A COURT OF FROZEN HEARTS

I pictured her face—with chiseled cheekbones, huge eyes and that smile that made men lose their words.

"She's the one who talked me into going to Scotland. Said I needed a break from studies, needed to see the world. We planned to travel the whole coast in a week." My voice trembled. "I so wanted to show her photos of ancient castles, misty forests, cliffs by the sea…"

Tears ran down my cheeks.

"My parents have probably already flown to Ireland. Dad's calling police, hospitals, morgues. Mum isn't sleeping nights, looks at my phone, checks if I've written." I wiped my tears, but they didn't stop. "And I'm here. In a world that shouldn't exist. Running from a monster with ice eyes. Going into a cursed forest that might kill me."

The Fox stopped.

I nearly crashed into him.

He turned, looked at me—long, attentively. Sympathy swirled in his amber eyes.

"They love you," he said quietly. "Your parents. Chloe. They love you deeply. I hear it in your voice. In every word."

He took a step closer.

"And that's worth fighting for. Worth going through the Hollow for. Worth reaching the Gates and returning to them."

"And if I don't make it?" I whispered brokenly. "If I die here? They'll never know what happened. Will search all their lives. Blame themselves…"

"You won't die." Firmly. "Because you have a reason to live." He reached out, carefully touched my shoulder. "Those Friday dinners. Tea by the window. Your friend's laughter. The smell of lavender and old books."

His voice became softer, almost tender—unusual for him.

"Hold onto that. When you're afraid in the Hollow—remember. These small, ordinary things. They're stronger than any magic. Stronger than fear."

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

The Fox squeezed my shoulder, then released it and turned.

"Let's go. We still have ground to cover."

We continued in silence, but it no longer pressed down. Became softer, warmer.

I thought of Mum and Dad. Of Chloe. Of the blue mug of tea. Of Friday lasagna. Of flea markets and old films.

Of my ordinary, boring, beautiful life waiting for me at home.

And I would return to it. I had to return.

The forest continued dying around us.

Trunks blackened, covered with something like hardened resin or dried blood. Branches twisted, taking on ugly, unnatural forms. Leaves fell in handfuls, rustled beneath our feet as dry husks.

The air grew heavier with each step. Denser. It pressed on lungs, forced breathing to quicken, shallow.

Temperature dropped—not sharply, but inexorably. Breath turned to thick vapor that hung in motionless air as white clouds.

And the smell…

First just dampness. Then rot—sweetish, cloying. Something metallic, sharp mixed in, reminiscent of blood. And something else—acrid, chemical, that made my throat scratchy.

"We're close," the Fox said quietly, stopping.

His voice sounded muffled, as if the air swallowed sound.

I approached him, peering ahead.

Ahead the forest became a nightmare.

Trees stood so densely that barely any gaps showed between them. Trunks were black—not just dark, but black as night, as if light vanished upon touching their bark.

And they moved.

Barely noticeably, but they moved. Branches swayed in windlessness. Roots slowly crawled across the ground, leaving furrows. Sometimes a trunk turned—a centimeter, a millimeter, but turned, tracking something invisible.

The silence here was absolute.

Not simply absence of sounds—active silence that pressed on eardrums, made the heart beat louder.

Even our breathing sounded deafening.

"The Dead Hollow," the Fox said, and his voice sounded like a whisper in a cathedral.

He turned to me, amber eyes glowing dully in the thickening twilight.

"Last chance to change your mind." Serious. "Once we enter, there's no turning back. Only forward."

I looked at this forest of nightmares, and everything in me screamed: "Run! Don't go there! It's madness!"

My stomach twisted with fear. Hands trembled. Breathing faltered.

Maybe I was wrong to agree? Maybe I should have chosen the day through swamps?

At least there I could run. Hide. But here…

Here we'd be trapped among hungry trees that felt every step.

But then I touched my neck. The frost patterns. The marks of his power.

Another night with him.

Another night of nightmares, humiliations, new marks.

And he'd be more elaborate. Crueler. Now that he knew I could resist.

"Ready," I exhaled, not recognizing my own voice.

The Fox nodded, his face becoming focused.

"Then listen to the rules." He spoke quietly but clearly. "Step for step behind me. Exactly step for step. Where I step—there you step."

