He tried a swing. The blade cut the air with a short hiss, dropped too low, and pulled him forward. He stepped to keep his balance. The second swing went better, but the finish broke into two separate pieces—hands and hips out of time. The axe thudded dully against the ground. Claw raised his head from beneath the stool and watched without so much as a flick of his ear.

  A little way off stood a chopping block. Algar shifted two paces, set his feet wider. Inhale. The haft worked under his fingers; he felt the wood grain, the tiny burrs. That same shiver stirred in his body—the one that came with thoughts of a fight. Quiet, dense, like sparks poured into blood.

  “So, you going to let the stump teach you?”

  Semaj leaned on the fence, chewing a stalk between his teeth. His smile was nearly cheerful, but his eyes measured every move.

  Algar swung and struck. The blade bit a finger-width into the wood and stopped. He jerked it free, set his breath aside, tried again. Better. A rhythm began to kindle in his body.

  “Your feet are too far apart. You’re standing wrong, I think. Listen to your body. Set it in your bones—not your head.”

  Algar repeated the motion until his muscles began to sting. From the neighbor’s pen came a soft lowing. Crickets by the fence changed their note whenever someone passed too close.

  “Try it in motion—you’re getting on well.”

  Algar drew in air. Two cuts into the block, a step aside, a third at an imagined target. He felt the axe’s weight trying to pull him long. He gathered himself in the center. Sweat slid down his neck; his shirt stuck between his shoulder blades.

  The latch grated at the cottage threshold. Aloys stood in the doorway. Shadow lay along his cheek; light brought out the silver in his beard. He watched for a moment without speaking. His eyes ran the line of shoulders, the hands, the small mistakes that would have preferred to go unseen.

  He came forward slowly and put out his hand. Algar passed him the axe. His father took the weight, turned it, tested the edge with a thumbnail. The iron gave a soft ring.

  “A weapon isn’t a toy. A weapon calls for blood. I’ve seen it.”

  Silence settled on their shoulders. The words weren’t heavy—more like the simple stones that always lie in the right place along the road.

  “She’s got her years—I won’t nag you both,” he went on. “Only—don’t let your mother see; then I won’t have to worry. I’ll say you’re working at the tree.”

  Aloys handed the axe back to his son. With a nod he shooed the dog away when Claw nosed too close.

  “It’s for defence, and that alone.”

  He turned and went back inside without looking over his shoulder. Dust lifted and fell. Sap streaked the chopping block. The rhythm of blood remained in their ears.

  The brothers sat on the ground and leaned against the byre wall. Algar laid the axe across his knees. His arms burned, but it was a good burn—like after a long day in the fields. Claw padded from one side of the yard to the other, sniffed the blade, and snorted as if to say it wasn’t his concern. Evening grayed and muted the colors. At the fields’ edge the first fireflies lit.

  “Do you really mean to kill him?”

  “It isn’t about wanting.”

  “They’ll hang you. You’ll break Father’s and Mother’s hearts—not to mention Charlotte’s.”

  “And yours?” He raised a brow. They laughed—loud and honest. It lasted a while.

  “Roch is a coward, little brother. Maybe he’ll stay home tomorrow with those two dimwits.”

  Semaj stood, clapped him on the back, and headed for the door. A moment later came the swish of a curtain, Dior’s muffled voice, the metallic knock of a bowl set on the bench. The room glowed with a yellow, soothing light. The scent of mint and wax mingled with steam from the pot.

  Algar lingered a moment. He ran his thumb along the edge of the blade. It was uneven, but in that unevenness, he felt a promise. He lifted the axe, carried it back to its place, and hid it. He straightened his back and rolled his shoulders.

  He went inside. Heat struck his face. Dior was tucking a blanket over Charlotte—gently, as if afraid to snuff out the dream. The girl gave a soft snore. Semaj sat on the bench, washing his face in a bowl; the water gleamed in the trembling light. Aloys was fastening the door bar.

  He washed his hands; the cool water soothed his skin. On the finger where the burr had left a line, the axe’s wood had drawn a new one—thin, almost invisible, yet he felt it distinctly, the way you feel a grain of sand in your shoe.

  He lay down on the pallet. The straw smelled dry and clean; a board creaked under his head. From the next bed came Charlotte’s even breathing. Mother pulled a blanket straight over his legs.

  “Sleep well.”

  He closed his eyes. First the movement returned—legs, hips, shoulders, hands. Then the image of the block, splitting neat as bread under a warm knife. Then, unbidden, another picture: Dara’s hair in the sunset, the fine line of her neck. Last came the darkness—the true kind, not dream-tinged, just that first veil that settles over you before sleep begins.

  Out in the yard the dog barked once, twice. He stopped. Wind came from the forest, pressed into the crack of the door, and died. Aloys coughed softly; Dior ran a hand along the bench as if smoothing the wood. She said something to her husband, but he couldn’t make out the words.

  Algar let the weight of the day slide off his chest. His last thought was short and hard, like a blow into the block: tomorrow he would settle with Roch. Tomorrow he would see Dara.

