Forest Beyond the Lodge

A dense thicket of fir and pine rises behind the lodge, their needles catching the moonlight like pale fingers clawing at the dark. The ground is spongy with decaying needles, muffling Clements’ boots as he crashes through the undergrowth. Shadows pool between trunks, sharp and angular where the lodge’s weak lamplight fails to penetrate. The air smells of resin and damp earth, the kind of breathless quiet before a storm. Branches whip back into place behind him, obscuring the carriageway and the sight of Warlock’s tormentors—all that remains is the rustle of foliage and the brutal certainty that he has left the world of men behind.