The forest swallowed them slowly.

The mule’s hooves shifted from wet mud to the softer hush of soil and fallen leaves. Each step of the sled groaned faintly against the ground, dragging the wounded warrior into the shadow of the trees. Behind them, the crimson fog drifted like a ghost at the forest’s edge, unwilling to follow but unwilling to release its gaze.

The girl breathed easier once the corpses were hidden from sight, though the stench of death clung to her clothes and hair. She rubbed her nose against her sleeve, as if to erase the smell. Still, her eyes remained sharp, flicking at every rustle in the undergrowth.

It was too quiet. No birdsong, no wind in the branches, only the scrape of wood and the steady tap of the shaman’s staff.

“Why here?” the girl whispered, her voice low, afraid to disturb the silence. “The woods feel worse than the field.”

The shaman’s clouded eyes lifted to the canopy, where the light barely filtered through. She did not stop walking.
“The forest remembers more than men do,” she said. “Their wars pass, but the trees… they keep the scars.”

The girl shivered, glancing at the endless trunks rising like pillars around them. She tried to keep her gaze on the mule’s swaying back, but her thoughts returned again and again to the man lying bound upon the sled. His shallow breathing was the only proof he still lingered on the edge of life.

“How long will you keep him?” she asked suddenly, bitterness sharp in her tone. “Until he dies in our arms?”

The shaman’s reply was slow, steady, unyielding.
“Until he shows me why he still breathes.”

The girl clenched her jaw, said no more. The path wound deeper into the forest, each step pulling them further from the light of dawn.

And though the air grew cooler beneath the trees, the child could not shake the feeling that something unseen was walking with them, matching their pace just beyond the shadows.