  The roar woke him. It wasn’t an ordinary wolf. The cottage shuddered. Dust sifted from the beam overhead. Claw sprang from his bed and howled like never before. Dishes rattled on the shelf.

  Algar was on his feet before his eyes were open. Cold wood underfoot, smoke in the air—and a sickly, sweet stink. From outside came a crash. Timber split like a dry stick. A woman’s cry, cut in half.

  “To me, sons!” Aloys was already at the door, a haft without a head in his hands. “Knives!”

  Semaj grabbed the first within reach. Algar snatched the second. His fingers wouldn’t listen—but his fist clenched hard. Dior shielded Charlotte with her body. She threw out a hand toward the blaze, as if to shove back the fire that pressed on the room from outside with steam and crackle.

  Something gouged the wall. Splinters showered from the joints. A figure filled the threshold—neighbor Ivo, covered in blood, his cloak torn to shreds. He stepped over the sill, took two strides into the room, and collapsed onto the packed earth. His lips moved without sound. A bubble of dark froth slid from his throat. His hand reached toward Dior and fell. He went out.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Claw hurled himself at the door, chewing at the wood. Dust sifted from the seams. Then came a heavy, dull pounding. The hinges groaned. A hand-width opening showed—something unnaturally black flickered in it. Eyes.

  They burned. Not with light, not with heat, but with a black fire that devoured its own glow. Claw growled until something tore in his throat. The men stepped forward. Aloys’s hands shook; his mouth was clamped tight. Something warm trickled down Semaj’s trouser leg, but he didn’t give ground. Algar bent a little and thrust his knife out before him.

  The door blew into splinters. A wolf burst in—huge, shoulder-high to a man, head like a furnace, teeth like wedges. Skin taut over the muzzle, fangs too long, as if they’d grown past the jawbones. Black fire in eyes that held no life—only some primordial instinct.

  Claw leapt. They collided with a crash. The dog clamped onto the beast’s neck, snarling, hauling, shaking. The wolf flicked its head as if to brush off a fly. Its teeth sheared the dog at the ribs. Claw gave a scream of pain. The flung body hit the bench and slid beneath the table. Blood ran in a thin line across the floor by Algar’s feet.

  “Back!” Semaj caught his brother’s arm. “Keep to the wall!”

  “On me!” Aloys lunged. He swung the haft and cracked it across the beast’s skull. The wood split. The creature rocked back half a step and howled like iron in a forge. Another came right behind it—bigger, coat in patches, hide darkened like scorched crust. Its side was torn like a split seam, and something thick and black seeped from the wound.

  Dior held Charlotte close; both were crying softly.

  “Behind me!” Her voice was dry, steady—her hands slick with sweat. “Behind me!”

  The beast came in sideways. Aloys took the strike on the haft; teeth sliced the wood like pastry. Semaj came in from the flank and ripped along the ribs with his knife. Metal scraped bone; something parted; a hot spray. The wolf howled. The second was already halfway into the room. Yellow light flared in the window. The neighbor’s roof had caught fire.

  “Take her!” Aloys shouted to his sons without turning his head.

  Algar lunged for Charlotte. She was light, but she wouldn’t let go of her mother.

  “Come on. Look at me. Come on, Charlotte—now.”

  He tore her away by force. He felt the fine trembling under his fingers.

  “Back room!” Semaj shoved them toward the curtain that hid the little storeroom. “There!”

  They didn’t make it. A third creature wedged itself into the doorway like a wedge. This wolf had half its muzzle charred to coal. The black crust cracked as it moved, and a dark fluid oozed from beneath.

  The wolf changed line at the last instant. A streak, a tooth, a flash. Semaj swung—his hands were shaking. He missed.

  The beast came from the right—one leap between bench and stove—and bit upward at the base of the neck. A short, clean sound—like thick ice splitting. He didn’t understand. A slat fell from the ceiling and drifted before his eyes absurdly slowly. A wrenching motion. Golden threads of hair flew through the air. Silence—as if someone had cut sound out of the room.

  Charlotte’s head was in the black jaws, teeth sunk at the nape; the wolf held her lightly, like a toy. Then the noise returned at once: the crackle of fire, a scream from somewhere, the weight of blood on hands. Hair, clotted with blood, swept the floor. The child’s eyes, wet with tears, froze in mute terror.

  “No!” Dior’s voice broke. She lunged after them, bare feet splashing blood. She pounded the wolf’s side with her fists. Another beast’s teeth yanked—Charlotte’s head vanished into the dark beyond the threshold. Dior pitched forward; a great rent across her breast from claws gaped and began to fill with blood.

  The world narrowed to a thread. Algar no longer heard fire or cries. Only a heartbeat, then another, then a third. Then everything came back at once with double force: roar, crackle, smoke, the burning black in the eyes of the beasts still in the room.

  Algar shifted the knife to his left hand and closed his right around his mother’s wrist. He felt the tremor. He felt her nails in his skin. She tried to say something, but only a red bubble came from her mouth before the life went out of her eyes.

