Silas did not remember when the forest stopped being a forest.
At some point, the trees had blurred into silhouettes, smears of shadow against an unending grey dusk. Hunger clawed at his throat until it felt like someone had stuffed gravel down it. His ribs ached like each step was peeling them inward, and his legs had long stopped feeling like legs. They were just two trembling sticks he bullied forward through mud, roots, and cold patches of night air.
He'd been lost for… what?
Hours? Days?
Time moved differently once the delirium pulled you into its grasp and refused to tell you which way was up.
He remembered leaving Grim Hollow—the smug tilt in his stride as he convinced himself he'd outsmarted his companions, abandoning them to fend for themselves. He'd sprinted off in a random direction, following trails left behind, praying he'd somehow picked "south," despite never owning a compass or even remembering the actual route.
That old pride curdled on his tongue now
