Dawn came quietly, almost without notice. The sun didn’t rise all at once; it spread slowly through the wood, laying a pale light across leaves and trunks. Mist still threaded low over the ground—cool and damp—and the birds hadn’t yet dared to sing.

  Dara sat with her back against a trunk, panting. She curled up, knees tucked under her chin. The bonds had rubbed her wrists raw and bloody. She felt every breath in her ribs, every cramp of an empty stomach. Her fingers trembled.

  She didn’t cry. Not anymore. The tears had burned out with the night.

  She looked at her feet—mud-caked and skinned. One sandal had vanished into the dark; the other clung on by a single strap. Her dress was torn.

  She was ravenous. She’d last eaten the day before at the tavern with Algar and the others. They were surely dead. Her heart kicked faster as she realized she might be completely alone in the world.

  She had no idea where to go. The forest was thick and strange. Every direction looked the same—overgrown, quiet, unfriendly. She wondered whether she should search for other survivors. They couldn’t all be doomed; it must have been terrible luck for their village. One bandit had said he’d seen such things before, but surely somewhere was safe.

  Starburn. That was the first place that came to mind. She’d heard of it—the capital, a few days’ walk from here. Refugees might have reached it. Maybe Algar had. Only the gods knew where the city truly lay. And the gods—if they existed at all—must be blind if demons were wandering the earth.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. The thought of the boy burned like a coal. Maybe he lived. Maybe not. But if anything kept her moving, it was the not-knowing—that thin chance that somewhere out there was someone who remembered.

  “I have to move,” she whispered, her voice rough and barely audible.

  But she didn’t move at once. She had to gather strength—for the first step, at least. The forest wasn’t safe, but it had nothing left to offer except hunger, cold, and the memory of a demon’s teeth.

  Slowly she began worrying at the rope—teeth, fingernails, a shard of sharp-edged stone she found in the duff. It took a long time. But when the cord finally slipped free and fell to the ground, relief flooded her. She rubbed her wrists to bring the feeling back.

  She walked on—slow, wary, unsure. Morning light soaked into the tangle of trees, smudging the shadows without easing them. Every twig-snap, every rustle sent her heart leaping into her throat. She felt as if eyes were watching her constantly.

  Along the way she found berry bushes—dark little beads, almost black against the leaves. For a moment she eyed them with suspicion. She wasn’t sure they were edible. Hunger won. She plucked a few and tossed them into her mouth. The juice was tart—bitter, even—but real. She swallowed greedily, then ate more until her fingers were stained purple. It wasn’t enough to fill her, but it gave her strength to keep going. With luck, it would only mean a sore stomach tomorrow—and nothing worse.

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  The signs on the ground changed suddenly. Among the branches and soft moss, she saw something that made her stop. At first, she thought it was mud. She stepped closer—and realized it was blood. Dried and dark, matted into the greenery. Something had happened here, and not long ago.

  She bent lower. There were paw prints too—huge, pressed deep, claws splayed. She set her hand beside one; it was smaller than the pad. Not a dog. Not a wolf. She’d seen wolf tracks once—they were smaller and shallower. These belonged to a beast.

  A few paces farther lay something else.

  At first, she couldn’t tell what it was. A clump of fur? A cushion? Then the shapes resolved. A deer’s muzzle—or what remained of it. The head was nearly bitten off, hanging by scraps of flesh and sinew. The body was split open, entrails strewn about. Flies had already found it, but the blood was fresh. It could have happened moments ago.

  Dara recoiled on instinct. A wave of weakness washed through her—not from disgust, but from understanding. The things that had attacked the village were here. Maybe still here. Maybe watching her now, this very moment, from behind the nearest pine.

  Her breathing quickened. She had to get away. Don’t run—don’t make noise—but go. Now. The forest was too quiet again.

  She moved on, pressed close to the trunks, as quietly as she could. Watching. Listening. Every sound was a threat. But she didn’t turn back. She couldn’t.

  Her legs ached, her mouth had dried out again, and her head churned with questions she couldn’t yet shape. Something was waiting for her in these shadows.

  The sun began to tilt west. Gold slid down the trees, stretching the shadows like fingers reaching into the wood. Dara was spent. She had wandered aimlessly since morning. Her legs felt like stone; her arms trembled with effort. Hunger returned—sharp and painful—untouched by a handful of berries.

  She found a clearing—small but clean, carpeted with soft moss. She meant to stop there. She pushed a few branches aside and sank down, her back against an old oak. She closed her eyes. For a moment it seemed the forest was breathing with her.

  She was almost asleep when she heard a footstep. One—then another. Soft, but not animals. She jerked upright and opened her eyes.

  A woman stood there—older, with gray hair braided down her back, her shoulders slightly stooped but her movements strangely light. She wore a simple dark-green dress, cinched with a jute cord. In her hand she carried a rowan-wood staff.

  The strangest thing was her scent—not smoke, sweat, or forest, but fresh herbs. Sage, thyme, perhaps mint. Like a garden cupped in a palm. Dara knew those smells from home.

  “You’ve come at last. Atros said you would,” the woman said. Her voice was soft, yet it carried in the hush. She seemed so out of place that Dara lost her footing mentally. Who in all the gods is Atros? The poor thing must be touched—or something like it.

  “Stand up. This isn’t where you should sleep.”

  “Who are you?” the girl asked. Her voice sounded far less steady than she wished.

  The old woman smiled, but there was something strange in her eyes—as if lights not present were reflected there.

  “Stand, and come with me.” She turned and began to totter away, leaning on her staff.

  Dara had no choice. She followed.