Chapter One
The wind carved through Oakhaven like a restless spirit, rattling shutters and sending loose thatch skittering across cobblestones. Inside the Weathered Willow Inn, the hearth had burned low, casting long shadows that danced across worn wooden tables and empty tankards. The last few stragglers of the evening huddled close to the dying flames, their voices dropping to conspiratorial whispers as the night deepened around them.
Rynn dragged her cloth across the tavern counter in slow, methodical circles, her red hair catching the amber light each time she leaned forward. Blue eyes that had seen too many late nights like this one reflected the firelight with a weariness that went bone-deep. Her practical wool dress, sturdy and well-mended, bore the stains of honest work—ale rings, grease spots, and the general patina of a life spent serving others. The sleeves were pushed up past her elbows, revealing arms that had grown strong from years of lifting heavy trays and hauling barrels.
"I'm tellin' ya," muttered Garrett the blacksmith, his words thick with ale and something darker—the kind of fear that had been nursed all evening alongside his drink. "That devil's been in them woods longer than my gran's gran could remember. Never ages a day, never shows his face in decent company. Ain't natural, I tell ya."
Rynn's hand stilled against the wood. She'd heard versions of this story more times than she cared to count, each darker than the last. The mysterious man in the Dark Forest—the shadow who supposedly stalked the woods around Oakhaven like some creature from a child's nightmare. According to the tales, he'd been there since before anyone could remember, unchanged by the passage of years, hunting women like a wolf hunts sheep.
The merchant beside him, a thin man from the eastern roads judging by the cut of his coat, leaned closer across the scarred table. "Heard tell from traders passin' through—girls been goin' missin' all up and down the valley. Pretty ones, mostly. Young ones." He lowered his voice to barely above a whisper. "But here's the thing that'll turn your blood cold—they ain't findin' bodies. Just blood. Pools of it, scattered through the woods like he's markin' his territory."
"My Martha saw him once," offered Clara Millwright from her place near the dying hearth, her voice carrying the authority of someone sharing gospel truth. "Down by Miller's Creek, must've been… oh, fifteen years back now. Said he was tall as a tree and twice as dark, with eyes that glowed like hellfire. Same description her mother gave, and her mother's mother before that. Same man, same face, same cursed green eyes that see right through your soul."
"That's just it, ain't it?" Thomas Wickham added, his young face pale in the firelight. "Fifteen years, fifty years, a hundred years—don't matter. He looks exactly the same. My grandfather used to tell stories about seein' him when he was just a boy, and the description matches what Martha saw to the letter. What kind of man don't age a single day in all that time?"
"The kind what ain't a man at all," Garrett said grimly. "The kind what makes deals with dark powers to keep himself young and strong while he preys on innocent folk."
"Martha was three sheets to the wind and chasin' after her runaway pig," Rynn said without looking up from her cleaning. "Probably saw her own shadow and near scared herself to death."
Clara's face pinched with indignation. "You callin' my Martha a liar, girl?"
"I'm sayin' your Martha's got a powerful imagination and a weakness for gin," Rynn replied evenly. "Same as half the folk in this room when it comes to tellin' tales about things they ain't never seen."
"Oh, we seen enough," Garrett growled, his massive blacksmith's hands clenching around his tankard. "Three girls gone missin' in as many months. That ain't imagination, girl. That's fact."
Rynn finally looked up, meeting his bloodshot gaze without flinching. "And what makes you so sure it's this forest phantom and not somethin' with four legs and sharp teeth? Wolves been hungry this winter. Bears ain't all settled in for their sleep yet, either."
"Because wolves don't leave behind what he leaves behind," the merchant said, his voice dropping to a whisper that made everyone lean closer. "Found old Henrik's daughter's things down by the creek last week," he continued, his voice dropping even lower. "Her dress, her shoes, even that little silver locket she always wore. All of it soaked in blood—so much blood it looked like someone had slaughtered a whole herd of cattle. But Maria herself? Gone without a trace."
"Same thing happened to the Miller girl," Clara added with grim satisfaction. "And that traveling woman who came through last month sellin' ribbons and thread. Found her cart overturned by the old bridge, blood splattered on the wheels and seats like paint. But the woman herself? Vanished into thin air."
