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Ryland palmed the handle of his ax restlessly. The wood was slick with sweat.
“Another night of nothing,” he sighed.
Though spring had arrived and melted much of the snow, nights in the dark forest still froze the skin, requiring a thick wool coat. He wore a cap low on his head to cover his ears, thankful his beard warmed his face.
Williams remained silent as he hobbled through the wet, drowned grass. The older printer had barely uttered a word since hearing the news weeks ago. For the first time, he’d insisted on joining Ryland in the manhunt—an unusual insistence, given his air of avoidance and disgust toward Samomsyl.
Ryland’s gut twisted. Samomsyl.
“We should return to the horses, Master,” Ryland murmured. “I think it’s a lost cause tonight.”
He peered into the darkness, searching for any movement between the shadowy branches, but saw nothing. The new moon overhead, black in the sky, felt to Ryland like an omen. With hardly any light shining on the dark forest, the search was proving to be more complex. Beside him, Williams lifted his oil lamp as high as his frail arms could.
“The monster killed that girl, Ryland.”
Ryland turned to him in surprise—the man hadn’t said a word about Samomsyl since the murder. Now, on the darkest night, he seemed as passionate about the hunt as anyone. More so even, as other groups had likely returned home hours ago. And yet, the old man was barely searching the wood; rather, his attention seemed fixed on moving forward. Toward what, Ryland didn’t know.
And so, Ryland followed, scanning both the forest and his master with equal measure. Williams’ stern eyes were heavy with dark rings, his face gaunt and grim. It was an alien sight to most, but Ryland knew better—Williams was a cold man until one took the time to understand him.
The hatred in Williams’ sunken eyes burned brighter than the lantern he held aloft. “She wasn’t his only victim; you heard the priests—they watched him far better than I had. He killed the stable girl and even his uncle. And the cobbler’s boy? He may have...” His bony knuckles clenched, taut against his thin skin, as he gripped the lamp’s handle. “I harbored a murderer in my shop. I gave him a home. I knew he was trouble the moment he blustered in... but I gave in. And now these deaths are my fault as much as his.”
Ryland remained silent, throat tight as his heart dropped to his stomach. He could only nod before the pair continued to walk through the wet, budding wilderness. Leaves in their infancy littered the tips of twigs and branches overhead, with a few beginning to bloom into a vibrant green—it would be weeks until they grew to maturity.
Rustling in a nearby bush alarmed Ryland; he whipped around and raised his ax. Relief flooded him as a rabbit bounded past. Often during these hunts, he’d thought about what he would do were they to find him. Samomsyl.
“There!” Williams’ sudden outburst made Ryland jump again.
He followed Williams’ gaze, grip tightening on his slippery ax handle. He stepped through the trees and into a clearing. The cool night air gusted through an open field. Coat flapping against the wind, Ryland shivered as he spotted what Williams had seen.
A town.
Ryland’s brow raised. Is this what he was looking for?
Williams passed him, limping toward the crumbling village. Ryland followed. A strong wind howled through decrepit buildings like a ghostly moan, and a shiver of both chill and dread passed through him.
“What is this place?” he muttered.
“A mausoleum,” Williams whispered.
The lamp rattled in his hands, its flame flickering behind the glass.
Reaching the once-streets of the ruined town, Williams appeared lost in thought as he examined the buildings. Ryland followed closely behind, eyeing the shadows around them. The windows and doorways, black orifices across each building’s face, seemed to watch them as they made their way deeper into town.
Williams slowed as they passed a narrow side street. The printer remained silent, wrapped in his coat and scarf, a thick hat on his balding head. His expression was unreadable, though the arm holding the lantern lowered slightly as he stared down the street behind his thin, wiry glasses.
“Master?” Ryland looked down the alley to a cluster of tiny houses. Their remains looked hollow and cold.
“Nothing, Ryland. Just memories,” Williams whispered. “Just old memories.”
Broken piles of furniture covered every stoop. Ryland peered his head through a doorway, straining to pierce through the blackness. He thought he could see more furniture piled inside. The silence was oppressive and gloomy, and the foyer stank of mold and dust. He frowned, sniffing—another scent touched his nose and made his stomach lurch.
He shook the anxiety out from his tense muscles as he stepped away from the door to follow Williams further. It quickly became clear to Ryland that there was no life left in the village’s skeletal ruins.
“Well, if he was here, he’s gone now,” he whispered to his master.
He knew there was no one to hear them, but something about this place made the hush feel right, as though anything louder would disturb the eerie quiet, broken only by the wind and the occasional soft creak of wood.
Williams ignored him and moved deeper into the town.
Overhead, a single streak of pink appeared in the sky as dawn breached the night. As the shadows waned, so did the ominous nature of the surrounding structures. Tension leeched from Ryland’s body as he realized how tired he was. Unable to hold back the weary exhaustion assailing his limbs, he yawned and stopped walking. Rubbing one eye with the back of his hand, he was surprised to see Williams had stopped as well and was standing motionless beside him.
“What do you say, Master? I’ll take us home.”
“Here.” Williams pointed to a nearby wall. Ryland followed his finger and paled.
Blood.
The streaks were old, blackened across the wood, illuminated by the faint morning light. Ryland’s grip on his ax tightened once more.
“Could be from anything,” he said, heart pounding.
Williams hummed. His eyes had darkened; Ryland could see the enmity smoldering behind them, stronger than ever. He’d never seen a hatred as true in his master’s eyes as he did now.
The printer strode toward a nearby alley. “There again,” he whispered, pointing a shaky finger to more blood streaking the wall.
“Master, let me go first,” Ryland hissed as the old man entered the alley.
He followed in haste, the hairs on his neck tingling. The passage was too small for Ryland to step around Williams, forcing him to follow behind. A cloth hung across the path ahead, but Williams ducked underneath it. Ryland cursed and tore the ratty fabric down before tossing it aside.
Williams approached an open doorway at the end of the alley, lifting his lamp as he hobbled up the stoop.
“Master, wait for me,” Ryland sighed.
He marched toward the doorway as Williams passed through it.
He held his breath and inched toward the door. He wondered if he’d see Samomsyl looking back at him beyond it—if he’d look like a monster or like the innocent, awkward kid he’d grown attached to.
His jaw clenched as he thought of Sam—a young man looking to build a future, interested in printing books like Ryland had been when he was a teenager. Quiet, isolated, and nervous, Sam had always pushed him away whenever he tried to reach out. He’d been so proud of Sam when he came out of the blizzard with newfound strength and energy. His passion had filled Ryland with pride, reminding him of his own children.
The cobbler’s boy. His uncle. The stable girl.
Ryland’s muscles grew taut with anger. Monster.
He entered the room and found Williams settled on a stool, shaking his head. His lamp rested on the floor by his foot. This had been a camp once—Ryland noticed the fire pit in the floor near Williams’ seat. The room was dark, the walls and corners black with shadows, though stringy strands of morning sunlight began to streak through.
“Is this... where he hid?” His voice felt profound in the silence.
Williams did not move to reply; he flicked his hand to the corner. Ryland frowned—he could not see Williams’ face. Instead, he approached the corner, the light pinks and oranges of dawn glowing past his shoulder.
A skeleton lay in the corner. It was new, with bits of dried flesh and sinew clinging to its bones. It splayed across the floor, a rope tied to its neck. The rope had snapped—the other half dangled from the rafters above. Claw and teeth marks were etched into the bones: the markings of wolves that had devoured the corpse before moving on.
A glint of light. Ryland leaned forward.
The skeleton held a necklace in its hands.