"Understood."

"Don't touch the trunks. At all. Even if you stumble—fall, but don't grab the bark. The trees will feel the touch and wake."

"Okay."

"Breathe shallowly. The air here is poisonous. If you breathe too much—you'll start seeing things. Hallucinations."

He looked into my eyes.

"And most important." His voice became harder. "If a tree grabs someone… if it grabs me…"

"Fox…"

"NO." He grabbed my shoulders. "Listen. If a tree grabs me—you run. Immediately. Straight ahead. Don't look back. Don't try to help."

"I can't…"

"YOU CAN." His fingers dug into my jacket. "Because if you stay—we both die. If you run—at least you'll be saved."

His amber eyes didn't leave mine.

"Promise."

I looked at him—at that sharp face, at the red hair, at the pointed ears.

He'd saved me. Was going with me voluntarily. Risking his life.

And asking me to leave him to die.

"I…" My voice stuck in my throat. "I don't know if I can…"

"You can." Firmly. "Because you must."

Silence.

"I'll try," I finally whispered. "If it's completely hopeless—I'll run."

The Fox frowned, clearly dissatisfied with the answer. But there was no time to argue.

"Fine." He released my shoulders. "Then let's go."

And we entered the Dead Hollow.

***

The cold hit immediately.

Not just coolness—freezing, penetrating cold that crawled under my jacket, under my skin, into my very bones.

Breath turned to thick vapor that hung in motionless air as white clouds.

Light disappeared almost completely. Branches overhead intertwined so densely they formed a solid ceiling. Only thin strips of gray broke through gaps, barely illuminating the path.

The ground beneath my feet was soft, spongy. It gave way with each step, squelched, as if saturated with something wet.

The Fox moved carefully—each step deliberate, calculated. He studied the ground ahead, chose a path between roots that stuck out of the soil like black snakes.

I followed exactly behind him. Step for step. Breath for breath.

But even such careful movement seemed deafening in this dead silence.

The squelch-squelch of my boots on wet earth.

The rustle of my jacket with each movement.

My own breathing—rapid, shallow, full of fear.

All of it echoed off the trunks, amplified, turned into a cacophony of sounds in a world of absolute silence.

And the trees…

My god, the trees.

They were dead but alive simultaneously.

Trunks—black, twisted, covered with growths that upon closer inspection proved to be faces. Human. Fae. Bestial. Dozens of faces on each trunk, frozen in eternal screaming agony.

Eye sockets—empty but watching. I felt their gazes on me, cold, hungry.

Mouths—open in silent howls, exposing roots instead of teeth.

And from time to time one of them… blinked.

Eyelids—bark and rot—slowly lowered, raised. Something wet, living flickered in the sockets.

I bit my lip till it bled to keep from screaming.

Branches overhead stirred though there was no wind. They reached downward, as if trying to touch our heads.

Once the tip of a branch caught my hood—tugged, as if trying to tear it off.

I quickly ducked, freeing myself, and the branch rustled back with a hiss.

The Fox looked back, his expression warning. I nodded, showing I understood.

More carefully. Much more carefully.

We walked on.

The smell intensified with each step. Rot, decomposition, something chemical and acrid. It made my head spin, nausea rise.

I breathed through my mouth, short breaths, but the taste still settled on my tongue—metallic, bittersweet, disgusting.

And the roots…

They began to stir.

At first barely noticeably—a light tremor, as if from a breeze.

Then more actively.

Thick black roots slowly emerged from the earth, rose, turned in our direction.

Not quickly. But purposefully.

Like blind snakes, they reached toward the source of vibrations, warmth, life.

The Fox quickened his pace.

I followed.

But the roots crawled faster.

One emerged right in front of me—thick as my arm, covered with something slippery.

I jumped over it.

Landed on soft earth—and it trembled beneath my feet, as if alive.

Second root—on the left.

I dodged.

Third—on the right.

The Fox grabbed my hand, pulled me faster.

"They've sensed us," he whispered without stopping.

The forest woke.

All at once.

Trunks began turning—slowly, with grinding, like ancient mechanisms. Faces on bark opened eyes—dozens of eyes, hundreds, empty, hungry.

Branches bent lower, reached for us with sticky fingers.

