The frost bit the wool. I felt it in the teeth. In the knuckles. The air was thick. Heavy. Like wet stone. We walked. The road was long. The sky was low.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

My voice sounded small. Thin. A thread in the wind.

Old Silas did not look back. He kept walking. His staff struck the earth. Tap. Tap. Tap. A steady rhythm. It matched my heartbeat. Or perhaps it ruled it. I was the merchant. The finder. He was the guide. The keeper of secrets. We were going to the Hollow. The place where the air tasted of iron and old blood.

I carried the satchel. It was heavy. It pressed against my hip. Inside, the seeds. They were not seeds, not really. They were things. Living things. Dormant. Waiting. The client had paid well. Gold. Shiny, cold gold. He wanted the root of the World-Tree. Or so he said. A myth. A fairy tale. But the money was real. The hunger was real.

"Speak," Silas said. His voice was rough. Like gravel under a boot.

"About what?"

"About why you are here."

I tightened my grip on the strap. "For the gold."

"Liar."

He stopped. I stopped. We stood in the white silence. The trees around us were bare. Skeletons against the gray sky. They watched us. They did not blink.

"It is not just the gold," I said. My throat was dry. "It is the... the feeling. When I touch them. They hum. They know me."

Silas turned. His face was a map of wrinkles. Deep lines. Dark eyes. They held no warmth. "They know everyone who is desperate," he said. "Desperation is a scent. They eat it."

I said nothing. I could not. The truth was a stone in my mouth. Too large to swallow. Too large to spit out.

We walked on. The wind picked up. It moaned. A low, mournful sound. It sounded like a woman crying. Or a wolf. It was hard to tell. The boundary between them was thin here. In the Hollow, the boundary dissolved.

I thought of my wife. I thought of the empty bed. The cold sheets. The silence that filled the house like water. She was gone. Not dead. Gone. Into the fog. Into the quiet. I had looked for her. I had searched the markets. The taverns. The streets. Nothing. She was a ghost. A memory that faded.

Then I found the seeds.

They were in a box. Dark wood. No label. I had bought them from a stranger. A man with no face. Or rather, a face that would not stay still. It shifted. Blurred. I paid. I took the box. I felt... something. A pull. A tug behind the navel. A voice in the dark.

*Bring us home.*

That was the deal. That was the job.

"Silas," I said. The name felt foreign in my mouth.

"Yes."

"If I fail..."

"Then the Hollow keeps you," he said. Simple. Direct. No comfort. No pity. "The trees are hungry. They do not care for your excuses. They do not care for your grief. They only care for the offering."

I looked at the satchel. The weight was heavier now. Or perhaps I was weaker. My legs shook. I stopped. I leaned on my staff. My hands were numb. I could not feel my fingers.

"Can we rest?" I asked.

Silas looked at me. He did not answer. He just watched. His eyes were dark. Deep. Like wells. I looked into them and saw nothing. No reflection. No light. Just depth. Endless depth.

I wanted to speak. To tell him. To say, *I am not a hunter. I am a fool. I am a man who lost his wife and thought he could buy her back with magic.* I wanted to say, *I do not trust the seeds. I do not trust myself. I think I am walking into a trap. My own trap.*

But the words stuck. They jammed in my throat.

We kept walking. The path narrowed. The trees grew closer. Their branches intertwined above us. A canopy of black wood. It blocked the sky. It blocked the light. We were in the dark. But it was not pitch black. There was a glow. A faint, blue light. It came from the ground. From the moss. From the roots.

It pulsed. Slow. Rhythmic. Like a heartbeat.

*Thump. Thump. Thump.*

It matched the wind. It matched my breath.

"Stop," Silas said.

We were at the edge. The ground dropped away. A cliff. Below us, the forest floor was a sea of roots. They twisted. They knotted. They formed a web. A cage.

And in the center... the Tree.

It was huge. It was old. It was alive.

Its bark was black. Smooth. Like polished obsidian. It rose up, up, up, into the darkness above. We could not see its top. It was lost in the mist. The branches spread wide. They hung low. They did not have leaves. They had... faces.

Hundreds of faces. Carved into the wood. Or grown from the wood. They were closed. Sleeping. Their mouths were open. Silent screams. Frozen in time.

I felt a chill. It went down my spine. It settled in my bones. I looked at the satchel. My hands trembled. I unclipped the buckle.

"Wait," Silas said.

His voice was soft. Gentle. Like a father soothing a child.

I froze. I looked at him. He was looking at the tree. His face was calm. Peaceful. He smiled. A small, sad smile.

"What?" I whispered.

"You think you are bringing them here," he said.

"I am. I have to."

"No." He shook his head. Slowly. "You are not bringing them here. You are bringing *yourself* here."

I did not understand. I looked at the seeds in my hand. They were cold. They felt like ice. I dropped them. They fell. They hit the ground.

They did not roll. They did not bounce. They sank. They sank into the earth. Into the roots.

And the roots... moved.

They reached up. They wrapped around my ankles. My knees. My waist. They were cold. They were wet. They were strong.

I screamed. I tried to pull free. I kicked. I tore. The wood bit into my skin. It drew blood. Hot. Red. It ran down my legs.

Silas did not move. He stood still. He watched. He did not help. He did not look away.

"Let go," he said.

"Help me!" I yelled. My voice cracked. It was high. Pitiful.

"I cannot," he said. "This is your choice. You chose to trust the hunger. You chose to trust the seed. Now you must trust the tree."

I looked at him. I hated him. I loved him. I was confused. I was terrified.

"Who are you?" I gasped.

"I am the one who walked before you," he said. "And the one who will walk after you. I am the threshold."

The roots tightened. I could not breathe. My lungs burned. My vision blurred. The faces in the tree... they opened.

One by one.

They looked at me. Their eyes were empty. Black pits. They smiled. They showed teeth. White. Sharp.

I saw myself.

In the bark.

My face. My own face. Carved into the wood. My mouth was open. My eyes were wide. I was screaming. I had been screaming for years. For centuries. For eternity.

I was the seed.

I had always been the seed.

The hunger was not in the box. It was in me. My grief. My loss. My desperate need to hold on. To keep her. To keep the world. To keep myself.

I had mistaken my own pain for a treasure. I had mistaken my own decay for a mystery.

I had been the suspect. I had been the crime.

The roots pulled. They pulled me down. Into the earth. Into the dark.

I stopped fighting.

I let go.

The cold was beautiful. The silence was deep. The faces in the tree closed their eyes. They slept. I joined them.

Silas stood alone. He watched the ground. The soil settled. The moss grew back. The blue light pulsed. Slow. Steady.

He turned. He walked away. His staff struck the earth.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

The forest was quiet. The wind died. The snow fell. Soft. White. Silent.

I was there. I was in the wood. I was in the root. I was in the dark.

I was safe.

I was home.