The First Word Was Death
Libby moved silently through the Wandering Wood, the filtered sunlight dappling across her shoulders as she walked. The wind carried the scent of damp moss and old bark, and somewhere in the distance, a jaybird cried out before abruptly falling silent. That gave her pause. The forest never went still unless something was wrong.
She crouched low, her fingers brushing the earth. A set of boot prints, deep and erratic, led into the underbrush. She followed them quietly, weaving between twisted trees and ancient stone outcroppings swallowed by ivy.
Then she found him.
The man lay crumpled on his back in a patch of flattened grass. His face was contorted in a final moment of agony, frozen by death. One leg was grotesquely swollen, the skin stretched taut and bruised in shades of green and blue, like a poisoned fruit. The other leg bent at a wrong angle. His pants were torn, and his tunic was soaked through with sweat and blood.
Libby’s breath caught in her throat. Her father had told her about snake venom, how it destroyed the body from within, but seeing it was something else entirely.
She stepped closer. A travel pack lay beside him, half-spilled. A hunting knife, some dried meat, a flask, and a rolled piece of parchment with an ornate red wax seal.
Just as her fingers reached for it, something rustled in the thicket behind her.
She whirled, heart pounding, hands already pulling her wrist crossbows into position. Her father had built them for her when she turned twelve, forged from light ironwood and engraved with moon runes. She aimed them at the moving brush, feet ready to spring, every instinct alive with tension.
The branches parted, and her father stepped into the clearing.
Libby let out a long breath and lowered her weapons. “You scared me.”
He took one look at the body and raised an eyebrow. “I always find you in the most curious of predicaments, don’t I?”
She smirked despite the tension. Of course he’d be unbothered by the weapons pointed at him. She’d never seen him afraid, not once.
He knelt by the body, his eyes sweeping over the corpse, then turning toward the pack. Libby showed him the parchment. As he took it, the blood drained from his face.
“Libs, you found this in his bag?”
She nodded. “Yes, Poppa. There’s useful stuff, but nothing that says who he is. Just this.”
He stared at the seal, his expression unreadable. “Take this to your mother. Right now. Don’t stop. Don’t show it to anyone. Stay hidden, stay off the trails, and keep to the trees. I’ll follow once I’ve dealt with this.”
Libby’s breath hitched. He hadn’t even opened the scroll, and he was scared. That was enough for her.
She turned and ran.
The forest blurred around her as she moved. The trees shifted subtly, as they always did in the Wandering Wood, but Libby knew its moods and patterns. Her feet avoided twigs and brittle leaves by instinct, her passage nearly silent.
Then the ground shook.
She stopped just in time to see a giant oak pulling itself free of the soil. Its roots tore from the earth with groans and snaps, shaking off dirt like an animal stretching after slumber. The tree began to walk, slow and steady steps, that bent saplings and shifted stones.
Libby crouched low, eyes wide. She’d seen wandering trees before, but never this close to their moment of awakening. Her father had once told her that the trees shared knowledge through the mycelium networks beneath the soil, whispering in pulses and spores. They moved only when the forest willed it.
And the forest was stirring now.
Their cabin came into view as the sun dipped below the horizon, staining the sky with hues of amber and crimson. Her mother was in the garden, pruning the last of the summer squash. She looked up and smiled, then stopped cold at the sight of Libby’s face.
Libby ran to her, pressing the scroll into her mother’s hands. The wax seal was still unbroken, but slightly smudged from Libby’s tight grip.
Her mother went pale. She looked around quickly, then grabbed Libby by the wrist and pulled her inside.
“Where is your father?” she asked sharply.
“He stayed with the body. He said to tell you he’d come soon, after… after taking care of it.”
Her mother’s lips thinned. She locked the door and drew the curtains with swift, practiced motions. Then she turned back, her gaze fierce.
“Sit. And tell me everything. Don’t leave anything out.”
Libby obeyed, recounting every detail, from the boot prints to the venom-swollen corpse to the seal that drained the color from her father’s face. Her mother listened, eyes narrowing with each word.
The fear in the room was no longer just Libby’s. It crackled in the air, thick as storm clouds.
She glanced at the scroll. “What’s in there? What does it mean? Why are you both so scared of it?”
Her mother placed a hand over the seal but didn’t break it.
“When your father returns, we’ll explain together,” she said, her voice softer now. “It’s not a story one person can tell alone. Help me with supper, Libby. We’ll talk when the sun has fully set.”
Libby stood slowly, the weight of the day pressing on her shoulders. But as she joined her mother in the kitchen, she felt a strange calm. Her parents knew something, something old and dangerous. And tonight, she would learn what it was.
