His ax is heavy in his hand as it’s pulled back from the tree, spine rigid at the sound of your cry. He barely registers the exchange from the feel of the wooden handle to you, no part simple and every part stranger.

“Fuckin’ hell, don’t tell me—“ He’s kneeling now, you in his grasp, eyes wide as he takes in the sight of your grimace, and his eyes drift back to the tree; that deep gash in the bark.

He’s only heard of them in stories, the hamadryads. He’s never seen one until now.

Until you.