CHAPTER 4 : EMMA

Emma had walked for too long. Far too long. Her legs, stiff with effort, had become dead weights. Her muscles trembled with exhaustion, and her arms, paralyzed, could no longer bear the weight of Marie. She wavered, nearly collapsing, and caught herself just in time against the rough bark of a tree. A sharp pain shot through her shoulder, but she no longer had the strength to care.

When she had regained consciousness, the sun was still high in the sky, a reassuring glow filtering through the treetops. Now, it was nothing more than a fading golden memory behind the mountains. Darkness spread around her like a creeping monster, slowly swallowing the forest's contours. The air grew heavy with moisture and silence, broken only by the whispering wind through the leaves. Every crackling sound in the shadows felt like a stab to her chest.

She had searched. Over and over again. Screamed Leo's name until her throat burned. Scoured the undergrowth, pushed aside gnarled branches, turned over piles of dead leaves with hands now scratched and bloodied. But nothing. Nothing but the indifferent wilderness, the oppressive scenery that seemed to watch her in silence.

Marie was slipping from her hip. Emma tightened her grip around her daughter, fighting against the panic twisting her stomach. The little girl had cried all afternoon, her empty belly demanding milk that her mother could no longer provide. Desperate, Emma had considered feeding her some berries she had spotted along the way, but uncertainty had stopped her. And even if they had been edible, Marie was still too young to eat them. In the end, exhausted from hunger and tears, the child had fallen asleep, her breathing unsteady, her cheeks reddened by the cold.

The silence that followed was no relief. It was a threat. A reminder of their absolute isolation.

Emma shivered. The temperature was dropping with the night, and hunger gnawed at her stomach, weakening her further. Tears welled in her eyes. They were lost. Abandoned in the heart of an immense forest, without a single landmark, without the slightest trace of civilization. No roads, no paths, nothing but ancient trees and raw, untamed nature. She had grown up in the city, used to the hum of cars, the reassuring glow of streetlights, the protective walls of buildings. Here, everything was mystery and hostility.

A faint whimper pulled her back to reality. Marie trembled against her, her tiny hands frozen as they sought maternal warmth. Struck by a surge of panic, Emma rubbed her daughter's arms to warm her, gently blowing on her numb fingers. If she got sick here, in the middle of nowhere... No. She couldn't think about that.

Then, a sound shattered the night. A deep, rough voice, cast like a stone into the silence. Emma jolted violently, her heart hammering in her chest. She froze, holding her breath.

There, just a few dozen meters away, a figure sat near a makeshift fire. A man.

His horse, untethered, grazed on sparse grass beside him. The flickering firelight danced across the sharp lines of his face. He looked as if he had stepped out of another time. His trousers, caked with dirt and wear, his white shirt yellowed with age, his thick coat of raw wool... Everything, down to his worn leather boots, spoke of an era long past. His long hair framed an angular face, seemingly untouched by a comb or scissors for ages, and a short beard shadowed his jaw.

Emma hesitated. Should she approach? Was it even safe for her and her daughter?

But did she really have a choice? This man was the first human she had seen in hours. Maybe he could help her. Tell her where they were. Offer them shelter, if only for the night.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward. Then another. She barely realized she was trembling, more from fear than from the cold. The man lifted his gaze to her and spoke a few words. A language that sounded foreign to her.

Emma frowned. It wasn't French. English, perhaps? His accent was too harsh, too rugged for her to be certain. She opened her mouth to respond, but no sound came out. Her heart pounded violently. Where was she? Would he even be able to understand her?

With a tight throat, she finally managed to say a single, fragile word.

"Hello..."

Her hoarse voice betrayed her exhaustion.

The man's eyes widened. With a sudden movement, he stood and strode toward her in long, confident steps. Emma instinctively recoiled. A primal alert flared in her veins. He was taller than she had first thought, and there was something in his movement—too assured, too controlled—that marked him as a man accustomed to battle. One hand rested near the hilt of a sword strapped to his belt, doing nothing to ease her unease.

His gaze drifted from her tired face to Marie, still nestled against her. Then, to her great surprise, he inclined his head slightly in an old-fashioned gesture of respect.

"Greetings, my Lady," he murmured in a deep voice. "Allow me to help you."

Emma let out a nervous laugh, shocked to hear her own language in the mouth of this stranger. But more than that, his way of speaking unsettled her. "My Lady." Who still spoke like that in this day and age?

The man didn't seem offended by her hysterical giggle. On the contrary, he stepped closer, his movements slow, measured. Offering her a face devoid of hostility. When he reached out a hand to support her, she didn't protest. Her body, drained of all strength, allowed itself to be guided toward the flickering fire.

The moment she reached the warmth of the flames, her legs gave way beneath her. She collapsed to her knees, breathless. A thick, coarse blanket settled over her shoulders. Emma immediately wrapped it around herself and Marie, trapping the life-saving heat against their frozen skin.

She lifted her gaze to the stranger and, despite the fear still twisting in her gut, managed a faint smile. A silent but sincere thank you.

