- -
- 100%
- +
– Dried fruit—one bag
– Crackers—one box (the rest too bulky)
– Energy bars—all ten
– Freeze-dried food—three packages from the attendant
– Chocolate—two bars
– Canned goods… no, too heavy. Would have to do without.
Water:
I looked at the six liter-and-a-half bottles and realized—they wouldn't fit. Even one weighed a fair amount, and six… with such a load I wouldn't get far.
I opened the book again, flipped to the section on water:
"Running water protects against fae enchantments. Water from streams and rivers in their world is drinkable if it's moving. Still water—lakes, ponds—can be enchanted. Never drink from a stagnant source."
So in the fae world there was water I could drink. Running water. From streams.
I exhaled with relief and took only two liter bottles—for the first period. The rest would have to stay.
But the vial of holy water from the attendant—definitely. This wasn't for drinking, this was a weapon.
Protection:
– Salt—one package (the rest too heavy)
– Iron nails from the pouch
– Iron horseshoe
– Bunch of rowan
– Celtic amulet
– Vial of holy water
Other:
– Matches—two boxes
– Flashlight (found in the car)
– Spare batteries
– Isotonic powders
– My camera—with a full memory card
I took the camera not from sentimentality. This was part of me, my work, my life. And if I was fated to end up in the fae world, I would document everything I saw.
If, of course, I survived.
And last—a tourist knife with a fixed blade that I took on hikes. Not the most fearsome weapon, but better than nothing.
I pulled it from the luggage, tested the sharpness of the blade on my nail. Sharp. Good.
The knife went into the side pocket of the backpack—where I could quickly reach it.
The backpack came out heavy but manageable. I tightened the straps, lifted it—about twenty pounds, no more. I could handle it.
Chloe came out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, with wet hair.
"What are you doing?" She stopped, looking at me and the backpack.
"Packing."
"Where to?"
"I don't know," I answered honestly. "But I need to be ready."
Chloe shook her head but said nothing. Went to get dressed.
I looked at my watch. Half past six. Sunset in an hour.
I quickly changed: jeans, warm t-shirt, fleece sweater, jacket on top. On my feet—trekking boots I'd brought for mountain hikes. Sturdy, comfortable, with good soles.
Gathered my hair in a tight ponytail and hid it under a cap.
Chloe came out of the bathroom and stopped, staring at me.
"Elise… are you serious?"
I stood in the middle of the room in full hiking gear, backpack in hand.
"Serious."
"You're going to sleep in boots and a jacket?"
"Yes."
"With a backpack?"
"Yes."
Chloe snorted, then laughed—not meanly, but with some hysterical note.
"God, Elise, you're definitely sick. You have a fever, delirium, paranoia… Tomorrow morning we're going to the nearest hospital, and that's that."
I didn't answer. I lay on the bed on top of the blanket, pressing the backpack to my chest. Wrapped the straps around my arm—if I had to run, it wouldn't slip off.
Put the camera next to me on the nightstand—within reach.
The knife in the backpack pocket pressed slightly into my side, but it was a comforting sensation. Weapon. Protection.
***
Chloe lay on her bed, pulled the blanket over herself, and turned off the light.
"Good night, Elise. I hope your nightmares end."
"Good night," I whispered into the darkness.
But I wasn't going to sleep. I lay with open eyes, listening to every sound.
The ticking of the clock on the wall. The noise of cars outside the window. Chloe's breathing, which gradually became more even—she was falling asleep.
And I waited.
Minutes dragged slowly. The cold inside me intensified, spreading through my veins like an icy river.
Seven o'clock. Seven fifteen. Seven thirty.
Outside the window it grew dark. The last rays of sun painted the sky blood-red.
Seven forty-five.
I squeezed the backpack straps tighter. My heart pounded so loudly it seemed audible throughout the motel.
And suddenly the temperature in the room dropped sharply.
My breath became visible. Frost instantly appeared on the windows, turning the glass into a matte pattern. The nightlight bulb on the nightstand flickered and went out.
Chloe muttered something in her sleep and pulled the blanket higher but didn't wake.
And then I heard a sound.
Distant, barely distinguishable. Like an echo coming from somewhere infinitely far away.
The sound of a horn.
