Visions of the Past

The gray light of dawn did not rise over the Dreadwood so much as it seeped through the canopy like stagnant water. Inside the hollowed-out remains of a gargantuan oak, the air smelled of wet earth and ancient sleep.

Jasper sat huddled against the curved, rotting inner wall. His breath came in ragged puffs. Suddenly, his back arched, his spine snapping tight like a drawn bowstring. A low, wet rattle vibrated in his throat.

"Jasper?" Edward Pike moved toward the boy, his hand hovering over his hunting knife. It was an instinct he hated—to reach for steel when the boy suffered.

"Don't touch him," Rowan warned. The sorcerer stood in the mouth of the stump, his white eyes fixed on the shifting shadows. "The Veil is thin here. He isn't with us anymore."

Jasper’s eyes rolled back until only the milky whites showed. His hands clawed at the soft, decomposed wood of the floor, burying his fingernails into the pulp. "The silver..." Jasper whispered. His voice sounded wrong, layered with a dry rustle like dead leaves. "They promised the silver would stay cold. They promised the blood would be enough."

"Who is he talking about?" Edward asked, his voice a low growl. He dropped to one knee, ignoring Rowan’s warning. He grabbed Jasper’s shoulders to steady him, but the boy’s skin felt like hot coals.

Jasper’s head thrashed. "The First Hunters! They came with fire and iron! They took the sapling's promise and turned it into a cage!" He screamed, a sound that started as a child’s cry and ended as a wolf’s howl.

The interior of the stump seemed to warp. The wooden walls didn't look like wood anymore; they pulsed with a dull, rhythmic light, like a giant heart beating beneath the bark. Edward felt a sudden, dizzying wave of nausea. The shadows on the floor began to move independently of the light, stretching into long, thin fingers that crept toward Jasper’s legs.

"The grief," Jasper groaned, his body twitching. "It’s so heavy, Edward. Centuries of it. Every tree they felled, every beast they trapped without a prayer. It’s all... it’s all in me."

"Jasper, look at me," Edward commanded, shaking him gently. "Stay here. In the stump. Don't go into the dark."

But Jasper wasn't looking at Edward. He was staring into the center of the hollow, where the air began to shimmer and thicken. A shape formed out of the drifting spores and the morning mist. It was a woman, but she was wrong. She stood tall, her skin the color of birch bark, her long hair cascading down like weeping willow branches. Her legs didn't end in feet; they dissolved into a tangle of thick, grey roots that snaked deep into the floor of the stump.

Jasper’s face softened. The violence of his trance ebbed into a heartbreaking longing. "Mother?"

Edward froze. He saw only a flickering distortion in the air, a trick of the fog, but the way Jasper reached out broke Edward's heart.

"She’s here," Jasper whispered, tears carving tracks through the dirt on his cheeks. "She isn't dead, Edward. She’s... she’s the ground. She’s the breath of the wood."

The figure in the mist reached out a hand. Her fingers were elongated, tipped with budding leaves. She didn't speak, but a sound filled the chamber—the collective sigh of a thousand trees swaying in a wind that didn't exist.

"She stayed," Jasper said, his voice trembling. "She gave herself to the Heartroot to keep the Watcher from screaming. She’s the only reason the forest hasn't swallowed the world yet."

Rowan took a sharp breath, leaning on his staff. "The binding. She didn't die seven years ago. She became the anchor."

"She’s trapped," Jasper cried out, his body jerking as if pulled by invisible wires. "She's crying, but she has no mouth. Edward, she’s part of the Heartroot Glade! We have to get there. We have to—"

The boy’s eyes suddenly cleared. The black pupils snapped back into place, wide and terrified. The vision of the woman shattered into a cloud of mundane dust. Jasper collapsed forward into Edward’s chest, his small frame heaving with exhaustion.

Edward held the boy, his own hands shaking. He looked up at Rowan, whose face was as pale as a ghost’s.

"You heard him," Edward said, his voice thick. "She’s alive. In a way."

"She is the Veil," Rowan whispered, looking out into the suffocating fog of the Dreadwood. "And the forest is eating her alive to stay whole. We aren't just looking for a cure anymore, Hunter. We're looking for a woman who has become a god’s prison."

Jasper gripped Edward’s coat, his voice a mere thread of sound. "She told me where, Edward. I know the way to the center now."

Edward looked down at the boy, then out at the twisted, dark trees that seemed to lean closer to the stump, listening. The mystery of the Quinn family had just turned into something much larger, and much more dangerous. They weren't just trekking through a forest; they were walking into a living, grieving tomb.

The stillness following the vision lasted only a heartbeat. A wet, tearing sound echoed inside the hollowed-out tree, like heavy boots pulling out of deep mud.

Jasper let out a strangled gasp. He tried to pull away from Edward, but his legs wouldn't move. He looked down, and his eyes stretched wide with a primal terror. Thin, pale filaments—translucent as spider silk but thick as twine—were erupting from his calves. They didn't just touch the ground; they pierced it. They burrowed into the rotted floor of the stump with a frantic, hungry speed.

