Moonlit Warning

The fire was a small, spiteful thing. It hissed as the damp wood of the Dreadwood fought the flame, sending up thin ribbons of bitter smoke that smelled like wet fur and old copper. Edward Pike sat on a rotted log, his whetstone singing a slow, rhythmic song against the steel of his hunting knife.

Across the embers, Jasper sat huddled in a moth-eaten blanket. The boy looked smaller tonight. The flickering orange light played across his sunken cheeks, making him look less like a child and more like a ghost.

"Eat the jerked meat, Jasper," Edward said. His voice was gruff, a sound like boots crunching on dry gravel. "You’ll need the strength for the climb tomorrow."

Jasper didn’t look up. He was staring at his own hands. "It’s louder tonight, Mr. Pike."

Edward stopped sharpening. The silence of the forest rushed in to fill the gap—a heavy, suffocating weight. "The wind?"

"No," Jasper whispered. He held his hands out. They were shaking. Not the fine tremor of a cold child, but a violent, jerky twitch. "The forest. It’s not just whispering anymore. It’s calling my name. It sounds like my mother, but... but her voice is full of teeth."

Edward shoved his knife into its sheath. He stood up and moved toward the boy, his knees popping. He wanted to offer a hand, to touch the boy’s shoulder, but he hesitated. He was a man built for killing things, not comforting them. His palms were calloused and scarred, better suited for a bowstring than a child’s grief.

"It’s just the moon, lad," Edward said, though he didn't believe it. He looked up. The silver sliver was fatter than it had been yesterday, hanging in the sky like a hooked blade. "The mind plays tricks when the light changes."

Suddenly, Jasper’s breath hitched. He fell forward, his knees hitting the dirt with a dull thud. A wet, tearing sound came from his throat—a growl that was half-choke.

"Jasper!" Edward dropped to his side.

The boy’s fingers were digging into the frozen earth. His fingernails, already jagged and black at the tips, were lengthening. They didn't grow slowly; they jerked out in small, sickening bursts. His knuckles turned white, then a bruised purple, as the bones beneath the skin shifted and groaned.

"Make it stop," Jasper gasped. He rolled onto his back, his spine arching off the ground. "It’s too early. The sun isn't even fully down. Please!"

Edward grabbed the boy’s wrists. They felt unnaturally hot, the heat of a kiln. "Look at me, Jasper. Breathe. Just breathe."

"I can feel... the hair," Jasper wheezed, his eyes rolling back until only the whites showed. "It’s growing under my skin. It tickles. It stings. It wants out."

Jasper’s hand suddenly clamped down on Edward’s forearm. The boy’s grip was terrifying. It wasn't the strength of a twelve-year-old; it was the crushing force of a predator. Edward winced as he felt his skin bruise under the boy's lengthening claws. He didn't pull away. He couldn't.

"Fight it," Edward hissed, leaning in close. "Don't let the beast have the wheel yet. You're Jasper Quinn. Your mother is Elira. Remember the locket."

Jasper’s jaw locked. A string of bloody saliva trailed from his lip. His body went rigid, shaking so hard that his heels kicked up sprays of dirt. Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the tension snapped.

The boy slumped into Edward’s chest. The heat faded from his skin, replaced by a clammy, deathly chill. His fingernails didn't retreat, but they stopped their frantic growth, remaining sharp and animal-like.

Edward held him for a long moment, listening to the boy’s ragged sobs. He felt a familiar, hollow ache in his chest—the same one he’d carried since he buried his own son in the cold Highlands soil. Back then, he had been powerless against a fever. Now, he was fighting a curse that lived in the marrow.

Jasper pulled back, wiping his nose with the back of a trembling hand. He looked at his blackened, clawed fingers and began to cry silently.

"It’s coming faster, isn't it?" Jasper asked.

Edward looked at the moon, then back at the boy. He saw the way the shadows of the trees seemed to lean toward them, as if the wood itself were listening for the next crack of bone.

"The cycle is accelerating," Edward said, his voice flat. He reached out and finally did what he’d been afraid to do—he rested a heavy hand on Jasper’s head. "The forest isn't waiting for the full moon anymore. It's pulling on you. It wants you changed before we reach the Spire."

"Will I stay me?" Jasper whispered. "When it happens next? Will I remember you?"

Edward didn't answer. He couldn't lie, and he didn't have the heart to tell the truth. He looked at the dying fire and realized they were no longer just traveling. They were being hunted by time itself.

