Chapter 5 The Threshold of Past Ghosts

The ravine eventually leveled out, and the biting mountain wind faded away, leaving behind a heavy, unnatural silence.

Kaelen rubbed at his throat. His mouth had gone bone-dry, but he ignored it. Endurance was something he’d learned a long time ago.

The wagon wheels crunched over fallen leaves that barely gave way beneath them. Black, twisted trees loomed overhead, their lower branches dripping thick green sap that gave off a faint, sickly glow along the path.

He kept a death grip on the reins. Kaelen didn’t stare at the trees, but his eyes flicked to every shadow that moved. There were no animals. No rustle of brush, no distant calls. Only the mare’s heavy breathing and the dull thud of her hooves.

Peter sat rigid beside him, knees jammed against the wooden side of the seat, boots sliding around in the footwell.

“Master Hound,” Peter whispered, voice low. “Look at those roots. They’re twisting around each other over the mud… like they’re holding one another down.”

“Keep quiet and watch the right tree line,” Kaelen growled.

His hand dropped, fingers closing around the handle of his double-bitted axe. The steel was still cold, but the sharp, bitter smell of witch-bane oil clung to the blade, cutting through the stagnant air.

Then something flashed at the edge of his vision. A steel helmet.

Kaelen blinked hard, but the shape stayed. It stepped out from behind a gnarled trunk. Another shadow joined it, moving alongside the carriage without a sound.

To his left, a massive warrior with a split beard and a hollow eye socket drifted through the roots. Baefire. The man and friend from his homeland who’d taken a southern spear through the throat ten years back while Kaelen watched from across the field.

To his right, a young girl with braided blonde hair floated above the snow, her linen dress soaked dark red across the stomach. Britta.

“Why did you run, Kaelen?” Baefire’s voice scraped inside his skull, dry and hollow. “You left us to rot. Took our boots and sold your honor for southern coin.”

“It’s cold, big brother,” Britta whispered. The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t heard that voice in over six years.

“The fire went out. Why didn’t you save us?”

Sweat trickled down Kaelen’s scarred cheek. His breath caught. He could see the dried mud in Baefire’s beard, the gap where Britta had lost a tooth. His hand jerked the reins, pulling the mare toward the ditch. His boots pressed hard against the floorboards like he might leap down into the mist.

“Forgive me,” he muttered to the empty air. “Please.”

“Master Hound?” Peter grabbed the edge of the seat, voice cracking. “Who are you talking to? There’s nothing there! Your eyes… you must be seeing things.”

Kaelen didn’t look at him. The voices in his head swelled into a chaotic roar, laughing at his scars, throwing every failure back in his face. His fingers flexed around the axe handle.

Then a cold female voice sliced through the noise like a northern gale. Baefire and Britta dissolved into gray mist.

“Your mind is a violent place, Hunter,” the voice said, light and clear inside his skull. “The forest only feeds on what you carry into it. If you die to your own ghosts before you even reach my grove, I’ll be very disappointed.”

Kaelen sucked in a ragged breath. The fog behind his eyes lifted, leaving a sharp throb in his temples. He clenched his jaw and forced his gaze back to the trail.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, breathing hard until it steadied. He glanced down at the axe, then at the dark path ahead.

“Master Hound?” Peter’s hand hovered near his shoulder. “You back? You stopped breathing for a minute there.”

“I’m fine,” Kaelen snapped. He flicked the reins sharply, pushing the mare into a faster walk. “Get the lantern off the hook. Keep it low by your boots. No sense announcing ourselves to the creatures that might be lurking.”

Peter lifted the iron lantern down, its yellow light throwing long, shifting shadows across the floorboards. The gnarled trees leaned closer, branches reaching toward the horse’s warmth.

Kaelen kept his jaw locked, eyes fixed on the darkness. He could still feel the echo of the witch’s voice humming in the back of his mind. She knew he was coming. She was waiting for him.

The silence settled in again, heavier than before. Peter fidgeted beside him, fingers drumming against his leather vest. The boy kept glancing over to me, purposely coughing to get my attention.

“Spit it out already,” Kaelen said without turning.

“The whispering voice,” Peter breathed. “You heard her, didn’t you? Back when your eyes went strange. You looked like you were seeing ghosts… then you just snapped out of it. It was the witch. She’s trying to get in our heads.”

“She’s already in mine,” Kaelen said flatly. “Not yours. She knows I’m the one hunting her. Trying to slow me down. Make me turn this wagon around before I can find her.”

“Is it working?” Peter asked, staring into the dark. “Because if even half the stories are true, maybe we should turn....”

Kaelen shot him a look that could freeze blood. “I warned you to stay away. You had your chance.”

“But they say the last tracking party that came through here turned on each other. Carved each other up… and every one of them died smiling.”

Kaelen scoffed, shifting on the hard bench. “Just rumors. And even if it happened, those hunters must have been weak. Too much time praying to your old gods, not enough time sharpening steel. A mind doesn’t break unless you let it.”

“Your mind looked pretty close to breaking a minute ago,” Peter muttered.

Kaelen yanked the reins. The wagon lurched over a thick root, nearly throwing Peter against the side.

“Keep talking like that, boy, and you’ll be walking the rest of the way,” Kaelen warned. “Watch the left side. Trail’s narrowing.”

The path tightened into a corridor of black trees. Branches wove together overhead, swallowing the sky and leaving only the dull green glow of dripping sap and the lantern’s low flicker between Peter’s boots. The mare snorted, breath rising in pale clouds.

Kaelen kept his eyes on the trail ahead. No old wheel ruts. No broken twigs. No signs of life at all. The forest felt like a sealed tomb, untouched for a hundred winters. His hand stayed glued to the axe, palm sticking to the leather wrap.

“Master Hound, look,” Peter said suddenly, pointing toward a massive shape rising from the snow just off the right side of the trail.