The forest grew stranger the deeper Willow flew.

  Gone were the familiar signs of life: the whistling vines, the whispering stones, the laughing brook-spirits. Here, the trees leaned in close, their trunks warped and bloated as if trying to seal something inside the earth rather than reaching for the sky. The light dimmed with every step, even though no clouds covered the stars.

  Whisk clung to her shoulder, his three eyes wide and alert. His body tensed at every snapping twig and shifting shadow. Once, he gave a low, almost inaudible growl—so small she might have missed it if not for the prickle of her skin.

  Willow trusted that warning more than any sight or sound. Whisk knew this place. Even if he didn’t remember why.

  The ancient part of the Feywild, the part that even the Verdant Glade pretended didn’t exist, waited ahead.

  The Broken Hollow.

  A place of old wounds, older magic.

  Few of the Court dared speak of it, and fewer still had seen it with their own eyes. Willow had only ever heard it in stories whispered by sprite-elders when they thought the younglings were asleep:

  A place where roots rot and dreams tangle,

  A place where forgotten things wait.

  She tightened her grip on the thorn-dagger at her hip.

  The trail of corruption thickened here, no longer just a line across the ground but an infection seeping into the very bones of the land. Patches of the forest floor lay bare, stripped of moss and life, exposing cracked black earth beneath.

  Above, dead vines hung like nooses from twisted branches.

  Willow touched a nearby tree, whispering a simple plea for safe passage. The bark shuddered under her hand—alive, but sick. Afraid.

  She pressed on.

  The Hollow revealed itself not with fanfare, but with a stillness so complete that even her breathing sounded too loud. The trees parted into a bowl-shaped clearing, the ground warped and sunken as if a giant had pressed its palm into the earth.

  At the center of the Hollow stood something she couldn't immediately understand.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  It was a tree, once. Maybe. Now it was more like a husk: blackened bark splitting open in jagged lines, revealing a hollow interior pulsing with dim, sickly green light. The roots splayed outward like skeletal fingers clawing at the earth.

  Around it, the very air seemed thicker. Harder to breathe.

  Whisk shifted uneasily on her shoulder.

  Willow stepped forward, heart hammering.

  And then—something moved.

  From the base of the dead tree, a shape detached itself. At first, she thought it was just another broken root—but then it unfolded.

  A creature slithered into view, its body stitched together from branches and thorns, but animated by something darker. Hollow eye sockets burned with faint green fire. Where its mouth should have been was only a gaping, twisted knot of bark.

  It turned toward her.

  It saw her.

  Willow’s breath caught.

  Without thinking, she whispered a quick spell. The grass around her feet shimmered—an illusion to hide her scent, her presence. Not strong enough to fool something born of corruption, but maybe enough to delay it.

  The creature jerked forward on spider-like limbs.

  Whisk let out a sudden, high-pitched chirp—half fear, half warning—and Willow bolted.

  She raced back toward the tree line, wings flaring for extra speed, heart slamming against her ribs.

  The creature gave chase, its thorn-limbs skittering across the hollowed ground with terrifying speed.

  Willow didn’t dare look back. She could hear it: the scraping, the wet crack of bark splitting, the whispering snarl that didn’t come from a mouth but from the roots themselves.

  She had to lose it. She had to—

  Whisk’s third eye blazed suddenly, flashing violet.

  Ahead, a wall of vines responded, surging upward from the ground like a shield.

  Willow plunged through the gap a heartbeat before the vines slammed shut behind her.

  She crashed into the undergrowth, rolling to her knees, gasping.

  The Hollow’s edge lay behind her, silent once more. No sound of pursuit.

  Slowly, trembling, she rose.

  Whisk climbed shakily down her arm, his fur bristling, his three eyes staring back toward the place they had fled.

  “What was that?” Willow breathed.

  Whisk didn’t answer.

  But deep in her chest, she knew.

  The corruption wasn’t spreading randomly. It wasn’t aimless.

  It was hunting.

  And it had noticed her now.