He buried her beneath the oldest tree he could find — not far from the cabin, where the snow still hadn't melted.
The chains that had bound her now wrapped the base of the trunk, rusted and cruel. He'd melted the links into it with fire and fury, branding the forest with the memory of what they'd done. Her blood was still in the snow. The baby wrapped in old linen, nestled in the crook of his arm.
She hadn't even opened her eyes yet.
He knelt beside the grave, not praying — he didn't know how. Only whispering to the earth between sobs and curses.
"This is my fault," he muttered. "All of it. I left. I wasn't here."
He clenched his jaw, staring at the mound of earth until his knuckles went white.
Then he noticed it.
The bark of the tree was... curling.
The snow around the grave darkened, as if mold were spreading beneath it.
He stood. Turned.
A sparrow fell from a branch — limp, mid-flight. Another one followed. Then a third.
Their eyes were white.
He took a step back, clutching the child tighter.
The birds weren't the only ones.
The trees around the clearing had started to rot — not slowly, but violently. Sap oozed black. Branches curled in on themselves like dying limbs.
The forest was grieving.
And it wasn't natural.
He stepped outside the clearing and stopped cold.
His horse stood there — just standing.
But it wasn't right.
Its body hadn't moved, but its eyes had changed. Not the usual warmth or dull loyalty. Now they were bottomless and black. Watching him. Through him.
For the first time since the war, he felt fear.
Real fear.
He tightened his grip on his daughter, heart pounding.
"You're not my horse," he said.
The horse didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
He remembered then — the stories his wife had told him. Spirits of the forest. Elemental forces older than men. Life. Death. Balance. The things she'd whispered to the trees and heard whisper back.
She'd always said death wasn't a reaper — it was a mourner. A guardian of endings. It only wept when balance was broken.
And now it had taken a shape he could see.
It was staring at him.
"Is this your doing?" he asked, half-growling.
No response.
He turned toward the cliff path, the same one she used to take on long walks to town.
Smoke in the distance.
He walked toward it. The horse followed.
Every step the horse took, the ground behind it withered. Grass blackened. Trees curled. Snow melted to gray slush. Even the air stank of rot.
When he reached the edge of the cliff, he saw the town.
Or what remained of it.
People stumbling through the streets. Skin sloughing off. Screams cutting the sky like knives.
Homes crumbling.
Livestock twisted in the fields.
The death spirit was spreading. Mourning her.
He turned, met the horse's gaze again. No flames. No shadowy power. Just unbearable stillness.
"You're grieving," he said softly, realization cutting through his anger. "You loved her."
The child stirred in his arms, cooing softly. The only warm sound for miles.
"She was your Balancekeeper. You're mourning her... like I am."
He took a shaky breath. The rot kept spreading. Townsfolk falling like leaves.
"But this — this isn't balance," he said, gesturing at the decay. "This is vengeance. And if it keeps going, there'll be nothing left."
The spirit didn't answer.
Only watched.
He looked down at his daughter, then back up.
"If you want revenge... I want it too," he said, voice hardening. "But it has to mean something."
Stillness again.
And then... the horse blinked.