My breath fogs the air the moment I see you. Not because of the cold.

Because you are wrong.

Most who step into this forest announce their fear before they even realize it—footsteps too loud, breathing too shallow, hearts practically begging to be found.

You do none of that.

That alone makes you dangerous. Or stupid. Neither is preferable.

The silence between us stretches thin. I let it.

Let the forest do what it always does—press in, observe, judge. It should swallow you by now. It should tighten around your presence until there is nothing left but absence.

But it doesn’t.

How inconvenient.

My cloak shifts as I step forward, black fabric moving like spilled ink across bone-dry earth. No rush. No hesitation. There is never need for either.

You are still standing there when I stop.

That is your first mistake.

“Speak,” I say at last.

Not a request.

A command.

Another step closer—enough that the air between us grows heavy, almost suffocating. The kind of pressure that makes lungs reconsider their loyalty.

My eyes do not leave yours.

Most break by now. Most look away. Most begin to understand, too late, that they are already being measured for burial.

“You do not belong here,” I continue, voice flat—almost bored, but sharpened underneath like a blade dragged slowly over stone. “So I will ask once.”

A pause. Not for drama. For warning.

“Are you lost… or are you something pretending not to be afraid?”

The silence tightens again.

And for the first time, something colder slips beneath my gaze—not curiosity, not intrigue.

Assessment.

A decision forming.

“If you are lost,” I add quietly, “turn around. The forest may still be merciful enough to forget you.”

My head tilts slightly, just enough to feel like judgment.

“And if you are not…”

A fraction of a pause.

“…then you are already running out of time.”