The late afternoon sun, golden but weary, spilled through the canopy of the Blackwood. The forest was still, save for the occasional crack of Lorne’s axe biting into the stubborn tree before him. He grunted with each swing, more focused on the growing pile of kindling at his feet than the ominous creak of the surrounding woods.
His sister Meryn crouched a few paces away, gathering the smaller, spiny branches into a haphazard bundle. She wrinkled her nose as her hands brushed against the dead, needle-like foliage. The sharp tips pricked her palms, but she said nothing—Lorne hated distractions, and this was his plan, after all.
“This’ll burn like nothing else,” Lorne muttered, his voice muffled by the humid air. “Bone-dry branches. We won’t even need the bellows.”
Meryn glanced up, the weight of his words settling uneasily on her shoulders. The Blackwood didn’t feel dry. It felt… alive. Watching. She stood, brushing her hands on her skirt. “Let’s finish quick,” she said. “I don’t like this place.”
Lorne shrugged, his focus unbroken. “You don’t like anywhere.”
She was about to argue when the needles began to fall.
Thin and brown, brittle as old bones, the needles rained from the branches above. They came down in loose clusters, scattering over their boots and hair. Lorne swatted at them, muttering a curse as one pierced the skin of his forearm.
“Damn tree’s shedding on me,” he said. “Just needles. Don’t be so jumpy.”
But Meryn wasn’t reassured. She sidestepped to avoid the falling debris, her skin prickling with an unease she couldn’t name. One needle, sharper than the rest, landed squarely on the back of her hand, embedding itself deep. She gasped, pulling it out with a shaky tug.
A bead of blood welled at the site, dark and sluggish. “I told you this tree was bad,” she muttered, cradling her hand against her chest.
Lorne shot her a look. “You’re fine. It’s a scratch.”
But even he couldn’t ignore the sap now oozing from the fresh gash in the tree trunk. It wasn’t amber or gold, the kind that smelled faintly sweet and sticky to the touch. This was darker, thicker—deep crimson, like blood, pooling at the edges of the bark.
“What kind of tree bleeds?” Meryn asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Lorne didn’t answer. He pulled his axe free, the blade dripping with the same viscous liquid. His grip on the handle faltered as something caught his eye—movement. The sap was… spreading. It crept down the bark, sluggish but deliberate, pooling onto the forest floor.
“Don’t just stand there!” Meryn’s voice was sharp now. “Leave it!”
Lorne staggered back, his foot crunching on the bed of fallen needles. The pain came quick—a sharp, searing burst from the sole of his foot, as if a dozen tiny knives had plunged into his skin. He yanked his foot up, swearing, but the needles clung stubbornly, writhing like living things.
“Get them off me!” he shouted, his voice cracking with panic.
Meryn ran to help, but she stopped short as the sap moved again. This time it wasn’t spreading—it was growing. Tendrils stretched from the puddle, reaching for Lorne’s leg like hungry vines. She screamed his name, but her feet refused to move.
“Run!” Lorne shouted, his voice hoarse as the needles began burrowing deeper. His skin darkened where they pierced him, and his veins seemed to glow faintly beneath the surface.
Meryn turned and ran, the sound of her brother’s cries chasing her through the forest. She didn’t look back—not when the cries turned to gurgles, not when the gurgles turned to silence. The woods were alive now, whispering to her, their shadows growing longer and darker with every step.
By the time she reached the edge of the Blackwood, her chest was heaving, her legs trembling. She collapsed onto the grass, her mind reeling with images of the tree, the needles, the sap.
And then she felt it—the faintest shift beneath her skin. Her hand, where the needle had pierced, was swollen now, the skin hot and cracked like dry earth. Something moved beneath the surface, small and insistent. She froze, too terrified to scream.
Behind her, the Blackwood loomed in silence, the ancient tree standing tall once more. Its branches were heavy with needles, and at its base, a sapling sprouted from the blood-soaked soil.
