A cottage clung at the edge of the Underwood Forest like a secret; a secret that is not to be uttered. It has a sloped roof sagging under the weight of moss and time. Built from rough-hewn pine logs, the walls were patched with clay and lichen. Their knots and grooves were worn smooth by years of wind and rain.
Ewan knew every inch of the cottage by touch: the splintered ridge near the hearth where he once tripped as a child almost falling into the fire, the soft dip in the doorframe where his mother leaned each morning to watch the sun rising, or so she'd told him.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of dried rosemary and elderflower, which hung in bunches and branches from the rafters. Their brittle leaves brushed Ewan's hair as he moved; releasing whispers of earth, sweetness and a bit of their dried leaves.
The floorboards groaned under his footsteps. Their planks were warped by years of hearth smoke and spilled tea, but they were swept clean. Except for a frayed sheepskin rug by the fire, a relic from his mother's past life, its curls matted but still soft as the clouds.
The infamous stone hearth dominated the main area. Its mantel cluttered with jars of tinctures: pot marigold for wounds and cuts, willow bark for pain, holy basil for sleep and across from it a shelf with more herbs and poisons.
The fire crackled low, casting a honeyed glow that danced across the walls and illuminated the carvings on the beams if only Ewan could appreciate this magnificent sight, not by sight, but by touch but that .... that would burn him.
Between the logs, hidden in the chinking, were tiny whittled birds he and his mother had curved out from wood and pressed on them was clay when he was small; she was artistic. "For luck," she'd say, though he'd always suspected they were markers for him, a tactile map to navigate the room.
"Falling was ordinary but falling into the fire was not."
On the right side, shutters hung crooked on a single window that let in air, the slats cracked and patched with rabbit hide. They rattled in the wind, letting in slivers of cold air that smelled of distant soil and pine resin. It was chilly but it was not yet winter. Below the window sat a carved oak table, its surface scarred by knife cuts and candle wax. A chipped clay bowl of wild apples rested there, their skins wrinkled but they were still sweet and a bronze bell, a gift from a traveler his mother had once healed on her journey, that rang with a clear bright tone when it was struck.
In the corner, a narrow ladder led to the 'first floor', a loft where Ewan slept, his mattress stuffed with straw and lavender... Ah! That smell. So marvelous. From below, his mother's voice would rise each night, weaving tales of Frostspire's glittering spires, rivers of starlight that did not freeze in a land that was always winter; a cold winter that was not gloomy, a cold winter where fruit trees still grew. Stories he'd long dismissed as fables, mere stories for children. He was not a child anymore, or maybe he was just a frog in a well.
Now, lying awake, his hand traced the charcoal drawings she'd sketched on the loft's beams: twisting trees, tall spires, strange constellations, a stick figure boy holding a sword. "Someday," she'd say, but never finishing the thought.
Maybe all of it meant something.
The cottage's main door was made of oak banded with iron, its hinges were rusted but they were still sturdy. A bundle of dried thistles hung from it. "A ward against ill spirits", his mother claimed, but tonight, its prickle felt futile against the dangers clawing at the edge of their world or merely the edge of this forest.
Outside, the cottage crouched beneath the forest's looming shadow, its thatched roof delicately brushed with the night's first whisper of frost. A rickety fence of birch branches encircled a scraggly herb garden, the soil churned by wild rabbits and the claws of foxes drawn by the scent of sickness. Beyond it the trees loomed like sentinels, their branches creaking a warning; a warning about what was to come. That was the sound of the forest.
The cottage, it was a place of contradictions: warmth and decay, safety and secrets. The hearth's glow fought the creeping chill, the herbs' sweetness masked the metallic tang of fear, and the hum of Ewan's walking stick which sounded like the buzz of distant bees, thrummed underneath the silence. It was a home built for hiding, in its every crack and corner steeped in love and lies.
Ewan sat by the hearth, poking the embers with his walking stick; a stick that cannot be burned by this mere flame, listening to the fire's lazy crackle.
"Crackle!" "Crackle!" The fire's smell and noise made it feel alive.
Beyond the fire and Ewan's thoughts; his mother had been asleep for hours in her room, her breaths shallow and uneven, but the cottage still held the illusion of peace. The air in there smelled of burnt black seed and the faint metallic tang of blood. His mother's coughing had worsened, staining her once white handkerchief crimson. He didn't need sight to know the shadows under her eyes had deepened, or that her hands that were once steady as a surgeon's now trembled like a moth's wings.
Outside, the air felt different tonight. It felt so heavy that it was hard to breathe. The wind carried over the scent of pine and smoke, a bitter reminder of the fires that had ravaged the forest these past few days. It felt like a warning.
Maybe she was coughing because of the bad air quality.