"Edward!" Jasper’s voice cracked. "It’s taking me! The wood—it’s calling me back!"

"Rowan! Help him!" Edward shouted, but the old sorcerer was slumped against the entrance, his eyes rolled back in a secondary trance, overwhelmed by the forest’s sudden surge.

Edward grabbed Jasper by the waist, trying to lift him. The boy screamed. The roots weren't just external; they were emerging from beneath Jasper's skin, turning his veins into woody fiber. A thick, grey protrusion, jagged like a briar, burst through the skin of Jasper’s forearm. It didn't bleed red; it leaked a thick, amber sap that smelled of old graves and pine.

"Hold still, boy! Hold still!" Edward’s rough hands moved to the boy's legs, trying to peel the white fibers away. They felt like cold, wet muscle. When he pulled at one, Jasper’s back arched, his teeth grinding together so hard Edward feared they would shatter.

"Don't... don't let me turn," Jasper sobbed. His skin was turning the color of ash. "I don't want to be a tree. I don't want to be the ground. Please, Edward. Kill me before I’m just... bark."

"I'm not killing you," Edward growled. He reached for his belt, but not for his knife. He threw his arms around the boy’s chest, pinning Jasper’s arms to his sides. He squeezed, trying to provide a physical boundary against the expansion of the forest.

The stump seemed to respond. The walls groaned. The ceiling of the hollowed oak dipped lower, the wood softening into a fleshy, pulsing mass that dripped dark liquid onto Edward’s shoulders. The Watcher was moving in, claiming the boy while he was vulnerable from the vision.

Jasper’s eyes began to glaze over again. His breathing slowed, becoming a rhythmic, mechanical rattle. The roots at his feet thickened, turning into gnarled anchors that fused his boots to the earth.

"Jasper! Stay with me!" Edward roared. He shook the boy, but Jasper’s head lolled back. The boy’s skin was becoming rough to the touch, losing its heat.

Edward felt a coldness in his own chest—the familiar, hollow ache of the day he had watched his own son’s breath slip away. He had stood by then, helpless against a fever he couldn't track or shoot. He wouldn't stand by now.

He pulled Jasper’s head against his shoulder, masking the boy’s face from the encroaching darkness of the stump. He searched for something—a weapon, a prayer, a word. But there was only one thing left in the dry well of his memory.

He started to hum. It was a low, gravelly sound, tuneless and rusty from years of disuse.

"The wind blows high, the stars burn low," Edward whispered, his voice trembling. He felt the roots twitch against his shins, seeking fresh soil.

"The hunter finds... the way to go," he sang louder. It was a simple highland lullaby, one his wife had used to quiet their house when the winter gales shook the shutters.

Jasper’s body gave a violent shudder. One of the roots in his arm snapped, spraying bitter sap across Edward’s cheek.

"Through the briar and through the stone," Edward continued, his eyes shut tight, "you'll never walk... the path alone."

He rocked the boy back and forth. The movement was clumsy, the gesture of a man who had forgotten how to be gentle. But he didn't stop. He poured every ounce of his grief, every scrap of his hidden hope, into the simple words. He wasn't just singing to Jasper; he was singing against the Dreadwood, defying the ancient, hungry consciousness that wanted to turn a child into a monument of sorrow.

"Sleep now, little wolf," Edward murmured, his voice breaking. "The moon is far. The hearth is warm. I'll keep the ghosts... away from harm."

Jasper’s hand, which had begun to stiffen into a claw-like branch, suddenly twitched. His fingers curled, grabbing Edward’s sleeve. A long, shuddering breath escaped the boy’s lips—a human breath, warm and wet.

The pulsing in the walls of the stump slowed. The oppressive weight in the air lifted, receding like a physical tide. The white roots didn't disappear, but they went limp, losing their translucent glow and turning into brittle, dead husks.

Edward didn't let go. He held the boy until his own arms ached, until the morning light turned from grey to a pale, sickly yellow.

Jasper pulled back eventually, his face gaunt and pale. He looked down at his arm. A jagged, wooden scar remained where the branch had erupted, the skin around it puckered and bruised. His legs were free, but his boots were ruined, shredded by the things that had tried to take root.

"You stayed," Jasper whispered, his voice trembling. He looked at Edward with a terrifying amount of trust.

Edward wiped the sap from his face, his expression hardening back into its usual mask of granite. But his hands were still shaking. "I said I'd get you to the Spire, didn't I?"

He stood up, his joints popping. He looked at the dead roots on the floor. They looked like shed skin. The damage was done; the forest had left its mark on the boy’s flesh, a permanent reminder that the Veil was failing.

"We can't stay here," Edward said, his voice flat. He reached out and hauled Rowan to his feet. The sorcerer looked aged by a decade, his white eyes darting around the interior of the stump.

"The Watcher touched him," Rowan muttered, staring at the scar on Jasper’s arm. "It knows his scent now. It won't wait for the moon anymore."

