Dear diary,
Morning came sharp and grey after our midnight parley with the Red Knight, the Knight Nemesis of the Abyss. None of us spoke much as we broke camp; even the forest felt as though it were listening, waiting to see what we would do next. The moment we crossed fully into the Lorewood, that watching sensation tightened around my spine like a cold hand.
I wasn’t alone. When I mentioned it, the others exchanged uneasy glances. Whatever stalked these trees had noticed us long before we noticed it. We spread out along the caravan, each taking a place where we could keep eyes on the shifting shadows. I settled in the middle, close enough to reach people quickly should anything strike.
Around noon, Luke and Gael — stationed at the front — spotted a lone traveller drifting toward us along the narrow road. That alone should have set off alarm bells. No one moves casually through the Lorewood. No one sane, at least.
But Gael, in his endless, irrepressible optimism, strode forward as though greeting an old friend. Charming smile, open stance, and — Saints preserve us — offering more details about who we are than anyone should be handing out so close to Keralon. Sometimes I wonder if he thinks we’re still meandering through peaceful trade roads instead of being fugitives under martial law.
He spoke to the stranger for only a handful of minutes before inviting him — inviting him! — to prepare lunch for the caravan. I should have intervened. We all should have. But it happened quickly, and hunger makes fools of even careful people.
The stranger murmured something under his breath and flicked his wrist. A fire sprang up, obedient as a hound, and six neat cuts of meat began to roast over it. For a heartbeat, the aroma was almost pleasant — until the sounds began.
A sharp yelp. Then another. Then dawning screams from the caravan as people recognized the voices of their own hunting dogs — voices being extinguished even as the “meal” cooked in front of us.
The stranger’s smile cut across his face like a knife.
“Enjoy,” he said, mocking, almost sweet. Then he vanished, leaving only the stench of burned fur tangled in the air.
Rage surged through me so violently my hands trembled. The Lorewood is cruel, yes, but this was not nature’s cruelty — this was spite dressed as hospitality. And once again, it was our own naïveté that opened the door to it. How many times must we be taught the same lesson before it sticks?
When Liliana and Gael, in their stubborn pride or reckless bravado, actually ate the cursed meat, I turned away before my stomach betrayed me. I could not watch. Not after the dogs’ cries. Not after such needless suffering.
Some lessons are carved in bone. I fear this one will not be the last.