Roots emerged from earth en masse—black, writhing, lashing the air.

"Faster," the Fox hissed. "FASTER!"

We ran.

But running here was almost impossible.

The ground was soft, slippery. Feet sank, stuck. Roots caught at ankles, tried to trip us.

Branches lashed at face, at arms. One caught my jacket sleeve—fabric tore with a rip. Cold air hit my arm.

Another branch tried to wrap around my neck. I ducked, feeling it slide across my hair.

The Fox wove between trees, choosing a path from memory, from instinct. I followed without thinking, just ran after the red head in dim light.

Breathing faltered. Lungs burned from acrid air. My throat scratched, I wanted to cough, but I held back—any extra sound attracted attention.

Something crunched on the left.

I looked back—and saw an enormous root, thick as a tree, emerging from the earth. Slowly but inexorably. It turned in our direction, like the head of a blind beast.

On the right—another.

We ran through a corridor of rising roots.

"DON'T STOP!" the Fox shouted, voice echoing off trunks. "NO MATTER WHAT!"

A root shot out right in front of me—thick, writhing.

I jumped over it—and my boot caught its tip.

Lost balance.

Flew forward, hands out to soften the fall.

Palms hit a tree trunk.

Black, wet bark.

The world exploded.

The tree shuddered—all of it, from roots to crown. Bark beneath my palms became hot, pulsing.

Faces on the trunk opened eyes—all at once. Dozens of eyes, empty, hungry, fixed on me.

Mouths opened in soundless screams.

"NO!" the Fox roared, but it was too late.

The trunk split.

Right down the center a fissure appeared—vertical, jagged, like the maw of a giant predator.

The maw began opening, revealing innards—not wood, but something fleshy, pulsing, alive.

The tree's roots shot up from the earth like a kraken's tentacles.

One wrapped around my ankle.

Squeezed.

Pain lanced through my leg—sharp, burning. I felt something crunch in the joint.

The root dragged me toward the open maw.

I clawed at the ground, tried to grab onto something, but the soft soil crumbled beneath my fingers.

"THE BACKPACK!" I screamed desperately. "SALT! SOMETHING!"

But the backpack was too far, dropped when I fell.

The Fox ran toward me, pulling out his dagger.

But the other trees woke too.

Their roots rose, blocking his path.

One root lashed across his back—the Fox stumbled, fell.

"RUN!" he shouted, rising. "I TOLD YOU—RUN!"

But I couldn't run.

The root dragged me closer to the maw. I saw inside it—fleshy walls covered with something slippery. Teeth—not real teeth, but sharp growths of bone and wood.

And deep inside, at the bottom of the maw, something moved. White. Much white.

Bones.

Skeletons of those the tree had swallowed before.

"NO!" I screamed with all my might.

I pulled out my knife—the only thing I had with me.

Swung and struck the root with all my strength.

The blade sank deep.

Black liquid spurted from the wound—thick, stinking, burning.

The root jerked but didn't release.

I struck again. And again.

Cut, sawed, ignoring the spray that hit my hands, my face, ate through skin.

But there were many roots.

Too many.

One wrapped around my wrist—the one holding the knife.

Squeezed, twisting my arm.

The knife fell, dropped into soft earth.

Another root wrapped around my waist, began squeezing. Ribs creaked.

Breath caught.

I clawed at the roots with my nails, bit them, struck with my free hand.

Useless.

They dragged me toward the maw inexorably.

One meter. Half a meter.

I saw drops of saliva—or whatever it was—dripping from the edges of the maw.

Smelled the stench of decomposition coming from the depths.

Heard the crunch of bones at the bottom.

"NO! LET GO!" My voice broke into a shriek. "LET GO OF ME!"

And suddenly something red flashed from the side.

The Fox.

He'd broken free from the ring of roots, was running toward me.

"HOLD ON!" he roared.

In his hands was my backpack.

"THE CAMERA!" he shouted, unzipping it while running. "WHERE'S THE CAMERA?!"

I didn't understand, but instinctively yelled:

"SIDE POCKET! RIGHT!"

The Fox plunged his hand into the backpack, pulled out my DSLR—modern, digital, with a powerful built-in flash.

The roots dragged me closer to the maw. Centimeters remained to the jagged edges.