Prolonged, low, primeval. It rolled through the world, making the air vibrate. The motel walls trembled, the glass in the windows rang with a thin crystalline sound.
Chloe jerked in her sleep but didn't open her eyes. As if the magic of the sound kept her in oblivion.
The horn sounded again—louder, closer.
This time it passed through me, resonating in my bones, in my heart, in my very soul. The cold in my chest flared in response, and I understood—it was calling me. Me specifically.
I sat up in bed, clutching the backpack. My hands were shaking.
A third time the horn sounded even closer—now it seemed the sound came from somewhere beyond the walls, from the space between worlds.
And then fog began seeping into the corner of the room.
Not ordinary fog, but that very one—milky white, thick, alive. It oozed through the walls, as if the fabric of the world had thinned and could no longer contain it.
Wisps of fog spread across the floor, rose upward, filling the space. With each second there was more of it.
The temperature continued to drop. Frost covered the walls, floor, furniture. My breath turned into thick clouds of vapor.
"Chloe!" I called. "Chloe, wake up!"
But my friend didn't even stir. She slept a deep, unnatural sleep, as if her consciousness had been sealed by magic.
A fourth sound of the horn—louder, more commanding, more inevitable.
The fog filled the room to the ceiling. I stopped seeing the walls, windows, door. Only white, impenetrable haze around. And somewhere in it—ghostly shadows, moving silhouettes.
I stood from the bed, pulling the backpack onto my shoulders. Grabbed the camera. Felt for the knife handle in the backpack pocket.
A fifth time the horn sounded so close I squeezed my eyes shut from the pain in my ears. The sound filled the world entirely, leaving no room for anything else.
And the fog began to move.
It swirled in a vortex, sucking me inside. The floor disappeared beneath my feet. The walls dissolved. Reality broke at the edges, turning into a kaleidoscope of light and darkness.
I tried to scream, but there was no voice. Tried to grab onto something, but there was nothing to grab.
The world was collapsing.
A sixth sound of the horn—and the fog compressed around me like a cocoon.
I fell through space, through time, through the boundary between worlds. My body became weightless, as if I were turning to smoke.
The last thing I saw before the fog completely swallowed me—Chloe's sleeping face, peaceful and calm against the backdrop of collapsing reality.
And then darkness closed over me.
Chapter 4
The fall ended suddenly.
I crashed to my knees, and the impact knocked all the air from my lungs. For a second the world turned into a white veil of pain—the backpack slammed into my spine, the camera hit my ribs, my palms scraped against something sharp and slippery.
I gasped, trying to breathe, but the air wouldn't come. My lungs burned. My heart pounded so frantically it felt like it would burst from my chest.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Finally a convulsive inhale—and air rushed into my lungs.
But it wasn't the same air.
It was different. Denser, heavier, saturated to the limit. As if I'd inhaled not oxygen but something alive, almost viscous. It seared my throat, settled in my lungs with leaden heaviness.
And cold. Searingly cold.
I coughed, doubling over. Each breath came with difficulty, freezing me from within. My breath emerged in thick clouds of vapor.
What's wrong with me? Why is it so cold? Why can't I breathe?
Panic began rising in a wave, but I forced myself to calm down. Slowly. Inhale. Exhale. Again.
Gradually my lungs adjusted. The air stopped burning, but the cold remained. Icy, piercing, reminding me with each breath—you're not home anymore. You're in another world.
I slowly raised my head.
And forgot how to breathe again.
The sky.
My God, the sky.
Three moons hung above the horizon, enormous and impossible. Silver, gold, blood-red. They illuminated the world with shimmering, cold light, casting triple shadows from every object.
Between the moons—stars. But not the stars I'd seen all my life. These were too bright, too close, as if I could reach out and touch them. Some moved slowly across the sky, tracing luminous arcs.
This is impossible. This isn't real.
But it was real. Too real.
I lowered my gaze to the ground—and understood why my palms stung so badly.
Beneath my hands wasn't soft earth but moss. Thick, dark green moss covered with a layer of frost. Slippery, icy, numbing my fingers instantly.
I tried to stand—my feet slipped on the frozen surface. I fell back to my knees, hitting them painfully.
Everything's covered in ice.
I looked around, trying to understand where I was.
Forest.