A moment passed. The wind whistled through the branches, as if the forest itself were whispering a warning, a muted lament carried by the night. The fire crackled softly, casting wavering shadows across the ground and warming Emma's chilled skin. The heat, though welcome, barely touched the cold embedded in her bones.

The man, still silent, crouched down and rummaged through a canvas bag at his feet. His movements were slow, marked by a strange caution. When he pulled out a leather flask and extended it toward her, Emma hesitated. Her gaze flicked from the worn container back to the stranger. Could she trust him? Did she even have a choice?

Her dry lips finally pressed against the opening, and a cool liquid poured down her throat, instantly soothing the burn of thirst. She drank greedily, each gulp restoring a shred of clarity to her exhausted mind. As she lowered the flask, her eyes fell on Marie, still curled up against her. Instinctively, she brushed her fingers over her daughter's head, grazing the silky, tangled curls.

Marie hadn't had a single drop of water since the day before. Her frail body, pressed against hers, felt too light, too fragile. She needed water. She needed to hold on.

A deep panic wormed its way into Emma's chest at the thought. What if the lack of food and water broke her? If her tiny body, so vulnerable, couldn't withstand further deprivation? The brutal anxiety tightened around her ribs. No. It was unthinkable. Nothing could happen to Marie. Nothing. If her daughter suffered any more, she would never forgive herself.

Trying to steady her frantic heartbeat, Emma took a deep breath and buried her face in her child's hair. She forced herself to inhale her soft baby scent, to ground herself in reality. Marie was alive. Hungry, yes. Thirsty, certainly. But she was there, against her, real and still capable of fighting. And this unexpected encounter... Perhaps it was their salvation.

Absentmindedly, Emma ran her fingers through her daughter's golden curls. That was when she noticed the man's intense stare.

He wasn't looking at Marie as a lost child in the night, but at something specific. Her ears.

Emma tensed immediately. A shiver ran down her spine. In a protective reflex, she pulled the blanket tighter around her daughter's small frame, hiding her as best she could.

She knew how much they stood out in this place. Two strangers in clothes that were once too modern, now ruined by mud and exhaustion. But beyond their attire, it was their very nature that was the real issue. Their pointed ears—these new, undeniable features—impossible to hide forever.

The man, sensing her unease, took a slight step back. He raised his hands in a universal gesture of peace, a respectful glint in his eyes. When he finally spoke, his deep voice was surprisingly gentle.

"Forgive me, Lady Elf. The children of your kind are rare, and I had never seen one before. I meant no offense."

Emma flinched.

Elf.

The word struck her like a brutal truth. Her throat tightened, and she struggled to swallow. So that's what they had become? A wave of nausea washed over her. Were they even human anymore?

The man turned his gaze away for a moment, studying her torn clothing. Her dark jeans, her frayed cashmere sweater, her worn boots—everything about her looked incongruous against his own rustic attire. A glaring anachronism.

Then, his attention shifted to Emma's injured hands, marked with cuts, smeared with dried blood. A flicker of concern crossed his features.

" What happened to you?" he asked, his voice softer than she could have imagined.

Far from the harshness his imposing appearance might have suggested, his words carried a genuine kindness. His brown eyes, intense, were filled with real concern.

Emma didn't know how to respond. With a slight shrug, she dismissed the question. What was the point of explaining the inexplicable?

She turned her attention back to Marie, who was slowly awakening. Slipping a trembling hand under the blanket, she brought the neck of the water skin to her daughter's lips. Marie took a few hesitant sips, then opened her wide blue eyes, blinking in awe at the dancing flames.

A few seconds passed in relative silence. Then, a whimper. A furrowed brow. A tiny fist gripped her sweater.

Marie whimpered.

Hunger.

Emma knew it before the cry even rose in the night. She instinctively rocked her child, gently tapping her back, murmuring soothing words. But it wouldn't be enough. The child needed food, and she had nothing to offer her.

The man seemed to understand without her needing to speak. He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a bundle of coarse cloth. Without a word, he unfolded it and handed Emma a piece of stale bread.

She took it gratefully, crumbling the hardened bread with her fingers to break it into softer pieces for her daughter.

A heavy silence settled between them. Only the rustling of the wind in the canopy dared to disturb the moment, making the shadows of the leaves dance across their tired faces.

"We had an accident," she finally admitted in a pained voice. "We woke up here, lost in the woods... I don't know how we ended up here."

She lowered her gaze slightly, as if ashamed of her ignorance. Had the man been able to seem any more worried, he would have been. A shadow passed over his weathered face, scarred by time and hardship. Choosing to remain silent for the moment, he allowed himself to sit beside them, crossing his arms over his knees in a thoughtful manner.

"Your story is intriguing," he said after a long pause. "I can hardly offer any explanation... but I can promise you one thing: my sword is at your service until you find the shelter of a home. You are safe with me."

The words, strange in their old-fashioned phrasing, heavy with unexpected promises, left her stunned. A shiver passed through her, not of fear, but of relief so overwhelming that it almost brought her to tears. She hadn't cried since they arrived here, forbidding herself out of pure survival instinct. But now... now, someone had extended a hand to her, someone else was bearing a little of the burden that had crushed her heart.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice breaking.