"Just maybe." He thought.
His fingers trace the grooves of his walking stick. It was smooth and warm, as though it had absorbed the sunlight that usually streamed through the cracked shutters. The stick hummed faintly, a sound only he could hear; a low, steady vibration that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.
The stick that was humming in his lap, its usual low drone sharpened to a warble, like a plucked wire. Ewan frowned. It had never done that before.
"Mother?" He called softly.
No answer. Only the wind hissing through the shutters, carrying with it the distant howl of a wolf or something worse.
He stood as he used the stick as a guide, its vibration was rising to a fever pitch as he moved toward her room. The floorboards groaned beneath his feet, and every step he made was louder than usual, as though the cottage itself were holding its breath. With each creaking step, they felt dry and so cold.
"They were never dry. They never felt dry." He was puzzled.
When he pushed open her door, the scent hit him first was that of rotten herbs and sweat, this was the stench of mortality. After all, we are still humans, eventually we die.
"Ewan." Her voice was a whisper. "Come closer."
He knelt beside her bed, gripping the stick until his knuckles ached. Her hand found his, they were cold and papery and for the first time he noticed the absence of her silver ring the one etched with a falcon.
"She never forgets to wear it. Has she sold it?" He thought.
"Listen ... listen to me," she said, her words punctuated by wet rattling gasps. "They're coming .... Tonight."
"Who's coming?"
"It doesn't matter. We don't have much time." Her fingers tightened around his. "You must go North. NOW!" She has never sounded like this, so desperate yet so fearful. Her usual cheerful self was gone and buried. Ewan had never felt this from her before, it felt so foreign to him.
This was fear.
"I'm not leaving you," Ewan said, his voice cracking. The stick trembled in his grip, its hum sharpening to a shriek that drilled into his temples. A headache? He had no time for a headache.
His mother's hands were cold, papery, smelling of black seed oil and blood cupped his face.
"You already are," she whispered.
Just then it started to pull him. He clenched his jaw, resisting its pull.
A crash erupted from the front of the cottage. The invaders' voices snarled like animals, closer now. The stick jerked violently in Ewan's hands, as if trying to break free from him but he still didn't let go.
"Go!" his mother hissed, shoving him toward the main area.
Ewan stumbled backward instead, colliding by the hearth. Embers scattered across the sheepskin rug, their heat grazing his ankles. The stick's humming increased, and it suddenly started moving on its own, levitating upward, spinning wildly like a weathervane caught in a storm. Ewan gasped, his empty hands flailing.
"What's going on?" he cried. He never let go of the stick. He promised to never let it go.
His mother said nothing looking at him with caring eyes. Momentarily, he heard the rasp of steel as she drew her hidden sword from underneath her bed.
"Is that a sword?" He thought.
Suddenly, the stick froze midair, its tip quivering like a compass needle. With a decisive crack, it snapped toward the direction north, glowing faintly blue. The hum steadied into a single, unyielding note.
North. North. North.
"It's choosing," his mother said, her voice eerily calm, the previous fear disappeared. "Now you must choose too."
Another crash. The iron hinges screamed and splintered. Ewan's breath hitched, he could smell iron, sweat, and the sour reek of torch smoke. The invaders were inside.
"Take it and RUN!" his mother roared.
As if waiting for the right moment, the stick plummeted back into Ewan's hands, searing his palms like ice and fire fused together. He cried out, but his fingers wouldn't unclench. The stick held him as much as he held it. It felt heavy.... heavier than before.
"I'm sorry," he choked, tears streaming down his face. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
"Don't look back, through the woods. Follow the hum!"" his mother said softly. Then, louder, her voice ringing with a ferocity he'd never heard: "COME AND BLEED, COWARDS!"
The stick's hum turned shrill like a needle in his temple. RUN! RUN! RUN!
Ewan could run but the stick dragged him forward, its glow piercing the darkness as he plunged into the woods. Behind him, steel clashed and his mother laughed a wild, terrible sound that turned abruptly into screams... screams of men.
The stick's hum swallowed the noise, relentless as his heartbeat.
The night's cold air bit his face. The cold was sharp as a blade. As he plunged into the woods darkness was everywhere, but he always saw darkness. Behind him, the cottage roared to life not with fire, but with violence. The sound of shattering glass, that of wood splintered and cries of men cut through the dark, followed by silence.
Then came the smell of smoke.
He didn't look back. He just couldn't. Only thing he could do was cry.
The stick's hum drowned out everything; his sobs, the crunch of the leaves, the hiss of flames devouring the only home he'd ever known. It pulled him deeper into the forest where the pines crowded close, their branches clawing at his clothes. The cold seeped into his bones chilling, but the stick felt like it was burning in his hands, its heat a paradox.