The winter air was harsher in the open, it cut at her exposed face and tried to push her back inside. Every unit of her being also tried to pull her back. She fought against the wind and her own will with an unnatural ease. Her cloak fluttered like a choir of wings as she climbed through the mounds of snow, sinking into the bed of white to her knees. Yet she kept moving, being pulled by invisible hands.

Once she reached the outskirts of the woods, where any further and the moon’s light would cease to exist, unable to cut through the thick ceiling of branches, she stopped and for a moment contemplated turning back. Here, the snow, too, could barely cut through. /

Maybe it wasn’t too late; maybe she could turn back. The hand pulled, and she followed, like a puppet. She glanced back at her house, and a welcoming pale-yellow light called for her return. Everything within screamed to turn back.

What if she’s met with an Efrya?

What if it’s something worse?

What if- the what ifs faded behind the sound of roaring wind. They, too, must have been guided by her puppeteer. The wind yowled so loud it was hard to think. Lifting up an exposed arm she closed her eyes and focused, the wind attacked the exposed skin like wild dogs a carcass.

She could feel the chaos, almost see it. It was everywhere. Drops of golden light fell to the ground with the snow, and the faint outline of golden ribbons floated around her undisturbed by the wind. They were moved by a breeze she could not feel far too calm. The same light spread through the ground and trees around her like veins of the world. The sight was not something she could hold for long. As she blinked, the world returned back to its previous state, and she again stood in the darkness. She pulled at the chaos, melding it with her own, wrestling with it, and finally collecting it in the palm of her open hand. She melded the chaos into a ball of dim light, fighting against its natural state of disarray. The ball of light fluttered in the wind like a flame. It threatened to break the circular outline, sometimes fading in whisps of fog.

Even such a small task took years of practice. Learning to control chaos was a weaver’s first lesson. Some took years to learn, some never learned. With a final look towards her home, she disappeared into the forest. It swallowed her into its dark embrace until she was sure no one could see her. Would anyone ever find out what happened to her?

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The light from her arm illuminated just enough so that she could see where she was walking. Branches and roots stuck out from the soft sinking ground of pine needles, making it hard to move. The snow had barely covered the ground here. The air melded the smell of winter with the smell of always moist soil and the subtle freshness of pines. It would take a few more weeks for the forest floor to freeze. The roots tugged at her cloak as she walked; they spoke in wordless whispers, “Wait, come back, it’s not too late to turn back now.”

The feeling of unease suffocated her; it wrapped its bony fingers around her neck as she made her way closer to it. She was guided by a power beyond her understanding, and her legs moved almost on their own toward the warding she had previously set up.

A little more to go. Through the thick woods, she could not see what awaited her. Dread filled the air like the smell of rot. It weighed down the fresh air. Made it hard to breathe. Although she moved forward, she was deathly afraid. Could this be the end of her? She wondered.

Just beyond the darkness, where her light did not reach, was her warding. A few more steps.

Just a few more steps. Looking into the darkness, she tried to make out anything. It was deathly quiet, the leaves did not rustle, as if nothing waited. Maybe she had finally lost it. The woods had grown surprisingly still. Too still to be natural.

She stepped through the invisible border, where her light would finally illuminate the warding. It was a rough creation. A symbol drawn in her blood on the bark of an ancient oak infused with chaos. She had woven chaos into an old spell, one she and her own family had created a century back. It was not as clean or sophisticated as her father’s, but all she had to go off was the books. The family heirloom, a collection of books passing on their weavings. Their chaos weavings, spells, and incantations. Everything she knew she had taught herself. Years of practice and research. Years of hiding in the libraries of the Empire until they had caught her trail. Somehow, she had gotten this far.

Her gaze traveled down and landed on what looked like a dark mass. Unmoving like a boulder. Something she had not recalled being there before.

The hand, the power, the fear all came from this unmoving object. The air had become especially rotten here. Suffocating. She stood waiting for the monster to stir. For whatever this creature was to notice her, but no movement came. After what felt like an eternity, she took a step closer, fighting against a sense of impending doom. The slight gleam of metal reflected the pale light of her chaos globe. Armor hidden by a black cloak. A knight sat slumped under her ward, his helmet slightly shifted, exposing his neck and locks of waving black hair so dark it could itself have been a part of the darkness, crimson liquid pooling around him, melting the snow and soaking into the forest ground.