The Fox raised the camera, aimed at the tree—and I saw his face contort with pain. The hands holding the camera smoked. Literally smoked, as if the camera's metal burned his skin.

But he didn't let go.

Pressed the shutter.

FLASH!

Bright, blinding, like an explosion of sun in the pitch darkness of the Dead Hollow. White light tore through twilight, reflected off black trunks, turned the world into a negative for a fraction of a second.

The effect was instant and terrifying.

The tree SHRIEKED.

Didn't groan—shrieked, a sound nothing living or dead should make. High, piercing, earsplitting wail that made you want to cover your ears and scream yourself.

All the roots—at once—jerked as if from a thousand-volt shock.

Squeezed.

Released.

I fell to the ground, freed, breathing hard.

The Fox threw the camera down, grabbed his hands. His palms were red, covered with blisters, as if he'd held red-hot iron.

"THEY'RE AFRAID!" he shouted through the pain, picking up the camera again, wincing. "YOUR IRON MAGIC!"

He took another shot, squinting from agony.

Second flash.

The wailing intensified. Trees began leaning away from us, roots retreating into earth.

"RUN!" the Fox roared, still gripping the camera with burned hands. "I'LL COVER YOU!"

We bolted forward.

The Fox ran beside me, periodically turning back and taking shots, though each button press made him wince with pain.

New burns appeared on his hands—thin red lines where fingers touched metal casing.

"GIVE IT TO ME!" I yelled. "YOU'RE BURNING!"

"NO!" The Fox took another shot. "YOU CAN'T DO IT WHILE RUNNING!"

Each flash made the forest recoil, writhe.

We ran through a corridor of light among dead trees.

Behind us howls still sounded—now not just of pain but rage. Fury at those who dared bring cursed human magic into the realm of darkness.

But the trees didn't pursue.

Were afraid.

"HOW FAR TO THE EXIT?!" I shouted while running.

"ALMOST! SEE THE LIGHT?!"

I peered ahead—and truly saw it. Between trunks brighter light broke through. Not the gray twilight of the Hollow, but golden radiance of sunset.

Another hundred meters. Fifty.

The Fox took a last shot—just in case—and immediately dropped the camera, hissing with pain.

I caught it mid-flight without stopping.

And suddenly we burst through.

From darkness into light.

From nightmare into ordinary forest.

Fell to the ground gasping, unable to believe we were alive.

I lay on my back, gulping clean air. My lungs burned, but each breath was a blessing after the acrid smoke of the Hollow.

The sun had set beyond the horizon, painting the sky in crimson tones. First stars emerged in violet twilight.

We lay in silence for several minutes, recovering our breathing, unable to believe we were alive.

But gradually the adrenaline began to fade. And then everything hit me at once.

Shock. Horror. Understanding.

My hands began trembling—at first barely noticeably, then stronger and stronger until they turned into shaking leaves.

I looked at the camera in my hands.

My ordinary camera. The one I'd come to Scotland with to photograph landscapes for my coursework project.

And it had just…

"What was that?" My voice trembled. "How… how is that possible?"

The Fox sat examining his burned hands, silent.

"My camera," I whispered, looking at it with both awe and horror. "An ordinary digital camera drove off dead trees."

I raised my gaze to the Fox.

"You knew." Not an accusation. Statement of fact. "Knew it could do this."

He nodded without looking away from his hands.

"Iron," he said simply. "Magnesium in the flash. Lithium in the battery. Copper in wires. All your technology…"

He fell silent, carefully flexing his burned fingers.

"All your technology is built on rationalism. On logic. On denial of magic." His voice became quieter, a strange bitterness sounding in it. "It's the opposite of our nature. It's… anti-magic, if you will."

I stared at him.

"Anti-magic?"

"Every one of your devices, every gadget is created with the thought that the spirit world doesn't exist." He raised his burned hand, looking at the blisters. "That certainty, that rationality… it's absorbed into metal, into plastic, into everything you build your world from."

The Fox met my gaze.

"And when such a thing enters our world…" He winced. "It's like acid. Like poison. Painful even to be near, let alone touch."

Astonishment washed over me in a wave.

"How do you know all this?" I whispered. "About our technology, about rationalism? You're fae, you live in the forest…"

"Three hundred years, yes." He looked away. "But not only in the forest."

