Rowan and Bjorn pressed deeper into the strange forest, each step carrying them farther from anything familiar. 

“This doesn’t feel like the same forest anymore,” Rowan whispered. “It’s like… a dream that forgot how to wake up.”

Bjorn didn’t answer. His hand hovered near the handle of his axe, scanning the shadows between the trunks. Then, something quick and dark slid between the trees as if it belonged to the forest.

Rowan stood motionless, except for his hands, which had a slight shake. “Did you see that?” 

Bjorn squinted into the hazy fog, but didn’t see anything. Unsure of what was looming out there, he tightened his grip on his axe. “See what?” He said, trying to keep his voice steady.
Rowan glanced down at his compass, hoping it would point the way to the last flutterhorn. But the needle only spun in slow, lazy circles, refusing to settle anywhere at all.

Snap!

Both boys froze. Leaves rustled somewhere in the underbrush, though nothing moved in sight. A chill darted up Rowan’s spine, and he felt Bjorn stiffen beside him. 

“P-probably just the flutterhorn,” Rowan blurted, his voice pitching higher than he meant.

Bjorn gave a slow nod while he slowly scanned the mist. “Yeah… probably.”

They walked even slower now, moving cautiously past each tree, half-expecting something to leap out from behind the next trunk.

Rowan nudged Bjorn’s shoulder and pointed, his mouth forming the word, Look.

In the center of the path stood the flutterhorn. Its delicate wings drooped, its bright colors washed to a dull gray, and its wide, glassy eyes stared forward.

“There it is!” Rowan whispered, hope flaring in his chest. “I can’t believe we actually found it!”

They crept closer, placing each step with care. The flutterhorn’s ears twitched, then whipped its head sharply to the side. Rowan followed its gaze and froze.

From behind a crooked tree, a figure slid into view. Black cloth trailed around it, drifting as though it moved underwater. A smooth, white mask hid its face, empty except for three straight lines—two slashes where eyes should have been. The third marked the mouth.

The figure tilted its head slowly, almost curious, then slipped back behind the tree.

In an instant, it was gone, leaving only the faintest ripple through the mist.

Bjorn moved closer. “What… was that?”

Rowan shook his head, staring at the space where the figure had vanished. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “Okay… new plan. We grab the flutterhorn and leave. Now.”

But when they turned back, the flutterhorn was gone.

Rowan spun in a frantic circle. “No way! It was right here!”

Bjorn crouched, pointing at the ground. “Look. Fresh hoofprints.”

Rowan leaned closer as he traced the faint indentations. “And they’re heading straight into the fog.”

The boys hurried after them, the mist clinging against their skin. Rowan’s chest buzzed with nervous energy. A flicker darted to his left. He whipped his head around, but nothing was there. Another flash to his right, he spun again. Still nothing. His heartbeat fluttered like trapped wings. Something was moving in the fog.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Bjorn muttered, holding his axe with one hand.

Rowan’s eyes flicked from shadow to shadow. “Are we imagining it? Or is something out there watching us?”

The forest did not answer. Shadows flickered just beyond reach, always melting away when they turned. Step by step, they wove between twisted trunks and ducked beneath branches. Every so often, they stopped, hoping to see a sign of the missing flutterhorn.

Finally, Rowan threw up his hands in frustration. “Okay, that’s it. One more tree. If the flutterhorn isn’t there, we’re heading back.”

He pointed toward a nearby trunk. Its bark was dark and cracked with strange lines that shimmered faintly, as if fire had once burned inside long ago. 

Bjorn joined him, axe ready, and gave a short nod. “Fine with me.”

Together they approached the tree, each boy taking a different side. Rowan cautiously stepped closer. As soon as he placed his hand on the rough bark, a shiver raced up his arms, the tiny hairs on his skin prickling as the air around the tree hummed faintly, like a warning from the forest. Suddenly, a pale, bony arm shot from the backside of the tree. It clamped around his wrist, icy and unyielding. Not the sharp bite of winter air, but a deeper cold that sank straight into his bones.

Rowan yelled, the sound ripping from his throat, as the freezing pain surged up his arm. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground. The grip tightened, and glowing red lines spread across his skin like frost cracking across glass.

“Let go!” Rowan shouted, louder this time as the pain sharpened. He twisted and yanked, digging his heels into the dirt, straining to break free. But then his thoughts began to blur. It was as if the hand wasn’t just clutching his wrist, it was rifling through his memories.

Elyndra’s smile flashed across the rooftops of Zyranth. His mother’s hands were pulling warm blankets to his chin. His father’s voice rolled steadily across the fields. And the glowing crater where he found the Windkoro.

At the center of it all, something else appeared: his own reflection. His face stared back at him, a shadow-self he didn’t recognize. The icy fire burst through his chest. Rowan arched backward, a cry tearing from him as the cold dirt pressed against his spine.