"That's what he does," Thomas said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Takes 'em alive, drags 'em back to whatever hell he calls home. Does… things to 'em. Then when he's done with his sport, he drinks their blood to keep himself young and throws what's left to the wolves. That's why we never find the bodies—ain't nothin' left to find."
The room fell silent except for the wind howling through the eaves and the soft crackle of dying embers. Rynn felt something cold settle in her stomach, but she kept her expression carefully neutral. Old Henrik was a drunk and a fool, but Maria had been a sweet girl—barely sixteen and quick with a smile. If something had happened to her…
"Still don't mean it was him," she said, though with less conviction than before. "Could've been bandits. Could've been—"
"Could've been the devil himself for all we know," interrupted Thomas Wickham, the baker's eldest son. "But I'll tell you what I think. I think that thing in the woods is exactly what our grandparents said it was—somethin' that should've been put down long ago."
Murmurs of agreement rippled around the room.
Rynn set down her cloth and fixed Thomas with a steady stare. "And what exactly are you suggesti n' we do about it? March into the Dark Forest with pitchforks and torches like we're in some old story?"
"Maybe that's exactly what we should do," Thomas shot back, his young face flushed with drink and bravado. "How many more girls have to disappear before we stop makin' excuses and start makin' plans?"
"Easy talk from someone who's never set foot past the treeline," Rynn observed. "You ever been in them woods, Thomas? Really been in 'em, past where the path ends and the old trees start?"
Thomas's flush deepened, but he lifted his chin defiantly. "Have you?"
"As a matter of fact, I have." Rynn picked up her cloth again, resuming her cleaning with deliberate calm. "Picked berries there every summer since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. Gathered mushrooms and herbs for Dennet's wife when she was poorly. Never once saw anything worse than a startled deer or a grumpy badger."
"Maybe you just ain't caught his attention yet," Clara said, with the kind of malicious satisfaction that came from having the last word. "Maybe you ain't pretty enough to interest him."
The insult hit its mark, but Rynn had learned long ago not to show when words drew blood. Instead, she smiled sweetly and said, "Well, that's a comfort. Means I can keep walkin' them woods without worryin' about some boogeyman jumpin' out at me."
Heavy footsteps crossed the tavern floor, and Dennet emerged from the back room with the night's ledger tucked under his arm. The innkeeper was a broad-shouldered man whose gentle brown eyes belied the strength in his weathered hands. He'd taken Rynn in when she was barely sixteen, given her work and a room above the tavern when she'd had nowhere else to go. For that kindness, she'd have scrubbed floors until her knees bled raw.
"What's all this commotion about?" he asked, glancing around the room at the collection of flushed faces and guilty expressions.
"Just discussin' recent events," Garrett said carefully. "The girls that've gone missin', and what might be done about it."
Dennet's expression darkened. "I see. And I suppose you've all come up with some grand plan to solve our problems?"
"We're just sayin' maybe it's time to stop pretendin' there ain't something wrong in them woods," Thomas said, though he looked less certain under Dennet's steady gaze. "My father remembers stories from when he was a boy—same stories, same creature. Don't seem right that somethin' could live so long without..."
"Without what?" Dennet asked quietly. "Without dyin'? Without growin' old? Plenty of things in this world don't follow the rules we expect them to. Don't make 'em evil."
"Don't make 'em good, neither," Clara muttered.
Dennet looked at her for a long moment, then shifted his attention to Rynn. "Speaking of the woods—young Micah still ain't come back from his run to old Weifred's place. Should've been back hours ago."
Rynn frowned, setting down her cloth. Micah was barely eighteen, all gangly limbs and earnest smiles, the kind of boy who'd stop to help a stranger fix a wagon wheel or carry an old woman's groceries without expecting so much as a thank you. "You think he stayed to bend the old man's ear again? You know how Weifred gets when he's got someone to listen to his war stories."
