The forest felt different now — not merely vast, but watching.

Guinevere wrapped her arms around herself, forcing her feet to keep moving in what she hoped was a straight path. The air hung heavy, damp with the scent of rain yet to fall, and every sound seemed magnified: the snap of a twig, the rustle of leaves, the uneven thud of her own steps.

Then she heard it — a second rhythm.
Not the swift, decisive pursuit of the scarred man, but something slower. Softer. Deliberate.

She stopped. The sound stopped.

Her gaze darted over the pale trunks, searching for movement, but the forest was still. Too still.

She took a step forward. The sound followed — one pace behind.

Her breath quickened. "Who's there?" she demanded, her voice sharp but betraying its tremor.

No answer.

She began to walk faster, weaving between the birches. The sound mirrored her. A leaf drifted down in front of her face — but it wasn't falling. It was... placed. Lowered from somewhere above.

Guinevere froze, tilting her head upward. Between the shifting leaves, just at the edge of her vision, she caught a glimpse of something crouched in the branches — pale hands, long fingers, and eyes that reflected the faint light like a predator's.

The shape shifted, and she realized with a jolt it was already moving... down.

Guinevere stumbled back from the tree, her foot catching on a root. Before the pale-eyed thing could drop from the branches, an arrow hissed through the air, embedding itself in the bark just inches from its face.

A sharp whistle followed, and the creature melted into the canopy, vanishing as if it had never been there.

She spun toward the sound of footsteps, tense and ready to flee — but what emerged from between the birches was not the scarred man, nor any knight she knew.

It was a boy. No older than seventeen, lean and quick-looking, with a bow slung over his shoulder and hair the warm brown of chestnut bark. His green eyes caught the morning light, and when he spoke, his words carried a lilting Irish accent.

"You're lucky I was followin' you," he said, lowering the bow but keeping it ready. "Another heartbeat and that thing would've had its claws in you."

Guinevere's lips parted, but no words came.

He gave her a quick once-over, frowning. "You're not armed, are you? Right. Then you're comin' with me."

"And why," she managed, her voice tight, "should I trust you?"

He smirked — not with arrogance, but with the sort of easy charm that made him seem older than his years. "Name's JJ. I hunt things that hunt people. And right now, lass, you look like you could do with a bit of help."

Her heartbeat was still wild, but something in his steady gaze kept her from running.

"Fine," she said at last. "Lead the way."

JJ nodded once, as if he'd expected no other answer, and turned toward a narrower path winding deeper into the forest. His movements were quick but quiet, his boots barely making a sound against the damp earth.

Guinevere followed, still glancing over her shoulder for any sign of the pale-eyed creature.

"What was that thing?" she asked, her voice low.

JJ didn't look back. "Somethin' that doesn't belong in these woods, that's for sure. Nasty sort, lives in the dark places. Smells fear like blood in the water."

She shivered. "And you... hunt them?"

"Aye. Been doin' it since I was old enough to hold a bow." He glanced at her over his shoulder, green eyes sharp. "My da taught me. Before one of 'em took him."

Guinevere hesitated. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged it off, as if the loss was a weight he'd long since grown used to carrying. "Happened years ago. Now I make sure they don't take anyone else."

The path dipped into a hollow where the air was cooler and the trees grew thick enough to block most of the light. JJ slowed, raising a hand for her to stop.

"They'll be lookin' for you," he murmured. "Not just that one in the trees — others, too. Best we keep movin' 'til we reach my camp."

"Your camp?"

"Safe enough for the night. And I'll tell you what's after you when we're there." He gave her a half-smile. "Won't be a pleasant story, though."

Guinevere drew a steadying breath and nodded. At that moment, the idea of reaching any place called safe was enough.

The walk to JJ's camp was long, winding through tangled brush and over shallow streams, the water cold enough to sting her ankles when they crossed. JJ moved with practiced ease, every step placed where it wouldn't snap a twig or send loose stones tumbling.

By the time they reached a small clearing tucked between three leaning pines, the light had shifted toward evening. The camp was simple but efficient: a low canvas tent, a stone fire ring already stacked with wood, and a rack of arrows drying beside a makeshift workbench.

JJ crouched by the fire, striking flint to steel until sparks caught. "Sit," he said without looking up. "You'll want to hear this without wanderin' off."

Guinevere lowered herself onto a log, still glancing toward the dark edges of the clearing. "You said you'd explain."

He fed a few sticks into the growing flames, then finally met her eyes. "They call 'em the Hollowborn. Things that wear the shape of men or beasts but aren't either. Always lookin' for the ones marked."

"Marked?" she echoed, frowning.

JJ nodded, his voice lowering. "Aye. And you, lass... you've got that look. The way they've been trackin' you, the lengths they've gone to — it's not coin they're after. It's you. Somethin' about you they need."

Guinevere's skin prickled. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just—"

He cut her off gently but firmly. "No one's just anything when the Hollowborn start huntin'. They've a reason, even if you don't see it yet."

The firelight flickered across his face, casting shadows in his green eyes. "And until we figure out why, you're not safe. Not anywhere."