The trees strangled what little light remained. Faint shadows scurried and twitched, clattered and whispered. Much like the tree of misgivings, this forest was pale. A faded still-life desaturated under perpetual gloom.

  His steps fell gently as he crept through the woods, like one of its inhabitants. A cursed creature doing all it could to keep from being seen. To keep from suffering. He wondered if hope entered these woods, how long could it survive?

  Likely, as long as the princess, he conceded. As long as anything untouched by curses. As long as hope or faith.

  Brittle sticks and withered leaves crunched under his boots. Impossibly loud, each step rang like a dinner bell. He knew the rules of this place. They were simple: once something worse noticed you, it would come to feed.

  It wasn’t until he’d lost track of what forward was that the forest thinned without opening.

  Ahead, warm lights pulsed gently as they bobbed between the trees. Though he was still too far to see their source, he could feel them.

  They felt safe.

  They felt inviting.

  His hand tightened on his sword as he drew closer.

  The light traced trails through the dark, revealing half-buried shapes in the dirt. At first, they appeared to be stones, then antlers. Closer still, he saw them for what they were.

  They were bones.

  Human.

  Brandishing his sword, he approached in a wide berth, inching toward the clearing from its edge.

  His stomach turned as understanding came to him.

  Rib cages rose from the soil like gates, some closed tight, others open wide. Within them, hearts beat like captured prey.

  Those enclosed beat steadily, stubborn and contained. Those exposed fluttered and raced, anxious and unguarded.

  From the hearts grew orchids—red, glossy, and alive.

  Above, large flies drifted in slow, deliberate circles. Their translucent wings, like hands, pulsed with warmth, casting halos that painted the clearing in gold. They circled only those rib cages that stood open.

  The orchids growing from these ribs—these hearts—bled. Thin streams ran from their petals and pooled beneath the rib cages. When a fly landed, it would drink gently, its pointed head lowered into the puddle. As they fed, while at rest, their wings pressed together into something that looked uncomfortably like prayer and sat as still as devotion.

  Each feeding ended with a faint bloom of light—warm, soft, almost comforting.

  They would flutter their wings and ascend, circling the orchids. The orchids leaned toward the radiance, stretching past what their stems should have been able to bear. The hearts continued to beat, slower now, patient and enduring.

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  The knight felt something twist in his chest. He had seen endurance like that before. He had learned it.

  It sickened him.

  Curious, the knight approached a closed rib cage at the edge of the clearing, where the flies did not linger. He nudged the stem aside with the flat of his blade. It swayed the way one would expect—bending and returning, supple and whole. The heart beneath sped up. The ribs twitched and cracked, widening slightly. Threatening but unable to open.

  He stepped back.

  The heart settled back into a pace only slightly faster than it had previously beaten. The ribcage did not return to its shape.

  A fly drifted towards him. He froze as it settled atop the cage, wings folding, hands pressed together.

  Waiting.

  After a time, it fluttered away, returning to the restless exposed hearts. The knight followed.

  Up close, these orchids towered. Their stalks far too tall, their petals far too large, yet they stood defiant.

  Defiant against the earth’s pull.

  Against reality.

  Blood ran from them in thin streams, still as crimson glass. The knight extended his blade, mindful of the flies, and touched a single petal.

  It collapsed.

  Dry and weightless, crumbling at the slightest pressure. Inside there was nothing, no sap or strength. Only the shape of a flower that had learned how to reach for warmth, or comfort, and nothing else. A flower that had forgotten how to live.

  Before he could lower his sword, a fly landed on his arm. Though it was the size of child’s hands, it was nearly weightless. Its eyes were black and empty, cold and piercing. It looked at him, or so he thought, and glowed.

  Not the warm light of day, but red like warning.

  The knight shook it free.

  The clearing changed.

  Warmth soured. Light curdled. The glow sharpened into something accusatory.

  The knight felt one on the back of his neck, which brought with it a sharp sting. He swatted at it but came up wanting. When he looked at his empty hand, he found a small smear of freshly drawn blood.

  The flies circled, humming as one. A low vibration that set his teeth on edge. Singing like some unholy hymn.

  He stood before them—unwelcome, unworthy.

  Inching his way out of the clearing, the knight lifted his sword. They were large enough to strike, but too many to slay. The swarm turned into chaos, and he found himself lost in a flurry of red.

  He ran.

  Pain needled him, but he paid them little else than a rapid swat. He had endured worse. He left the clearing behind in only a few urgent strides, but still they followed. When he finally stopped, he found himself among strange amber trees—black bark twisted around glowing deposits trapped in resinous bulbs.

  He turned, swinging wildly. His blade slid through them with little resistance. They fell anyway, bodies drifting to the ground like finely spun silk torn from vestments.

  Blood blurred his vision, but he persisted.

  Then, in a sudden rush of wind, the swarm withdrew. The trees groaned and cracked overhead. Panicked, the knight wiped the blood from his eyes and looked up. To his relief he found, perched among the withered canopy, the Question.

  “Benediction flies,” it said mildly.

  Winded, the knight leaned against a tree and immediately recoiled as it shuddered beneath his touch. Wiping clean the smear of blood he’d left behind, the amber within pulsed faintly, magnifying what little light reached it. Something within stirred.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  The Question dropped to the ground behind him, “Wombwood.”

  “And what lies within?”

  “A curse,” the Question answered. “One most terrible.”

  The knight looked back toward the clearing, the glowing ribs, the patient hearts.

  “I see how they survive,” he breathed.

  “Yes,” the Question agreed. “As many do.”

  “Then lead on,” the knight said. “I’ve no wish to linger among false comforts.”

  The Question turned and walked, breaking the tangle of dried branches that stood in its way. Clearing a path for the knight. Unintentionally, he guessed.

  “Did you find your answers at the Tree?” the knight asked.

  “No,” the Question said, something sharp in its voice.

  “Would it not have been simple to take its fruit?”

  The Question stopped.

  Cold rushed in. Darkness swallowed everything but two pale lights burning like frost.

  “Nothing tells me the end,” it rumbled. “It is mine to know.”

  The knight said nothing.

  Slowly, the Question stood again, allowing what little warmth the accursed waste offered to fill the space between them. Then it turned away and continued on.

  Silent. Obedient.

  The knight followed.