Undersworn

The forest’s spirit whispered in her ear like a ghost, its words a melding of image, sense, and thought. She could almost see it standing behind her, a large phantom of a deer wrapped in a tangled gnarl of vine-trapped oak. Its whisper felt like the breath of wind on her skin, or the ceaseless babble of the stream on the other side of the hill. The shivering rattle of the spring breeze through the canopy’s new leaves, its scent still touched with snow from the mountains.

From her spot partway up one of its hills, the forest turned her toward her quarry.

There. Thirty paces on. Three demons.

Their presences festered in the forest’s woodcraft like acrid, unhealing scabs.

Slowly, silently, the forest watching, Catrin drew the cold, cutting iron length of her sword out of its sheath.

For a second, it felt like the forest drew it with her. Like she was the forest, split in two, at once a piece of land and the lethal Raidt elf who walked on it, offering herself as its blade.

She breathed in, felt the silence hone around her, and stalked forward.