But not the forest where I'd spilled blood on the tree. And not the green, warm forest I'd somehow expected to see.
This was a late autumn forest, dying under winter's advance.
The trees were gigantic—trunks three or four times the width of a human embrace, rising so high their crowns were lost in darkness. But they were almost bare. Black branches reached toward the sky like skeletons, covered with frost and thin icicles that clinked in the icy wind.
Only some trees still clung to their last leaves—crimson, golden, blackened by frost. They trembled and fell, landing on the ground with a quiet rustle.
The bark glowed with a faint greenish or silver radiance—the only reminder that this wasn't an ordinary forest. That magic lived here.
Roots protruded from beneath the moss, thick and gnarled, covered with a layer of ice. They formed arches and tunnels, but stepping on them was impossible—too slippery.
Cold. So damn cold.
I stood up, carefully, holding onto a tree trunk. The bark was icy under my palm, rough with frozen lichen.
The smell.
The frosty air smelled sharp and cutting. Cold pine needles somewhere in the distance. Rotting leaves under a layer of frost. Earth locked in frost. And a barely perceptible sweetness—cloying, strange, hiding beneath all the other scents.
It all mixed together, creating the aroma of a dying world that made my insides clench with melancholy.
Sounds.
The rustle of bare branches—harsh, like bones scraping against each other. The tinkling of icicles. The crack of ice somewhere in the distance. The howling of wind that pierced through my jacket to my very skin.
And silence. Dead, oppressive silence between sounds.
I tried to take a step—my foot slipped on the moss. I barely kept my balance, grabbing the tree.
This is too much. Too much.
The world around me was too cold, too alien, too wrong. Every sensation struck my nerves.
I can't handle this. I won't make it.
Panic came in waves, filling my chest with icy terror.
Chloe. Mom. Home.
But there was no more home. There was only this freezing forest, these three moons, this icy air cutting my lungs.
I pressed my hand over my mouth, holding back a sob.
No. I can't. I can't break down now.
My hands fumbled for the backpack. I frantically unzipped it, rummaged inside with trembling fingers. Water. Food. Salt. Knife.
And a pack of cigarettes.
I didn't even remember when I'd put it there. A month ago? Two? I'd confiscated it from my father, who'd promised to quit but secretly smoked on the balcony. Shoved it in the backpack pocket and forgot about it.
Cigarettes. Foolishness. I didn't smoke. Never had. Hated the smell of tobacco.
But now…
I pulled out the pack with numb fingers. Crumpled but intact. Pulled out one cigarette, tried to light it with a match.
The first match went out in the wind. The second too.
"Damn it!" I hissed through my teeth, shielding the flame with my palm.
The third one caught. I brought it to the cigarette, inhaled.
And coughed so hard I nearly vomited.
The smoke burned my throat, my lungs protested, my eyes watered. But I forced myself to take another drag. And another.
The bitterness of tobacco overpowered the cloying sweetness of the air. The sharp smell of smoke drowned out the dead smell of the frozen forest.
My head spun—but differently. Familiarly. Humanly.
I exhaled smoke, watching it mix with the vapor from my breath and drift in the still air.
And for the first time since falling, I could think clearly.
Okay. Fine. I'm in the fae world. That's a fact.
Another drag. Another exhale.
Panicking is useless. I need to survive.
I smoked the cigarette down to the filter, stubbed it out on an icy stone protruding from the moss. Put the pack back in my backpack—might need it later.
I stood up carefully, testing each step on the slippery moss.
Looked around again, trying to understand where I was.
Late autumn forest. Bare trees. Frost. Cold.
But not true winter. Not a snowy wasteland, not an icy kingdom.
This is… this is a border. The edge of his power.
Here autumn still resisted winter. Nature clung to life, fought against his frost.
Between the bare trees, lights flickered. Small glowing points the size of coins circled in the air, leaving sparkling trails behind them. They moved too deliberately—approaching then retreating, as if studying me.
One of the lights flew very close, hovering before my face.
I made out a tiny figure inside the glow—humanoid, with transparent icy wings. Fae. A real fae, the size of my thumb.
She smiled at me, baring teeth sharp as needles.
And I suddenly remembered a line from the book: "Lesser fae are as dangerous as greater. Their bites are poisonous."