"Wouldn't be the first time," Dennet admitted, but worry creased the corners of his eyes. "Still, with this wind pickin' up and all this talk..." He gestured toward the men still nursing their ales and their theories. "You're headed home that way, ain't ya? Mind swingin' by Weifred's farm? Just make sure the boy didn't slip in the mud or do somethin' equally foolish."
Rynn nodded, already reaching for her cloak where it hung behind the bar. The wool was thick and well-oiled, a gift from Dennet's wife before the fever took her two winters past. "Course I will. Probably find him asleep in the old man's barn, knowin' our Micah."
She shouldered her leather satchel, checking quickly for her lamp oil and flint. The weight of her eating knife pressed against her hip—small comfort, but comfort nonetheless. As she wrapped her cloak around her shoulders, one of the travelers called out.
"Girl, you ain't seriously thinkin' of walkin' them woods alone tonight, are ya? Not with all we been discussin'?"
"That demon you're all so worried about," Rynn said, pulling her hood up against the wind that howled through the door, "ain't gonna keep me from doin' what needs doin'. Been walkin' these hills since before you ever set foot in Oakhaven, and I ain't about to stop now."
The door swung shut behind her with a bang that echoed through the tavern like a gunshot.
Outside, the wind hit her like a physical blow, driving needles of cold through the wool of her cloak. The cobblestones were slick with frost, and somewhere in the distance, a dog howled—a sound that seemed to go on far too long before fading into the night. Rynn pulled her cloak tighter and set off down the main road, her boots crunching against the frozen ground.
The settlement of Oakhaven sprawled around her in the darkness, a collection of stone cottages and wooden shops that had grown up around the crossroads like mushrooms after rain. Most windows were dark now, their occupants long since sought the warmth of their beds, but here and there a candle still flickered behind glass, casting squares of yellow light onto the empty streets.
As she walked, the houses grew fewer and farther between, until finally she left the last cottage behind and struck out onto the winding trail that led deeper into the hills. The path was well-worn from years of foot traffic—merchants and travelers who preferred the shorter route through the forest to the longer road that skirted its edges. During the day, it was pleasant enough, dappled with sunlight and alive with birdsong. At night, it became something else entirely.
The trees pressed close on either side, their bare branches reaching across the path like gnarled fingers. Oak and ash mostly, with here and there a pine that whispered secrets to the wind. Her lantern swung with each step, casting a small circle of light that seemed pitiful against the vast darkness beyond. The flame danced behind its glass shield, throwing strange shadows that shifted and writhed with each gust of wind.
"Micah?" she called softly, her voice swallowed almost immediately by the night.
The only answer was the wind, and beneath it, a silence that felt wrong. No night birds called from the branches. No small creatures rustled through the underbrush. Even the insects had gone quiet, as if the very forest held its breath.
Rynn pressed on, following the familiar turns of the path by memory as much as by the light of her lantern. Here was the lightning-split oak where she'd carved her initials as a child. There was the boulder shaped like a sleeping giant that marked the halfway point to Weifred's cottage. Everything was as it should be, yet something felt different. The air itself seemed thicker, charged with a tension that made the hair on her arms stand on end.
It was then that she saw it—a dark smear across the packed dirt of the path, black as spilled ink in the lantern light. She stopped, heart hammering against her ribs, and crouched down for a closer look.
Blood. Fresh enough that it hadn't yet frozen, though the edges were beginning to crystallize in the cold. The stain was large, too large, and it streaked off the main path into the dense underbrush like something had been dragged.
"Oh, sweet merciful gods," she whispered, her breath misting in the frigid air. "Micah..."
Against every instinct screaming at her to run, to flee back to the safety of the inn and let someone else—anyone else—deal with whatever had happened here, Rynn followed the trail. Her lantern held high, she pushed through the brambles and saplings that bordered the path, following the dark smears on stone and leaf.
She found him, or at least what was left of him, twenty paces into the woods, sprawled beneath a cluster of young birches like a discarded puppet. Micah's face was pale as morning frost, his eyes staring sightlessly at the canopy above.
His limbs lay twisted at angles that made her stomach lurch, but it was worse than that—his body was mangled almost beyond recognition, torn apart by something with claws like razors and teeth like broken glass. Blood soaked the earth around him, so much blood that it seemed impossible one person could have contained it all.
