Morning came slowly in the jungle—if it could be called morning at all. The sky beyond the canopy was a pale silver, barely cutting through the mesh of branches. Alex stirred from his perch in the tree, cold, sore, and still clutching his father’s sword like a lifeline.

  He hadn’t slept so much as drifted in and out of haunted half-dreams, his mind replaying the shriek of the demon wolf again and again.

  His stomach growled.

  He reached into his satchel and unwrapped the last piece of dried meat. The bread was already stale, the fruit long gone. This wouldn’t last another day. He needed to find food.

  The forest, however, had its own thoughts.

  He walked slowly, keeping the sword in hand. He scanned for signs of fruit, birds, anything—but everything looked... wrong. Trees with bark like stone, berries that pulsed like veins, vines that seemed to breathe.

  Still, hunger won over caution. He knelt near a low bush bearing yellow fruit that looked almost like pears. He sniffed it. Sweet. Too sweet.

  Before he could decide, a rustle behind him.

  A hiss.

  He turned.

  And there it was.

  A serpent—longer than a tree, thicker than his thigh. Its scales shimmered with iridescent greens and blacks, like oil on water. It moved with horrifying grace, silent and swift, its eyes like molten emeralds locked onto his.

  He bolted.

  But the snake struck.

  Alex rolled, barely avoiding the jaws. The serpent coiled, blocking his path. It lunged again—this time, he slashed.

  The blade met scale.

  A scream tore through the forest—not his, but the snake’s. It recoiled, but not in pain. In fury.

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  It attacked with the speed of a whip, striking again and again. Alex dodged, stumbled, cut—once, twice—scales flew like shards of glass. Blood, dark and slick, splattered the ground.

  Then the tail came.

  It struck his chest like a battering ram. He flew backward, crashing into a tree. His vision blurred. His ribs ached with fire.

  The snake reared back, mouth wide—fangs gleaming.

  He had one chance.

  Alex feinted left, then dove to the right—sliding under the serpent’s body. He jammed his blade into its belly and twisted. The snake writhed and screamed, coiling on itself in agony. With every bit of strength he had left, Alex dragged the blade through its underside, then leapt free as it collapsed into a twitching heap.

  Silence.

  Then the forest exhaled.

  Alex fell to his knees, gasping. Sweat and blood soaked his clothes. His arms trembled.

  He was alive.

  Barely.

  He stared at the snake’s corpse, panting. It could have killed him. Easily.

  Everything in this jungle could.

  His thoughts turned—unbidden, unwelcome—to his mother.

  Her voice. Her smile.

  Would he ever see her again?

  His fingers curled in the dirt. Tears came, unasked.

  He stood, weakly, and turned back the way he thought he came.

  But the path was gone.

  No matter which direction he took, every turn, every step led him back—to the place where the snake had died. The jungle folded in on itself, a maze of green and shadow. The air felt thick with memory.

  And then came the voices.

  Not dreamlike. Not imaginary.

  His mother.

  His friends.

  Calling his name.

  “Alex…”

  “Come home…”

  He froze.

  Their voices were perfect. Familiar. Too familiar.

  But he knew.

  They were gone.

  These were not memories.

  These were echoes of the dead. Whispers twisted by the jungle.

  Lures.

  He shut his eyes tight. Covered his ears.

  “No,” he whispered. “You’re not real.”

  But their voices sank into his bones. Regret, sorrow, fear—they bloomed in him like poison.

  “I want to go home,” he whispered, broken. “I just want to go home…”

  The jungle gave no answer.

  Night fell again, sudden and cold.

  He curled at the base of a tree, numb and shivering. The sword rested beside him, silent as ever.

  And then he dreamed.

  This time, she wasn’t a voice.

  She was there.

  The girl from his dreams—on a rock in a clearing bathed in moonlight. Her long hair shimmered, and beside her, curled like a loyal guardian, was the same wolf he had slain.

  Alive.

  Its eyes no longer red, but golden.

  She stroked its fur with gentle fingers.

  When she looked at Alex, there was no fear. Only sorrow.

  And understanding.

  She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

  He felt the meaning in his bones.

  You are not lost. Not yet.

  He woke before dawn.

  The stars still lingered, faint and cold.

  Alex stood, steadier now.

  He looked into the deeper part of the forest—the place the light didn’t touch.

  And he walked toward it.

  Because the dream meant something.

  They all did.