The next day: Wood Cutting

Dawn filtered through the narrow window slits of the shack, soft and gray. Nereus woke slowly, body heavy with the previous day’s labor and the lingering echoes of Ziva’s touch—her mouth, her feet, her sharp reprimand still ringing in his ears. He lay on the pallet a long moment, staring at the thatch ceiling, tasting the faint salt of her on his tongue even now.

He rose, splashed water from the basin over his face and neck, dressed in the same tunic (now stiff with dried sweat and dirt), and stepped outside.

The village was already stirring. Smoke curled from several roofs; the scent of baking bread drifted on the cool morning air. Nereus made his way to the community hall, where a small group gathered around a table laden with flatbread, cheese, olives, and watered wine. Marcus was there, broad shoulders filling the doorway as he tore a piece of bread and nodded in greeting.

“Morning, Nereus. You look like you survived the Lady’s hospitality.” There was no mockery in the words—only the quiet amusement of a man who had seen many newcomers tested.

Nereus managed a wry smile. “Barely. Today I’d like to join the woodcutters, if there’s room.”

Marcus studied him for a heartbeat, then clapped him once on the shoulder. “Good choice. The forest is quieter than the fields. Less chatter, more thinking. Grab some bread—we leave soon.”

They ate quickly and set out together, joining three other men at the western edge of the settlement. Axes rested on shoulders; a pair of mules waited with empty sleds to haul the day’s haul back. The path wound into thick oak and pine, sunlight fracturing through the canopy in shifting pools of gold.

For the first hour they worked in companionable silence. Marcus showed Nereus how to select the right trees—mature but not ancient, straight-grained, free of rot—how to make the first notch low and precise, how to swing the axe so the blade bit deep without jarring the wrists. Nereus learned quickly; the rhythm came back to him faster than he expected, muscles remembering an older strength even if the divine spark had been stripped away.

By midday they paused in a small clearing. The mules grazed; the other men wandered off to relieve themselves or drink from the stream. Marcus and Nereus sat on a fallen log, sharing a waterskin and a heel of bread.

Marcus wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm. “You’re stronger than you look,” he said quietly. “Most newcomers tire by noon. You’re still swinging clean.”

“I’ve had practice,” Nereus answered, keeping it vague. “Different work, same effort.”

Marcus nodded, eyes on the trees. After a long silence he spoke again, voice lower.

“There’s something you should know, if you mean to stay longer than a few days.”

Nereus turned toward him, curious but careful not to seem too eager.

Marcus kept his gaze on the forest. “There’s talk—old talk, mostly—of a woman living deeper in these woods. A witch, some call her. Others say sorceress. She’s no friend to Ziva. Never has been.”

Nereus felt a small, cold prickle along his spine. “What kind of enemy?”

Marcus shrugged one shoulder. “The kind that speaks poison when the Lady speaks truth. The kind that tempts with promises she has no right to make. Some say she was cast out long ago. Others say she chose to leave. Either way, she’s dangerous. Not because she’d hurt you outright—she’s too clever for that—but because she twists words. Makes you question what you’ve seen with your own eyes.”

He turned then, meeting Nereus’s gaze directly. “If you ever come across her—or think you have—walk away. Don’t listen. Don’t answer. And whatever you do, don’t believe a single thing she says. Not one.”

Nereus held the older man’s eyes for a long moment. Curiosity stirred in his chest—sharp, insistent—but he kept his expression neutral. “I’ll remember that,” he said simply.

Marcus gave a single nod, satisfied. “Good. Most men who listen to her don’t come back the same. Some don’t come back at all.”

They returned to work after that. The afternoon passed in steady swings of the axe, the crack of splitting wood, the slow drag of sleds over pine needles. By dusk their haul was loaded—neat stacks of split logs—and the mules plodded back toward the village, breath steaming in the cooling air.

Nereus walked beside Marcus in silence, the warning turning over in his mind like a stone smoothed by a river. He asked no more questions. He did not need to.

The forest had secrets, it seemed.

And now he knew one of them wore a woman’s shape.