Chloé had arrived at the island tree with her heart hammering against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that hadn't slowed even as the city fell away behind her. The ride south had been a blur of terror and the rhythmic thud of Jeremiah’s horse on the soft riverbank. Once inside the hollow of the ancient tree, the silence of the woods felt heavier than any noise. She had spent the entire night wide-eyed and unmoving, the cramped space of the roots pressing in on her like the walls of a tomb. Mrs. Clary had tried to stay awake, her hand a dry, comforting parchment on Chloé’s arm, but her age had claimed its debt. Within two hours, the elderly woman had succumbed to a heavy, snoring sleep, leaving Chloé alone with the phantoms of her wedding night.
As the first grey light of dawn began to bleed through the cracks in the wood, Chloé could no longer endure the confinement. Every muscle in her body ached with a restless, agonizing stiffness. She crawled out of the hole, her boots scuffing against the damp bark, and sat with her back against the massive trunk. She stretched her legs out toward the tea-colored water of the pond, watching the mist rise in silver plumes. She was waiting for a sound; a whistle, a hoofbeat, the familiar low voice of a husband she had only just claimed. But, the woods offered only the indifferent chorus of the morning birds.
To occupy her mind, she began to watch a squirrel bouncing across the leaf-littered ground. It moved with a frantic, innocent energy, soon joined by a second. They began a game of chase, spiraling up a nearby oak in a blur of fur and chattering. Chloé found herself momentarily lost in their world, until her eyes drifted to a high branch on a neighboring tree. A hawk sat there, a silent sentinel with golden, unblinking eyes.
The bird did not hesitate. As the squirrels stopped to chatter on an exposed limb, the hawk plummeted. It was a movement of pure, lethal efficiency; a swoop, a strike, and a sudden, sharp silence. The hawk returned to its perch with one of the squirrels clutched in its talons, leaving the other to vanish into the shadows of the wood. The sight brought Chloé’s thoughts back to the city with the force of a physical blow. Oaken Meadow was the squirrel, and the crimson-clad army was the hawk.
By mid-morning, the sun was high enough to illuminate the foolishness of her own haste. She realized with a jolt of fear that she had left Jeremiah’s horse tethered in the open, a dark shape that would be visible to any scout on the main road. She hurried to the beast, her fingers fumbling with the knots, and led him into a thicket of dense brush where the grass was long enough to keep him quiet and hidden.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Returning to the tree, she found Mrs. Clary awake and watching her with eyes full of a deep, ancient sorrow. Chloé collapsed beside her, her strength finally breaking. She buried her face in the older woman’s lap and began to sob. She cried for the city that had been attacked while its people sang for her; she cried for the husband who was likely a corpse on a stone street; but mostly, she cried for the terrifying uncertainty of what came next. The exhaustion of her grief eventually turned her tears into a leaden, dream-heavy sleep.
Her dreams were not a sanctuary. They were a vivid, terrifying window into the slaughter she had escaped.
In the dream, the sky over Oaken Meadow was a bruised indigo. She saw the men in crimson armor swarming the walls like locusts. They carried ladders and grappling hooks, their faces hidden behind the cold steel of their helms. She watched them fall to the archers’ volleys, but for every man that died, three more crested the lip of the wall.
Then she saw Jeremiah. He was a whirlwind of steel at the north gate, fighting with a desperation that made him seem twice his size. He killed a soldier attempting to lift the bolt, his blade singing through the air. He was a hero, a leader, but the numbers were against him. She saw a blade catch his leg, a wet, sickening slice that brought him to one knee, even as he struck the head from his attacker.
The dream shifted, focusing on a man standing atop a ridge overlooking the city. He wore the regal, dark armor of a high commander, his crimson cloak snapping in the wind. He was pale and slender, with a dark goatee and eyes that burned with a cold, predatory intelligence. On his cloak, etched in shimmering gold, was the image of an hourglass.
"We will return tonight with more men," the man hissed to his subordinates. "Before the sun rises tomorrow, this city will be ours."
The vision fractured again, pulling Chloé into a dark tent. The man with the hourglass sat at a table, tearing a chunk of meat from a bone with his teeth. He spoke of surrounding the city, of focusing on the north and west gates.
"Once we breach the gates, we will enter at will and kill everyone who stands against us," he said, his voice a jagged rasp. He looked toward a corner of the tent where the air seemed to curdle and rot. There, shrouded in shadow, stood four creatures that defied form. They were covered in black fur, their claws dripping with a thick, smoking slime that hissed when it hit the dirt. These were the true beasts of the night; monsters that would make the stone walls of the city meaningless.
The final image was of a lone rider. He was being chased by crimson riders, his horse lathered and gasping. His face was a mask of blood and road-dust, but his eyes were unmistakable. They were filled with the same fierce determination she had seen in Jeremiah’s gaze before he sent her away.
Chloé bolted upright, her breath coming in ragged gasps, the scent of the shadow-creatures’ slime still burning in her nostrils.