I swatted sharply. The light flew away with an indignant squeak and dissolved into the darkness.
Everything here is dangerous. Absolutely everything.
In the distance a howl rang out—prolonged, eerie, making my blood freeze in my veins.
Then another howl answered the first. And another. And another.
Hunters.
I adjusted the backpack on my shoulders, checked the camera—intact. Felt for the knife in the pocket.
And heard his voice.
Not nearby. Not from the forest. The voice sounded everywhere—in the rustle of bare branches, in the howling wind, in the crack of ice.
"Welcome to my world, Elise Thorne."
Each word echoed between the trees, cold and commanding.
"You stand in the Dark Forest, on the edge of my domain. Ahead lie seven days and seven nights."
The howling grew closer.
"Run, child. Run fast. Run far."
Laughter rolled through the forest—cold, cruel, savoring my fear.
"Because the hunt has begun. NOW."
Somewhere very close, a couple dozen meters away, a branch cracked.
Then—a low growl that made the earth tremble.
Something was moving between the trees. Something big.
And in that moment, from the darkness between bare trunks, two yellow eyes flashed, burning with inhuman fire.
The creature stepped into the moonlight.
Huge. With the body of a wolf but the size of a bear. Fur black as night, covered with frost that sparkled in the light of the moons. From its maw dripped not saliva but something like liquid silver, which smoked in the frosty air.
It looked at me.
And growled—a sound so low I felt it not with my ears but with my whole body.
I didn't think. Didn't analyze.
I just turned and ran.
Away from the creature. Away from the howling. Away from the laughter that still echoed between the trees.
Behind me a howl rang out—close, triumphant.
And then—the sound of pursuit.
The hunt had begun.
***
I ran without choosing a path.
Bare branches whipped my face, leaving burning scratches. Roots covered with frost caught at my feet. I stumbled, fell on slippery moss, jumped up with scraped hands and knees, and ran on.
The backpack hit my back painfully with each jump. The camera pressed against my ribs. My breathing became ragged, my side stabbed with pain, my lungs burned from the icy air.
Run. Just run.
Flashback—Chloe, sleeping in the motel. Her peaceful face in the warm room.
Mom, waving goodbye. "Be careful, sunshine."
Tears blurred my vision, but I blinked, shaking them off. They instantly froze on my cheeks in a thin icy crust.
No. Not now. Later. If I live to see "later."
Behind me sounded trampling—not one beast, several. Growling, barking, the crack of breaking branches.
I glanced over my shoulder—and saw them.
Shadows between the trees. Huge, fast, with burning yellow eyes. Clouds of vapor burst from their maws in the frosty air.
They were driving me like a wolf pack drives a deer.
Fear was a living thing in my chest, demanding I surrender control and just lie down, give up.
No. No. No.
I ran faster, faster, until my muscles began burning with pain.
And suddenly the trees parted.
I burst into a clearing and nearly fell—the ground here was even more slippery.
The clearing was covered with a thin layer of first snow mixed with frost. Beneath it showed dead, blackened grass. The air was even colder, burning my face.
And in the center of the clearing ran a stream.
Not narrow—four or five meters wide. Fast, noisy. The water hadn't frozen despite the cold, running between stones, shimmering silver in the moonlight.
Running water.
The rule from the book flashed in my head: "Running water protects against fae. They cannot cross it."
I need to get to the other side!
I didn't think. I rushed toward the stream, ran up and jumped with all my strength.
The flight seemed eternal.
Icy water splashed on my feet—I barely reached the opposite bank. My hands clutched the edge, the slippery moss, my fingers slipping.
I pulled myself up, rolled over the edge.
Fell into the snow, slipped, hit my knee painfully on a stone. Jumped up and turned around.
From the forest they burst forth.
Three beasts.
Bodies like wolves but the size of bears. Fur black, covered with frost that wouldn't melt. Yellow eyes burning like hellfire. Maws open, full of fangs.
From their mouths dripped something silvery—not saliva but liquid metal. Drops fell on the snow and hissed, burning through it to the black earth.
God. What kind of creatures are these?
The largest beast—with a long scar across its muzzle—saw me and growled.
Then it charged.
I squeezed my eyes shut, expecting it to leap across.