"What do you mean 'not only'?"

"Sometimes… I venture out." Reluctantly. "Into your world. To study."

"Why?"

The Fox was silent for a long time, looking toward the Dead Hollow.

"Because your world is encroaching on ours," he finally said. "More with each year. Railroads, factories, cities… Magic weakens. Fae disappear."

His voice became harder.

"If you want to survive in a changing world, you need to know your enemy." He looked at me. "Or ally. Depending on circumstances."

"And what do you… how do you study our world?"

A smile—bitter, almost painful.

"I take human form. Walk through your cities. Read books in libraries. Watch how you live." A pause. "How you kill magic without understanding it yourselves."

I felt uneasy.

"And how long have you been doing this?"

"A hundred years. Maybe more." He carefully bent his fingers, checking the burns. "At first it was curiosity. Then—necessity."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" I sat closer, trying to speak more calmly. "About the camera. I could have used it from the beginning."

The Fox raised his gaze—fatigue showed in his amber eyes.

"Didn't know for sure if it would work," he said honestly. "Theory is one thing, practice is another. Besides…" He paused. "Besides, I didn't want to give you too powerful a weapon."

"What?"

"Think for yourself." He met my gaze. "Any technical thing from your world can kill fae. Phone, tablet, even an ordinary watch. Everything containing iron and created with the thought of denying magic."

A chill ran down my spine.

"You were afraid of me."

"Not afraid." Quickly. "Was cautious. There's a difference."

"But you knew I had the camera?"

A pause. He looked away.

"Saw it when you were going through your things. When the mist brought you to us." He raised his hand, stopping my protest. "I didn't rummage through your belongings. Just… noticed. Even then."

"And you kept silent."

"Kept silent," he agreed. "Until today."

I looked at him—at the burned hands, at the tired face, at the amber eyes full of some ancient sorrow.

He'd saved me, enduring pain from touching what was poison to him.

"Fine," I exhaled. "Next time just… tell me right away. Okay?"

"Okay."

"And thank you." My voice trembled. "For risking. For enduring pain for me."

Something inside me broke.

All the emotions I'd been keeping under control—fear, despair, gratitude—flooded out at once.

I lunged toward him, wrapped my arms around his neck, pressed close, desperately.

"Thank you," I sobbed into his shoulder. "Thank you for not abandoning me. For staying. For saving me."

The Fox froze.

Completely. Absolutely.

As if he'd turned to stone. I felt muscles tense beneath my arms, felt him stop breathing.

For several seconds we sat like that—me clinging to him like a life preserver, and him petrified with surprise.

Then it dawned on me what I was doing.

Awkwardness hit in a wave.

"Sorry," I mumbled, starting to pull away. "I didn't mean to…"

But then his arms—carefully, slowly—settled on my back.

"'Thank you' again," he said in a weak voice, but I heard the attempt to joke in it. "Technically now you owe me again…"

He didn't finish.

Because the tension left his body all at once.

His arms closed tighter, pulling me closer. He lowered his head, buried his face in my tangled hair.

"God," he whispered so quietly I barely heard. "How long… how long since anyone hugged me."

Such bewilderment, such surprise sounded in his voice, as if he'd forgotten what it was like—human warmth.

We stood pressed together in the darkening forest.

I felt how his hands trembled on my back. How unevenly he breathed. How something rigid in him melted, softened.

"Not all fae…" His voice trembled. "We don't all understand touches. Embraces. It's too… human."

He pulled back slightly, looked into my eyes.

"And you hugged me as if it were the most natural thing in the world."

"For me it is." I didn't release him. "When someone saves my life, risking their own… it's the only way to really say thank you."

The Fox looked at me for a long time, studying.

Then slowly smiled—the first real, warm smile in all the time we'd known each other.

"Then I won't count this as a debt," he said softly. "Let it be an exception."

"Thank you," I whispered, and we both laughed.

I reluctantly released him, stepped back.

The world around seemed colder without his embrace.

But something had changed between us. A wall I hadn't noticed before had crumbled. Now he looked at me not as an interesting mortal, but as… a friend.

"The backpack," I said quieter, returning to reality. "Where's my backpack?"