"Get some sleep," Edward said, standing up to fetch more wood. "We leave before dawn. We have to move twice as fast, or we won't be talking to a boy by the time we find the sorcerer."

He walked toward the treeline, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He wasn't looking for wolves. He was looking at the moon, hating it for how fast it was growing. He had thought he had a week. Now, he realized they might only have days.

The fire didn't just go out; it died in an instant.

One second, the orange embers were pulsing with a dying heat. The next, a shadow as thick as tar swept over the clearing. A flash of white frost raced across the logs, turning the glowing coals into grey, silent stones. The air grew so cold that Edward’s breath didn't just mist—it froze into tiny crystals that stung his throat.

"Jasper, get up!" Edward yelled.

He lunged for his sword, but the ground beneath him groaned. It wasn't the sound of shifting dirt. It was the sound of a thousand wooden teeth grinding together.

Jasper scrambled backward, his clawed fingers tearing at the frost-covered grass. "It’s here! Mr. Pike, the Watcher is here!"

A towering shape solidified in the mist. It had no face, only a vast, shifting outline of branches and tattered darkness that blotted out the stars. It didn't walk; it flowed toward them like spilled ink. Wherever the shadow touched the earth, the ground began to boil.

"Stay behind me!" Edward commanded. He swung his blade in a wide arc, the steel whistling through the frozen air.

Suddenly, the earth gave way.

A massive sinkhole opened directly beneath Jasper. It wasn't a natural cave-in. Thick, wet roots, slick with black sap, coiled out of the pit like the tentacles of a deep-sea kraat. They lashed around Jasper’s ankles and waist.

"No! Please!" Jasper screamed. He threw his arms out, his fingers catching the edge of the crumbling rim.

"Hold on!" Edward dropped his sword. He didn't think about the monsters in the dark or the legacy of his guild. He only saw a boy falling into a throat made of mud and ancient spite.

The Watcher’s projection loomed over them, a cold wind howling from its hollow center. The sound was a chorus of a thousand grieving voices, all merging into a single, demanding roar: *GIVE BACK WHAT IS MINE.*

The ground turned into a slurry of muck and decay. Edward dived. He slid down the sloping edge of the pit, his boots churning through the freezing sludge. He grabbed Jasper’s wrists just as the boy’s grip on the surface failed.

"I’ve got you!" Edward roared.

The roots tightened. They were pulling Jasper down, dragging him into the suffocating belly of the Dreadwood. Edward felt his own shoulders pop as the weight of the forest fought him for the boy. The muck rose to Edward’s waist, thick and smelling of old graves. It sucked at his legs, trying to claim him too.

"Leave me!" Jasper sobbed, his face splattered with black mud. "It wants me, Mr. Pike! It’s going to take us both!"

"Shut up and pull!" Edward's teeth were bared, his face turning a dark, dangerous red.

He shoved his boots against a thick, submerged stone and heaved. He wasn't just pulling a boy; he was pulling against the very soul of the forest. The Watcher’s shadow drifted closer, the frost creeping up Edward’s arms, turning his sleeves to stiff, icy boards.

With a guttural shout, Edward gave one final, desperate yank.

The roots snapped with a sound like breaking bone. Jasper flew upward, colliding with Edward’s chest. The momentum sent them both rolling backward out of the widening hole.

Edward didn't stop to catch his breath. He scrambled up, his clothes heavy with stinking mud, and scooped Jasper up under one arm. He grabbed his sword with the other and sprinted toward a nearby outcrop of ancient, rune-carved stone—the only place the shadows seemed hesitant to touch.

They collapsed against the cold rock, gasping for air. Behind them, the sinkhole sealed itself with a wet *thwack*, leaving the campsite a mangled ruin of frost and upturned earth. The massive shadow of the Watcher dissolved into the mist, its presence lingering like a threat whispered in the ear.

Edward looked down at his hands. They were shaking, covered in the black blood of the forest. He looked at Jasper, who was curled in a ball, shivering violently.

The hunter leaned his head back against the stone and closed his eyes. He had spent his life killing monsters to keep his hands clean of their mess. Now, he was covered in it. He wasn't just a hunter anymore. By choosing to dive into that hole, he had accepted a burden heavier than any blade.

"We don't stop anymore," Edward said, his voice a jagged rasp. "We walk until we find the Spire. Or until the woods take us."

Jasper looked up, his eyes wide and wet. "You saved me. Why?"

Edward didn't look at him. He just gripped his sword tighter. "Because I’m tired of burying sons, Jasper. Now move."