But a screech rang out—piercing, full of pain.
I opened my eyes.
The beast had frozen in midair over the water. For a moment, as if time had stopped. Its body jerked, distorted, hitting something invisible.
Then it was thrown back—with such force it flew several meters and crashed into a tree.
The trunk cracked under the impact. The beast fell into the snow, howling and whimpering. The fur on its muzzle and front paws smoked, as if scalded with boiling water.
Water. The magic of running water. They can't cross it.
The relief was so strong I nearly burst into tears.
The two other beasts stopped at the bank, not approaching the water. One lowered its muzzle, sniffed. Vapor burst from its nostrils. It growled and retreated.
It works. The rule works!
But the beasts didn't leave.
The injured one rose, shook itself. The fur on its muzzle was burned, the skin beneath red, blistered. But it still looked at me with burning eyes.
They began slowly spreading out along the bank—one right, another left. The injured one remained in place, not taking its eyes off me.
They're looking for a ford. A place where the stream is narrower or shallower.
I have time. A little.
I rose on trembling legs. My whole body ached. My hands and knees stung from the falls. The cold pierced to my bones despite my jacket.
But I forced myself to move.
Along the stream. Downstream. Staying as close to the water as possible—my only protection.
Seven days. I need to last seven days.
It's impossible.
But there's no choice.
I walked, stumbling on the slippery bank, clinging to frost-covered roots.
And with each step I understood:
This is only the beginning.
The first night of seven.
And if I want to survive, I need to become stronger. Faster. Harder.
Because the fae world doesn't forgive the weak.
***
The stream was widening.
I trudged along the bank, feeling each step grow heavier. My legs filled with lead, my thigh muscles burned, my knees buckled. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving only exhaustion and pain.
The cold ate into my bones. I trembled, my teeth chattered. My fingers were almost numb—frozen from the cold.
How long have I been walking?
The moons barely moved across the sky. Maybe ten minutes had passed, maybe an hour. Impossible to tell.
Howling sounded somewhere in the distance, echoing between the trees. The beasts hadn't abandoned the chase.
I stopped, leaning against a tree trunk. The bark was icy, but I pressed against it anyway—my legs wouldn't hold me anymore.
I need to eat. Drink. Restore my strength.
I pulled out a water bottle from my backpack with numb fingers. Unscrewed the cap—it barely gave way. Took several gulps.
The water was cold, almost icy, but seemed like a blessing.
Human water. From the human world.
I pressed the bottle to my chest.
This is all that's left of home.
The memory hit suddenly, sharp and painful.
Chloe, laughing behind the wheel: "I'll see you have a picnic in the middle of your nightmare!"
Mom, kissing the top of my head: "Call when you arrive."
Father, handing me the camera: "Show me when you get back."
If I get back.
A lump stuck in my throat. I swallowed, forcing myself to breathe evenly.
I can't think about home. I need to survive.
I put the bottle back and looked around.
The stream continued flowing onward, and the sound of water grew louder. It was flowing into something larger.
Maybe it's safer there? More water—better protection.
I forced my legs to move.
Another step. Another one. Carefully, checking each step on the slippery surface.
Just don't stop.
The forest was changing. The trees grew taller, more ancient. Their trunks were covered with strange patterns—spirals, symbols, runes glowing with faint green light.
Some trees whispered.
Not wind in bare branches. Real whispers—words in an unfamiliar language. They penetrated my mind, trying to say something.
Or lure.
I quickened my pace, not listening.
Don't pay attention. It's a trap.
The sound of water grew louder, turned into a roar.
The stream was widening. No longer four meters but six. Then eight. Ten.
A river.
The stream was becoming a river.
I walked along the bank, staying close to the water. Slipped on moss, clung to roots, but didn't stray far.
Water protects. As long as I'm near water, they won't approach.
But then I heard new howling.
Not from behind. Ahead.
I froze.
No.
More howling—now from another direction, from the forest to the left.
My heart dropped.
They've circled around. Found a place where the stream was narrower and crossed.
Panic struck my head.
I looked back—the howling was approaching from there too.
Ahead—howling.
Left—forest from which growling came.
Right—the river.
I'm trapped.
The howling grew closer. From all sides.
They're driving me to the river. Deliberately.