Regret was an afterthought that had settled into Neha far too deeply as she ventured into the Spog. Scabs, they said, roamed these dark forests. She’d only heard stories, but no one quite knew what they were or how they came to be. Large trunked beast with scabs like bleeding bark. She was told they rested during the day, so perhaps she could sneak through the forest and make it to Dorne in time for the last ferry to West Maeve. She had two hours before the sun would touch the crowns of the great oaks—two hours to traverse the arching labyrinthine beast that was the Spog.
“Loads of people’ve made it across. They oughta be living the life out in West Maeve.” Neha cracked a smile. Miles had told her that before she left. She begged him to come with her, but he had to stay behind to tend his father’s farm. Besides, his little sister, Maria, was barely tall enough to step over a fallen oak. “A few years n’I’ll see you,” he’d promised.
The forest formed an archway of wood, oddly inviting—almost alluring. Neha felt drawn to it like a rat to cheese or a moth to flame. It was cold. Not the kind of cold that made your lungs tickle with each inhale or made your bones ache and creak. No, this was a life-sucking cold. She watched as her breath whirled into the dense fog, as though the forest were leeching her soul, whittling her away to nothing.
But no. That couldn’t be possible.
She trudged onward, wrapping her arms tightly around herself to dull the bite of the frost. Her feet were bare, her clothes ragged. Life in West Maeve would be better—a dream, if she could only make it to Dorne. That thought warmed her—not the kind that would keep a lung-tickling cold at bay, but the kind of warmth that reminded her of fresh tea, patience, love, and home.
An eerie cold beckoned her to nestle into the underbrush and sleep. An earthy warmth urged her to take another step—and then another.
“Neha?”
Her head whipped around, butter-blond hair settling over almond eyes. She brushed it away with her fingers. “Miles?” She swore it was him. Her feet tangled as she turned, hoping he’d changed his mind, perhaps with little Maria perched on his shoulders. Peering through the thickening fog, she saw a figure running toward her. It was too tall to be Miles, but its butterflied head sent a leap through her heart. He’d come, after all.
She waved and stepped forward, only to trip over fallen debris. Looking up, she saw Miles still running toward her. “Neha, wait!” His voice like warm Jasmine.
Her ankle twisted painfully. Using a nearby tree for support, she hoisted herself up, only to feel a squelching sensation between her fingers. Looking down, she noticed crimson sap—blood. Her gaze shot to the tree’s bark, where a face was nestled, staring back at her with a sad, pleading expression.
Panic. She turned back toward Miles and Maria, waving frantically for them to run—to go back the way they’d come.
But as the figure approached, the butterflied head atop what she’d assumed was Maria revealed itself. It opened wide—a gaping mouth emerging from the fog, whole and ravenous, ready to consume her.
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