Chapter 3 — The Hunter Ensnared

Aidan

The Depthwoods loomed like a beast crouched in wait, its twisted branches reaching out to ensnare the unwary. Aidan shifted his weight, boots crunching over damp, tangled underbrush, his coat heavy with the lingering damp of the forest's cloying air. Each step forward sent a subtle shiver down his spine, as though the woods themselves were watching, waiting. His silver amulet, cool against his chest, pulsed faintly, reacting to the latent magic saturating the air.

Three days. It had been three days since the rogue mage had fled into these cursed woods, and Aidan had followed, as was his duty. The memories of past hunts flickered in his mind: trails gone cold, spells laid to mislead, and the echo of his own relentless discipline that carried him through each hunt. The Depthwoods, however, was unlike any place he had pursued a target before. Its presence gnawed at the edges of reason, but duty remained his anchor, unyielding and uncompromising. He clung to it the way a drowning man clings to driftwood.

He crouched by a patch of flattened moss, his scarred fingers brushing the damp ground. Faint traces of disturbed foliage hinted at the mage’s passage. The trail was maddeningly faint now, as if the Depthwoods sought to erase it entirely. Aidan frowned. The mage wasn’t skilled enough to fully conceal their tracks, but it didn’t matter. The forest itself worked against him, shifting paths, smothering scents, nudging him off course with all the subtlety of a predator toying with its prey.

He straightened slowly, his tall frame tense as his piercing blue eyes scanned the gloom. The air here was colder, thicker, and the silence pressed against his eardrums. He flexed his fingers, gloved in worn leather, resisting the urge to reach for his sword too soon. This wasn’t the kind of place where cold steel alone could keep you safe. The Depthwoods demanded something else—something primal, elusive. He adjusted his grip on the hilt anyway, the weight of the finely crafted blade steadier than his own breath.

A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention. A shadow slipped between trees with unnatural fluidity, a phantom of the periphery. His heart lurched—not from fear, but from instinct honed over years of hunting. He turned sharply, his hand dropping to the silver amulet beneath his coat. “Come out,” he said, his voice low and firm, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the forest’s hum.

The shadow lingered, loitering at the edge of his vision, just beyond the reach of his lantern’s light. His jaw tightened. He had faced magic before—mages who could summon firestorms or twist flesh with a flick of their fingers—but this was something else. The air around him thrummed with power, not from a single source, but everywhere at once, as if the Depthwoods itself was alive and watching.

The forest shifted under his feet, the ground rippling like water, and dizziness swept over Aidan as his bearings slipped away. He turned on instinct, reorienting himself, but the trees seemed closer now, their gnarled branches curving toward him, their bark rippling like muscle beneath skin.

“Stay calm,” he muttered, his voice steady despite the tension coiling in his chest. Fear was a weapon here, and Aidan had no intention of handing it over.

The shadow moved again, closer this time. Aidan’s sword was in his hand in one smooth motion, the polished blade catching the faint glow of the fungi overhead. The air thickened further, each breath an effort. “Show yourself,” he demanded, his voice cutting through the oppressive quiet.

A sound broke the silence—a laugh. Soft. Achingly familiar. Aidan froze. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.

“Eleanor.”

Her name slipped from his lips before he could stop it, the syllables weighted with disbelief and longing. He turned, his sword lowering slightly, as if his body refused to believe what his mind screamed was impossible.

She stood there, just beyond the reach of his blade. Her pale skin glowed faintly in the forest’s dim light, her golden hair falling in soft waves around her face. She wore the same simple dress he remembered, the one she had worn the day she spun laughing in the meadow, their son toddling at her heels.

But her eyes—they weren’t right. Too bright. Too piercing. Too knowing.

“You left us,” she said, her voice soft but accusing. “You couldn’t save us.”

Aidan’s grip tightened on his sword, the weapon trembling in his hand. “You’re not real,” he said, his voice a low growl. “You’re not her.”

She tilted her head, her expression almost pitying. “Aren’t I? You remember, don’t you? The fire. The screams. You were too late, Aidan. Too late to save me. Too late to save him.”

The image of his son flashed in his mind—soft blonde curls, chubby hands reaching up to him, blue eyes shining with trust. Aidan’s breath hitched, his chest tightening as if a hand had reached inside and squeezed his heart.

“Stop it,” he said, his voice rough. “You’re not her. This is a trick.”

Eleanor stepped closer, her bare feet gliding over the forest floor as if it welcomed her. “You failed us,” she said, her voice rising, the softness sharpening into a blade. “You let us die. You promised you’d protect us, remember? And you failed.”

The forest seemed to echo her words, the hum growing louder, pressing against his skull. Aidan staggered, his grip on his sword faltering. The trees around him twisted, their branches reaching out like talons. The ground beneath him shifted, roots writhing and curling around his boots.

“No,” he said, forcing the word through clenched teeth. He staggered back, but the roots tightened, pulling him down. His sword slipped from his grasp, clattering against the tangled ground.

Eleanor’s ghostly figure loomed over him now, her eyes glowing with an unnatural light. “You can’t run from the truth, Aidan,” she said, her voice overlapping with the whispers of the Depthwoods. “You’re as much a failure as the magic you hunt.”

The roots climbed higher, wrapping around his legs, his torso, his arms. He struggled, his muscles straining against the forest’s relentless grip, but it was futile. The Depthwoods had him.

Eleanor knelt before him, her face inches from his. For a brief, harrowing moment, she looked like herself—soft and kind, her familiar scent of lavender and sun-dried linens filling his senses.

“You could be with us,” she whispered, her breath cold against his skin. “Just let it take you. Let it end.”

Aidan’s mind churned, torn between the pull of her words and the cold logic that screamed against them. He knew this was an illusion, a cruel trick of the Depthwoods, but it didn’t make it any less real.

“No,” he growled, his voice gaining strength. “You’re not her. And I’ll never let this place take me.”

His hand found the silver amulet against his chest, its cool surface an anchor in the madness. With a surge of defiance, he channeled every ounce of his will into the artifact, its runes flaring bright against the oppressive darkness.

The light burned through the illusion, searing away Eleanor’s form and the encroaching roots. She screamed—a sound of rage and despair that echoed through the trees—and then dissolved into wisps of shadow.

Aidan gasped for breath, his body trembling as the forest’s grip receded. He scrambled to his feet, retrieving his sword with shaking hands. The Depthwoods were silent again, but the weight of the encounter lingered, pressing against his chest like a phantom ache.

He adjusted his coat, his breath steadying as he forced himself to move forward. A faint patch of disturbed ground nearby caught his eye, a hint of magical residue glowing faintly in the dim light. A clue. The rogue mage was still within reach.

The forest whispered faintly as he pressed on, its hum resonating like a predator’s low growl.

And Aidan didn’t flinch.