  Aloys hurled himself at the wolf that remained. He drove the haft into its jaws. The demon wrenched, tore the wood free, sprang aside, and slammed him with its head. The man pitched into the fire; sparks whooshed up. Semaj stepped between them; his knife sliced the beast’s throat too high. He cut again—short and hard, just as he’d been taught. At last the blade found soft. The creature rasped and toppled, paws raking the air. The black fire in its eyes didn’t fade at once—it ate the glow, as if it were night itself.

  “You two!” Aloys forced himself to a knee, blood running down his cheek. “Out—now!”

  They saw only this: one wolf leaping and bearing their father down, another shearing his throat. They bolted. Heat blasted them outside. The village burned like a hayrick. Roofs caved in; columns of sparks climbed the sky. Fences lay trampled; cattle ran mad with terror, cows bawling in a desperate register. Horses tore free of tethers, foamed a pink froth, their mouths wrenched by fear. People ran and stumbled over bodies. Someone fell—and a wolf sprang onto his back and simply bit through his spine. The man’s head dropped without a sound.

  The chronicles will keep only a few dry words. The rest the scars will write.

  In the middle of the square, four beasts were tearing a cow as if it were a sack of grain. The wolves didn’t shy from fire. They bounded through the embers like over a fence. Someone still stood on the tavern roof, swinging something long—a pole, a halberd? A heartbeat later the roof sank, the man vanished into the flames, and what was left of him flared once and went dark.

  A wolf’s head slid out from behind a fence. The animal sprang. Algar kicked a washbasin aside. Water fanned between the beast’s forelegs; foam splashed his shins. Its teeth clamped down on a barrel and shattered it like rotted wood. Another leap. Algar snatched up a rake handle and drove it straight into the throat. Jaws closed on the wood. The monster’s paws clawed furrows in the earth. The boy heaved with everything in him. The pole went deeper. Fibres cracked part of it stayed wedged in the mouth. The beast sprang back, spitting splinters.

  They ran between the garden beds, around the barn. That was where he’d hidden his axe. Behind them the monsters howled. Before him lay the forest—dark and still. The sky was red and black at once. Alongside, beyond the fence, a dark shape flashed by. Algar tore his gaze away, because at the far end of the yard he saw what he didn’t want to see. A beast was running along the boundary—the same one carrying Charlotte’s head. His sister’s hair, soaked with blood, dragged along the ground like a brush. The wolf stopped, turned its head, and stared at him straight in the face. Those eyes—the same color and the same fire, as familiar as a name. He saw pride there—and joy.

  His head swam. Then he felt a light pressure between his shoulder blades. He turned. It was Semaj—who, for some reason, had leaned to him gently.

  “Little brother, I never asked you this. How did you live before we found ourselves in the forest back then?”

  Algar only stared.

  “What are you talking about? What forest?”

  “You always said you didn’t remember. Father and Mother forbade us to speak of it. But I was always curious.” He coughed. A thread of blood ran from the corners of his mouth. Only then did Algar see the wound in his belly—and understand what it meant.

  “You’re a child of the forest. Save yourself in the forest, my foster brother,” he whispered. He knocked his forehead to Algar’s. They used to do that before telling each other a secret. He smiled faintly and died.

  Algar stepped back as if in a dream. He left his brother. He didn’t look back one last time. He saw the cottage’s remains guttering in the flames. He ran.

  Footfalls hammered behind him—heavier than human. The beast cut across the boundary and gave chase. Algar slipped off the line, jumped the ditch, felt the earth tremble. He topped a low rise where a stone stood. He didn’t stop—he dropped down the other side. His arms sliced the air; his shoulder took the ground. He rolled and came up running.

  The wolf overshot the stone and didn’t turn at once. That breath was enough. Ahead, at the field’s end, a path. A path toward the forest. The forest wasn’t theirs tonight. But the field wasn’t either. Nothing was.

  He ran. His lungs burned as if he’d drunk boiling water. Blood thundered in his temples. In his ears the roar—carrying so many voices, and almost none of them human. He felt bodies closing from the sides. Darkness had many legs, and each step pressed the grass in a different way.

  He vaulted the boundary ridge. The path opened and took him into its channel. To the left the village burned. To the right the blackness crawled. The sky hung low, choked with smoke. The stars were gone. He knew that if he turned around, he’d stop—and the night would eat him.

  He didn’t turn. He ran on. He was near the great birch. Blood and smoke in his throat. One line in his head—one someone had once put in his ear: Whatever the cost. He didn’t know if it was Dara’s voice or his own. It didn’t matter. He glanced down and saw a body without legs. The red thatch had gone crimson with blood, and the eyes frozen in terror belonged to Roch. Algar took him cleanly in a single stride.

  When the path bent, he saw in the distance what remained of the reeve’s cottage. It was all flame.

  Another roar slid into a howl. He burst onto the little wood’s edge. Behind him—fields, heat, the village burning like a mighty altar fire. Pinpricks of black flame in the beasts’ eyes, scattered across the dark like the stars that were no longer there.

  He didn’t slow. He plunged into the gloom, and it received him like a son.