The bell rang in the village square.
Once.Twice.A third time.
That was the signal. Not for celebration. Not for gathering.
Three bells meant only one thing.
Someone was gone.
Ivy heard the echo from inside her cottage, hands paused mid-motion over a bowl of crushed lavender. The world seemed to tilt, the air around her thick with anticipation and dread. She rose slowly, wiping her hands on her apron, heart already thudding.
Outside, people were already congregating.
She didn't need to ask who was missing. The whispers met her halfway.
"Jonas and his wife—gone.""The door was torn clean off.""Only the baby left in the cradle—screaming.""No blood this time. Just... nothing."
Nothing was worse than blood.
Blood could be explained.
By afternoon, the tension in the village was a noose pulled tight. And Ivy felt it like a second skin.
Eyes followed her wherever she walked. Not with the usual pity, or even polite distance.
Now, they looked like they were measuring how fast she could run.
She stepped into the apothecary's shop to refill her stock of dried valerian, but the shopgirl—the one who used to greet her with a smile—went rigid.
"Oh," she said. "It's... you."
"I need—"
"We're closed."
"You're open."
"Not to you."
The door slammed behind her before she could argue.
Ivy stood outside, empty-handed, heart thudding harder than the bell ever had.
They're afraid of me.
And for the first time... maybe they should be.
She didn't go to the forest that night.
She tried. She truly did. Stood at the edge of the tree line with her skirts clutched in one fist, heart slamming against her ribs like a bird in a cage. She stared into the dark.
Nothing moved.
Nothing called to her.
No voice on the wind. No flicker of light or familiar shiver in her blood.
She waited.
And waited.
And finally, turned away.
That night, her dreams were full of moss-covered hands and black eyes that never blinked.
The next day, there was a knock at her door.
Not the hesitant, elderly kind like before.
This time, the entire village council stood on her porch—Hal and Myra flanked by two grim-faced men with hunting bows.
"Ivy," Myra said without a greeting. "You're coming with us."
She blinked. "What?"
"We've had enough silence," Hal said. "We know you've been going into the forest. We know something's out there. And you're the only one who walks in and out untouched."
"I'm just gathering herbs—"
"You're feeding it," one of the hunters spat. "A witch. That's what you are."
Ivy laughed—sharp, pained. "You think I control what's in that forest?"
"We think you brought it here."
That hit harder than she expected.
And yet... didn't some small part of her believe it?
They took her to the square.
She expected torches. Pitchforks.
But what she saw was somehow worse.
People she knew—faces she'd smiled at for years—standing still as statues. Some avoided her eyes. Others stared with cold certainty.
No kindness.
No questions.
Elder Hal gestured toward the gathered crowd.
"You say you don't know what's happening," he said. "Prove it."
"How?"
"Come with us. Into the forest."
The crowd murmured.
"Show us where you go. Show us what it is."
Ivy hesitated. If she said no, they'd burn her. Maybe not today. But soon.
If she said yes...
He wouldn't like that.
She looked toward the trees. No wind moved the leaves. The forest waited.
So did they.
"I'll go," she whispered. "Alone."
"No," Myra said. "With us."
The search party had five men.
Ivy made six.
They walked in silence, spears and blades ready. She walked a few steps ahead, heart cracking with every leaf she crushed beneath her boots.
The deeper they went, the quieter it became.
Even the birds held their breath.
"I don't like this," one man muttered. "It's too quiet."
"Keep your eyes open," said another.
They stopped at the clearing—her clearing—where she always left her woven offerings and found his strange, beautiful gifts in return.
It was empty.
No polished stones.
No bones.
Nothing.
"Here?" Hal asked, raising an eyebrow.
She nodded, throat dry.
"Well?" the hunter beside him asked. "Where's your demon now?"
And then the wind shifted.
He didn't appear. Not like before.
He exploded into the clearing like a wave of shadow and bark, blood-colored mist dripping off his form like wet leaves. The forest trembled.
Two of the men screamed.
One ran.
The other wasn't fast enough.
A whip of vine shot out from the trees and wrapped around his neck. There was a wet snap, and the body dropped like a sack of wheat.
Hal raised his sword, shouting, but Ivy stepped in front of him.
"No!"
He froze. Everyone did.
Except the thing in the trees.
It stared at her.
No eyes.
No face.
But she knew he was staring.
"I told you not to come back with them," his voice said, vibrating through the leaves.
"I didn't have a choice," she said, voice breaking. "They were going to—"
"You chose them over me."
"I didn't—"
He moved. Not a step. A shift. Suddenly closer. A breath behind her.
The hunters raised their weapons.
"No!" Ivy shouted again. "Please!"
He paused.
Just enough for the remaining men to flee, dragging Hal with them.
Ivy collapsed to her knees.
"I didn't bring them to you," she sobbed. "I didn't want this."
He said nothing.
The silence grew so heavy it hurt.
Then—
"They would've hurt you."
"I'm not safe with you either," she whispered.
Silence again.
Then—
"You could be."
That night, he didn't vanish.
He stayed.
She slept in his clearing, head on moss, tears dried on her cheeks.
And when she woke, there was a circle of flowers around her.
Blood-red. Blooming in soil that hadn't existed before.