“Rowan!” Bjorn roared, charging forward. His axe swept through the mist with a fierce whoosh and smashed into the pale arm with a heavy crack. The blade didn’t cut, but the limb hissed and recoiled, shrinking back into the shadows. Rowan tore his wrist free and scrambled backward. Red lines spiraled across his skin, glowing faintly before fading into a deep, bruised purple.

Bjorn dropped to his knees, gripping Rowan’s shoulder. “Are you okay? Talk to me.”

Rowan nodded shakily, though his face was pale and slick with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead. His chest heaved with each breath, his muscles taut as if braced for another strike. 

“We’re done here,” Bjorn said, while helping him to his feet. “We’re going back to Willowfen.”

Rowan leaned against him, wincing as the ache in his arm throbbed with every step. The twisted trees slowly thinned, their branches falling away behind them like the edges of a nightmare unraveling.

“There!” Bjorn suddenly pointed ahead.

Between two trunks shimmered a ripple, glowing softly above the forest floor. And standing right in front of it was the last flutterhorn.

Bjorn stepped slowly toward the flutterhorn. “Don’t worry, little one. You’re going home.” He bent down and scooped the creature into his arms. The flutterhorn didn’t struggle. It nestled against him, as if it had been waiting for this moment all along.

“You ready?” Bjorn asked, glancing back.

Rowan nodded, though his wrist still burned faintly, the spiraled marks glowing like hidden embers beneath his skin. Together, they stepped through the ripple.

Warmth rushed over them at once. Sunlight spilled through the treetops in golden beams. The scent of moss and fresh wind filled their lungs. Birds sang brightly overhead, and the earth felt soft and safe beneath their boots. The heavy silence of the other forest was gone. Here, birdsong lilted through the branches, and the gentle trickle of a nearby stream joined it like music. From farther off came the bright sound of children’s laughter, rising and falling as they played.

By the time they neared Willowfen, the sun had dipped behind the horizon, painting the sky in soft strokes of orange and pink. Light glowed between the trees, casting the stilted cottages in a gentle radiance. Crickets chirped, and the splash of marsh water made a steady rhythm.

Bjorn carried the flutterhorn as if it were a sleeping child, its small body curled against his chest. Its wings twitched now and then, but it didn’t make any sounds. Rowan walked at his side, one hand pressed hard to his wrist. The ache throbbed colder with every step, seeping deeper into his bones until he shivered despite the warm breeze. His face was sweaty, and his feet dragged as though shadows still clung to him.

They passed a patch of wildflowers bobbing gently in the evening air and stepped onto the main path into the village. Ahead, a woman stood by a stack of firewood outside her cottage. When she saw them, she froze, her eyes falling first on the flutterhorn, then on Rowan’s trembling frame. Her eyes widened in shock.

She dropped her bundle of kindling with a clatter. “You’re alive?!”

Bjorn blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah?”

The woman rushed toward them. “Where have you been? Everyone thought you two had left. No one’s seen you for seven days!”

Rowan staggered to a stop. “Seven… what?” His voice cracked. “We weren’t gone that long…”

He and Bjorn exchanged a stunned look.

“We were in the forest,” Bjorn said slowly, choosing each word with care. “Looking for the flutterhorn. It didn’t feel like more than an hour or two.”

The woman’s gaze dropped back to the flutterhorn in Bjorn’s arms. She reached out, gently cradling it against her chest. The flutterhorn nestled close, as it released a soft hum.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” she whispered, tears swelling in her eyes, as she carried the exhausted flutterhorn to a wooden pen nearby. Inside, the rest of the herd stirred awake at the sound of her steps. One by one, they blinked and rose, wings fluttering, bleats rising into a soft chorus.

The rescued flutterhorn lifted its head and answered their call, then pressed close to its companions, its colors brightening as it settled back into the flock. Lantern light caught the shimmer of their wings, and for a moment, the whole pen glowed, as drifting stars filled it.

Rowan leaned against the fence, his body swaying with exhaustion. The icy fire in his wrist still pulsed, sending cold waves spiraling up his arm.

The woman turned back to them. “You two should come inside. You both look like you’ve walked through a nightmare.”

Before either boy could answer, another voice rose from the shadows near the cottage. “They have.”

An older man stepped into view. His back was straight, his eyes sharp despite the fading light. When his gaze fell on Rowan, it lingered with unsettling weight. “You’ve brought something back with you.”

Rowan’s stomach tightened. Instinctively, he tugged his sleeve down over his wrist, hiding the marks. His teeth chattered, and though he tried to speak, no words came out. The elder’s eyes narrowed, already drawn to the sleeve he tried to hide.

“May I see it?” the man asked gently.

Rowan hesitated, then slowly lifted his arm. His fingers uncurled, revealing the spirals etched across his skin. They glowed faintly in the twilight, like red flames frozen in ice.

The elder studied them in silence. Then, he looked back up and, without another word, he urgently turned toward the path. “I was afraid of this. Come with me, there is not much time.”