![]() ![]() These trees will be standing tall long after we’re gone. They were here before anyone alive now was born, even the Queen, even before the Alchemist and the Sorceress bound time to blood and metal-if there ever was such a time. Papa says some of the trees in the forest are a thousand years old. The lie freezes in the winter air, falls to the ground like snow. I would never leave my father alone, especially not if he’s- “He’s not,” I tell myself. I could stay out here all day, or just keep walking through trees glittering with webs of fine ice, through the sunlight sifted into daggers. I’ve always loved it here, the way the tangled branches overhead shutter out the sun and block the bitter wind. Besides, I know these woods better than anyone else. Luckily, in the winter, there’s no undergrowth to hide the thieves from sight, no birdsong to muffle their footsteps. They’re why Papa doesn’t like me hunting, but we have no choice. The forest holds real danger-thieves who lie in wait, crude knives and alchemic powder on their belts, to steal time from anyone venturing outside the safety of the village. I know better than to be afraid of stories. ![]() ![]() ![]() Even the spirit of the Alchemist himself is said to wander these woods, trapping whole eternities in a breath. Most people find the forest frightening, believing the old tales of fairies who will freeze the time in your blood, or witches who can spill your years out over the snow with only a whisper. ![]()
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