With a movement so fast I almost missed it, he reached for his head. He pulled out the long, wooden stick he used to pin back his hair. A simple piece of wood carved smooth with faint markings along its length—a piece I had always assumed was just a decorative touch, a bit of vanity for the forest's guardian.
The moment it left his hand, the air hummed with a low, vibrating power. The small stick began to elongate, the wood twisting and groaning as it grew into a full-length staff, humming with a faint, mossy-green light. Ashton didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, his silhouette tall and defiant against the encroaching rot, and slammed the base of the staff into the earth.
A massive shockwave of emerald light erupted from the point of impact. It rippled through the air like a stone dropped in a pond, creating a shimmering, translucent barrier that pulsed with the rhythm of a living heart.
A split second later, a thud shook the ground.
Something hit the barrier. It was misshapen, a nightmare of matted fur, exposed bone, and eyes that glowed with a sickly, pale yellow light. It didn't look like an animal; it looked like a schizophrenic memory of one that had been twisted and broken and clumped all together. Then came another thud. And another. The monstrosities were grouping together, throwing their weight against the green light, their claws screeching against the magical shield.
“I can’t,” I gasped, voice breaking. “I can’t—”
I didn't realize I was crying until the first sob broke out of me. They weren't just quiet tears; they were fat, heavy, felling sobs that tore through my chest. The pain wasn't just coming from the fear; it was a heavy immense weight, a wave of profound sadness that seemed to radiate from the creatures themselves. I felt...like I could feel their agony, their loss, their hollow hunger. It was too much. The world tilted, the green light of the staff blurring into a thousand shimmering stars.
Fairies? my mind whispered, seeing tiny sparks of light dancing within the staff's glow.
Then, the darkness finally won, and I collapsed into nothingness.
I woke to a world made of soft, golden light.
My body felt like it had been tenderized with a hammer, every muscle humming with a dull, reminiscent ache of the terror we’d just escaped. But I wasn't on the ground. I felt a steady, rhythmic movement. I blinked my eyes open to find Ashthorne’s jawline just inches from my face. He was carrying me in a princess lift, his arms solid and steady.
Around us, the darkness was, their soft glow illuminating a path through the trees that felt safe and familiar.
Ashthorne looked down, noticing I was awake. He didn't look triumphant; he looked exhausted. He managed a weak, tired smile before carefully lowering me onto a large, flat stone to sit.
"I forgot you were human," he said, his voice quiet and heavy with guilt. "I apologize, Ember. I shouldn't have pushed. We went too far into the forest."
I sat there for a moment, trying to find my voice. My throat felt like it was filled with sand. "We didn't walk that far, did we?" I finally managed to ask, my eyes wide as I looked back toward the shadows. "Is the sickness... is it really that close to home?"
Ashthorne sighed, a long, weary sound, and leaned his back against a nearby tree. He looked up at the canopy where the fairies were beginning to disperse into the leaves. "Ember, we had walked for four hours. Although to you, it felt like a pleasant stroll. I Took you past the periphery of my boundary. To the forest, it was quite a journey...I am deeply regretful. I apologize." He paused, his expression hardening. "And you’re right to be afraid. The sickness is getting worse. It’s moving faster than the Council predicted."
"What were those things?" I whispered, the image of the misshapen yellow eyes burned into my brain. "They didn't look like anything I’ve ever seen."
Ashthorne’s sigh this time made my alarm spike. There was a deep, ancient grief in his response. "They are diseased unicorns."
I froze. "Unicorns?"
"They were once beings of such intense purity," he said, his voice thick with a bitter edge. "Icons of everything the forest is supposed to be... and known for. And now... now we barely have any left. Most of them are dead, and the rest... the rot takes them and throws them into that abomination you saw. The few that are left are weak, hidden away in Spring Hollow under the protection of its Royal Court. But even that won't last forever."
The weight of it hit me suddenly—the rot wasn't just killing trees; it was perverting the very essence of this world.
"Since you've rested now, come let us continue," Ashthorne said, straightening his back and offering me a hand. He was trying to be strong, but I could see the way his face contorted in worry for me. "We are almost home. You've caught your breath, yes?"
I took his hand, my legs feeling like jelly, and we began the final trek back.
By the time the familiar silhouette of the tree-house appeared, I felt like a ghost. Elara was standing outside by the door, almost exactly like the first time we had met. The flickering lanterns cast long shadows across her face, which was twisted with a deep, gnawing worry.
She took us in as we approached. Ashthorne looked but barely distressed, his Guardian training contributing to keeping him upright. But then her eyes landed on me, and her jaw dropped.
I looked like I had been through five consecutive Olympic Games while wearing a ball gown. My dress—the one she had so carefully chosen—was a wreck. It was covered in scratches, tears, and mud, the delicate fabric hanging in tatters. Surprisingly, I didn't have a scratch on me— I guess Ashthorne’s barrier and his carrying me had kept my skin intact—but the damage to the clothes was a testament to the chaos we’d barely escaped.
It was no wonder Ashthorne had dropped me the second I woke up; I was a mess of dirt, open skin and frayed nerves.
Elara didn't say a word. She just stepped forward and pulled me into a hug, her heart beating slowly against mine. We were home, but the silence of the forest behind us felt louder than it ever had before.
- Writer