Edward looked at Jasper, then at the dark, beckoning path outside the stump. The hope he had felt while singing was gone, replaced by a cold, heavy weight. They were moving toward the center, but the forest was already inside them.

The air inside the hollowed-out stump grew cold enough to turn their breath into ghost-white plumes. Edward kept his hand on the hilt of his knife, his knuckles white. Beside him, Jasper remained slumped against the rotting wood, his head bowed. The silence was thick, pressing against Edward’s eardrums like deep water.

"Jasper?" Edward’s voice was a low rasp.

The boy didn't move at first. Then, his shoulders twitched. He lifted his head with a slow, mechanical grace that didn't belong to a twelve-year-old. When his eyelids fluttered open, Edward recoiled, his boot scraping harshly against the wood.

Jasper’s eyes were gone. In their place were two pits of solid, oily blackness. No whites, no pupils—just twin voids that reflected the dim morning light like wet coal.

"The stitching is coming apart," Jasper said.

His voice hit Edward like a physical blow. It wasn't just Jasper speaking; it was a chorus. Underneath the boy’s soft tenor, a dozen other voices vibrated—a woman’s melodic hum, the dry rattle of dead leaves, and a deep, tectonic growl that seemed to come from the earth itself.

Rowan the Hollow scrambled backward, his cloudy eyes wide. "The boy is gone. The Wood speaks through the vessel!"

"Shut up, Rowan," Edward snapped, though his heart hammered against his ribs. He stepped closer to Jasper, reaching out a calloused hand but stopping inches from the boy’s shoulder. "Jasper. Talk to me. Is it you in there?"

The boy tilted his head. The black pools of his eyes didn't blink. "I see the roots, Edward. They aren't just in the dirt anymore. They are under the skin of the world. They are screaming."

Jasper stood up. His movements were fluid, lacking the usual clumsiness of his tired limbs. He walked to the center of the stump and traced a finger along a jagged crack in the bark.

"The Veil is shredding," the layered voice continued. The deeper, resonant tones grew louder, making the very air vibrate. "The Watcher isn't waiting for the moon to be full. It is eating the boundaries from the inside. It wants the Heartroot. It wants the mother to let go."

Rowan gripped his staff so hard his thin fingers turned blue. "He’s seeing the anchors. He’s seeing the warding magic Edward! It’s the corruption. If we trust what he says, we might be walking right into the Watcher’s gullet."

Edward ignored the sorcerer. He looked at Jasper—at the small, pale boy possessed by an ancient grief. "You mentioned your mother. Is she there? At the Heartroot?"

Jasper turned to face them. The blackness in his eyes seemed to swirl. "She is the only thing keeping the ceiling from falling. But she is tired, Edward. Her blood is turning to sap. Her thoughts are becoming the wind. If we don't reach the Glade before the sun hits the zenith tomorrow, the Veil drops. The Dreadwood won't have a fence anymore. It will bleed into every valley, every village, until everything is a whisper in the dark."

"It's a trap," Rowan hissed, his voice trembling with a coward’s instinct. "The forest is using him to lure us to the center. Once we're in the Heartroot, it will consume us all to finish the ritual."

"He's just a boy!" Edward roared, finally turning on the sorcerer. "And he's the only map we've got left. Look at him, Rowan! Does that look like a monster to you?"

"It looks like an end," Rowan whispered.

Edward turned back to Jasper. He grabbed the boy by the shoulders. The skin felt unnaturally cold, like river stone in winter. "Jasper, listen to me. Focus on my voice. Can you find it? Can you find the way to the Glade?"

Jasper’s black eyes fixed on Edward’s. For a second, the boy’s lip quivered, a flash of human terror breaking through the glassy void.

"Three miles east," the layered voice said, though the boy’s own voice was winning now, coming out in a desperate sob. "Past the Carrion Creek. Where the trees grow in circles of seven. The ground there... it doesn't breathe. It waits."

Jasper suddenly gasped, his body going rigid. He buckled, his knees hitting the dirt floor with a dull thud. The blackness drained from his eyes like ink being washed away, leaving the familiar, tear-filled hazel behind. He slumped forward into Edward’s chest, shivering violently.

"I saw... I saw the map," Jasper wheezed, his voice thin and solitary once more. "I saw where she is. Under the Great Oak. The roots are holding her like a bird in a cage."

Edward held the boy, feeling the small, frantic heartbeat against his own ribs. He looked up at Rowan, his expression grim and final.

"We go east," Edward said. It wasn't a suggestion.

Rowan looked at the exit of the stump, then back at the scarred, shivering boy. He let out a long, shaky breath, the sound of a man accepting a death sentence. "Then we move now. If the Veil is shredding, the shadows will start biting before the sun even sets."

Edward hoisted Jasper up, slinging the boy’s arm over his shoulder. "Keep your eyes open, Rowan. And keep that staff ready. We’re done hiding in stumps."

They stepped out of the hollowed tree and back into the suffocating mist of the Dreadwood. The coordinates were set, the path was clear, and for the first time, Edward felt a cold, sharp resolve. They weren't just surviving anymore. They were hunting the heart of the woods.