The scream tore from her throat before she could stop it, raw and primal and full of horror.
"No… oh gods, no—Micah!" The words came out as broken sobs as she dropped to her knees, hands hovering over the carnage, afraid to touch, afraid to confirm what her eyes already knew.
The boy who had laughed at her jokes and always asked for extra honey with his morning bread was gone.
That was when she heard it—a sound that turned her blood to ice in her veins.
Snap.
A branch breaking. Close. Too close.
Rynn's head jerked up, her lantern casting wild shadows as her hand shook. She clapped her free hand over her mouth to stifle the scream that wanted to tear from her throat, but she couldn't stop the ragged breathing that misted white in the cold air.
Something was moving in the darkness beyond her circle of light. She could hear it—heavy breathing that didn't sound quite human, the whisper of claws against bark, the soft pad of feet on frozen ground. Whatever it was, it was big. And it was circling her.
The trees rustled without wind. Branches creaked under weight that shouldn't be there. And through it all, that breathing, deep and measured and patient as death itself.
Rynn's legs turned to water beneath her. The lantern slipped from nerveless fingers, shattering against the frozen earth in an explosion of glass and spreading oil. For one eternal heartbeat, the flame wavered on the edge of extinction.
Then the darkness lunged.
The creature that emerged from the shadows was no natural beast—too tall, too wrong, with matted black fur and pale green eyes that burned in the dying light. Rynn threw herself sideways as claws raked fire across her left arm, rolling through fallen leaves as blood soaked warm through her sleeve. The beast whirled to face her, jaws gaping wide to finish what it had started.
Then something dark and swift crashed into the creature from the side, sending it tumbling across the clearing with a sound like thunder.
This stranger—this dark figure who had appeared like salvation from the night itself—moved with a grace that seemed almost inhuman. He was tall and lean, dressed in dark clothes that made him nearly invisible against the shadows. His black hair whipped around his face as he dodged the creature's attacks, and when he struck back, it was with a precision that spoke of long practice with violence.
The fight was brutal and swift. The creature's claws could have torn through stone, its jaws could have crushed bone, but the man flowed around each attack like he could read the beast's thoughts. His blade found its mark again and again, cutting deep.
They crashed through the undergrowth like warring titans. The beast's claws tore across the stranger's chest, shredding dark cloth and drawing lines of crimson, but he made no sound.
Instead, he seized the creature by its throat and drove it backward into a massive oak with such force that the ancient trunk cracked.
The beast snarled and thrashed, claws scrabbling for purchase, but the man's grip was iron. His free hand drove the sword through its chest in one fluid motion, transforming the creature's snarl into a shriek that died with the wind.
The stranger released his hold, and the body crumpled to the forest floor. For a long moment he stood over it, breathing hard, his own blood dripping steadily into the earth. Then, as if suddenly remembering her presence, he turned to face Rynn.
She stared back at him from where she lay among the leaves, her arm throbbing with pain but her fear temporarily forgotten. This close, she could see that his green eyes held depths of sorrow that seemed older than the forest itself. He looked away quickly, as if trying to make some internal decision.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind.
He looked back at her then, and for a moment something almost like surprise flickered across his features. He sighed—a sound full of weariness and resignation.
"Are you going to be all right?" he asked, his voice lower and rougher than she had expected.
Rynn pushed herself up on her good arm, wincing as the movement sent fresh waves of pain through her injury. "I… I think so."
"Good." He cleaned his blade on the creature's matted fur and sheathed it within the folds of his dark coat. Without another word, he turned and began walking back toward the forest depths.
Rynn stared after him in confusion.
She scrambled to her feet, swaying slightly as the world spun around her. "Wait!" she called after him, taking a stumbling step forward. "Who are you?"
He didn't answer, didn't even slow his pace. Within moments, the darkness had swallowed him as completely as if he'd never been there at all. Only the dead beast and the spreading pool of oil remained as proof that any of it had happened.
Rynn stood alone in the dying light, clutching her wounded arm, and wondered if she'd just been saved by a man or something else entirely.