They were two hours out of the hills when the forest went quiet.
Lira noticed it first. The birds had stopped singing. The insects had stopped buzzing. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, the leaves hanging still, the shadows deepening between the trees. It was the kind of silence that pressed against your ears, that made your heart beat faster, that told you something was watching.
She raised her hand. The column stopped.
William's horse shifted beneath him, sensing his tension. He'd been quiet since they left the clearing, his face pale, his eyes darting at every shadow. Now he was rigid, his hands tight on the reins, his breath coming too fast.
"What is it?" he whispered.
Lira didn't answer. She was scanning the trees, her bow already in her hand, an arrow nocked, her eyes moving from shadow to shadow. She'd learned to trust this feeling—the prickle at the back of her neck, the cold in her chest, the sense that something was waiting just beyond sight.
Grog moved up beside her. He felt it too—the same wrongness he'd felt in the Grove, in the pass, in the clearing with the stone. The air was thick, heavy, pressing against his skin. His sword pulsed at his hip, warm, alert, ready.
"Ride," he said quietly. "Fast."
William's horse bolted before he could urge it. The others followed, hooves pounding on the soft earth, branches whipping at their faces. The forest blurred around them, green and brown and the gray of the fading light.
They didn't make it.
---
The beast came from the trees like a landslide.
There was no warning. One moment the path was empty, the next the creature was there, its body filling the space between the trunks, its weight shaking the ground. It was massive—twice the size of the thing they'd killed in the pass, its hide gray and rough like ancient stone, its limbs thick as tree trunks, its claws carving furrows in the earth as it ran. Its head was low, its jaws open, its teeth rows upon rows of razored bone. Its eyes were red, burning, fixed on them with a hunger that was older than the forest.
William's horse reared. He clung to its neck, his face white, his hands slipping on the reins. The beast was twenty feet away. Ten. Its jaws were opening, its teeth were coming, and William was falling.
Grog moved.
He didn't think. He didn't plan. His body was moving before his mind caught up, his sword already in his hand, the blade singing as it left the sheath. He hit the beast at a run, driving the edge into its side.
It was like cutting rock. The hide was thick, ancient, armored—the blade barely found purchase. But the sword was older. It bit deep, carving a gash through flesh and muscle, and the beast's momentum carried it past him, its claws tearing up the earth where he'd been standing.
The beast roared.
The sound was physical. It hit Grog like a wave, knocked him back a step, sent William's horse screaming into the trees. William hit the ground hard, rolled, came up with his sword drawn. His hands were shaking, his face was white, but he was on his feet.
Aldric grabbed his arm, pulled him behind a fallen log. "Stay down."
William tried to protest. Aldric pushed him down, hard.
"Stay. Down."
---
Lira's arrows were already flying.
She'd found a position behind a thick oak, her bow singing, each arrow finding its mark. The beast's flank, its neck, its shoulder—she was aiming for the eye, but it was too fast, too big, too close. Her arrows bit deep, but the creature barely seemed to notice. It was focused on Grog.
The beast charged.
Grog dodged. The claws swept past his head, close enough to feel the wind, close enough to hear them cut the air. He swung, carved a gash across its chest. Dark blood sprayed, thick and hot, steaming in the cold air.
The beast screamed. Swung again.
This time, it was faster. Grog tried to dodge, but the claws caught him. They tore through his armor like paper, through the flesh of his shoulder, through the muscle beneath. He felt them scrape against bone. He was flying, the world spinning, the ground rushing up to meet him.
He hit a tree. His back cracked against the trunk. His sword flew from his hand. He fell, and the world went white.
---
When his vision cleared, the beast was turning toward him.
Its red eyes were fixed on his face. Its jaws were opening, its teeth rows of razored bone, its breath hot and foul. It was moving slowly, deliberately, savoring the moment.
Grog's arm was useless. His shoulder was nothing but pain, his blood running down his side, soaking into the earth beneath him. His sword was somewhere else, lost in the leaves, out of reach.
He tried to move. His legs wouldn't respond.
The beast's head lowered. Its jaws opened wider. Its teeth were inches from his face.
---
Lira's arrow took it in the eye.
The creature reared, screaming, clawing at its face. The arrow was buried to the fletching, dark blood pouring down its cheek. It stumbled, shook its head, tried to focus with its remaining eye.
Lira was running toward Grog. Her bow was raised, another arrow nocked, her face set. She didn't look at the beast. She didn't look at anything but him.
"Grog! Get up!"
He tried. His legs wouldn't move. His arm was nothing. The world was fading at the edges, the sounds becoming distant, the light dimming.
She grabbed his good arm, pulled. He stumbled, fell against her. She was smaller than him, lighter, but she held him up, dragged him away from the beast's shadow, away from the teeth, away from the death that was still coming.
The beast was recovering. Its wounded eye was a ruin, blood and fluid running down its face, but its other eye was still fixed on them. It was still hungry. It was still coming.