The breeze intensified, blowing suddenly with a force that made the ancient trees sway. The leaves rustled, exchanging ominous whispers in an unknown language that sent a chill through the young woman. The branches snapped against each other, creating a rhythmic, threatening melody that sent a cold shiver down her spine. The air was thick with a palpable electricity, almost sinister.

An odd instinct gripped the young woman, as if something primal and deep within her was awakening. She felt the urge to run, to flee from the danger that lurked just beyond the edge of the forest. Out there, the calm and silent night was a trap, a mask hiding a far darker reality. The shadows seemed to stretch and twist, like fingers reaching for her.

"The forest is screaming," Emma breathed, almost in a trance, her voice barely audible above the wind.

The man, far from mocking her strange words, suddenly straightened. His hand instinctively placed on the hilt of his sword, he swept the area with a suspicious gaze, his muscles tense like those of a predator about to pounce.

"What does it say?" he asked urgently, his voice betraying an unusual nervousness.

Her response confused her. The words registered in her mind, but their meaning eluded her. The oddity of his request disturbed her deeply. Trees didn't speak. So, what did he mean by that?

"What does it say, my Lady?" he pressed again when her silence lingered.

In his eyes, an unsettling shadow took hold, a shiver of pure, raw, visceral fear. As if what he feared most was about to materialize. His fingers whitened on the hilt of his sword, and a rough curse escaped his lips. The words, quick and jagged, betrayed his frustration and unease.

"Listen to it," he said after a brief pause, his voice calmer now, but firm. "Listen closely, feel the wind, taste the air. What does this forest tell you, my Lady? What should we expect?"

Emma stared at him, confused. Was he even in his right mind? Her protective arms tightened around her daughter, her heart racing. Yet, there was an intensity in his eyes that prevented her from completely dismissing his words. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to obey despite her skepticism.

At first, there was nothing. Just the wind whispering through the dense leaves of the ancient oaks. Then, slowly, an odd sensation rose within her, a primal shiver that traveled down her skin, raising the hairs on her arms. Like a dull vibration in her chest, a distant echo calling to her. Something powerful, something wild, was awakening inside her.

The rustling of the leaves grew more insistent, no longer just the wind's playful dance, but a palpable panic. The trees themselves seemed to twist, their gnarled branches trembling under an invisible pain, as though some insidious poison was eating away at their sap. The earth vibrated beneath her feet, trembling with a mute fear, an anxious anticipation. The air, thick with humidity, carried a nauseating stench, a putrid mix of rot and decaying flesh that made her gag.

An abnormal silence hung over the forest. No birds sang. No rodents scratched the ground. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Everything living here was hiding, cowering in the shadows, fleeing from an imminent threat.

A metallic taste filled her mouth. Blood. A bitter, cold, icy taste. Her whole body shuddered. Her throat tightened with the sudden revelation that struck her, visceral, undeniable.

"Monsters," she murmured in a barely audible voice, as if speaking it aloud made their presence more real.

It was like a signal. The man reacted instantly. Throwing the remaining water from his skin onto the fire, he stamped the ashes with a swift motion. Without losing a second, he grabbed his bag and threw it onto the horse's saddle before seizing Emma's arm urgently.

She barely had time to tighten her grip on her daughter before being dragged toward the horse. The movement was so sudden that Marie slipped from her arms, and she only managed to catch her at the last moment. The blanket covering them fell to the ground, abandoned, insignificant in the face of the moment's urgency.

"Ride, my Lady!" he ordered in a voice that brooked no argument, tugging on the reins to calm the nervous animal.

Emma's gaze shifted from the horse to the man, then to the menacing darkness of the forest. The urgency in his tone froze her. The air felt heavier, more oppressive. Without protest, she complied. Her fear of the unknown was great, but so was her fear of this driven, unyielding man. She tried to lift her daughter before her on the saddle, her heart pounding. It was only when Marie was nestled against her chest that she found her breath again.

"If the worst happens, Hépérion will lead you to safety, my Lady," the rider murmured softly, with an undertone of restrained dread. "He knows the way to the city. Trust him, and he will not betray you."

Emma nodded faintly, unable to speak. Everything about him seemed tense, on the brink of exploding. He moved swiftly, leading the horse through the underbrush, not turning back once. His eyes scanned the shadows with terrifying vigilance. The silence thickened around them, heavy as a tombstone.

Finally, after a long moment, he murmured:

"We are headed toward Bree. Your news is troubling. We cannot stay here."

The oppressive darkness of the forest made every shadow threatening. Emma tightened her hold on her daughter, praying with all her might that her premonition was unfounded.

But as dawn barely touched the weary silhouette of the young woman with its pale light, a low rumble broke the silence.

Emma stiffened, a shiver of horror running down her spine. She heard, more than saw, the sound of metal sliding from its sheath. The man froze, his sword in hand, ready to strike.

A hoarse, wet breath rose just a few meters away. A grotesque, distorted growl that had nothing human about it. Yet, the creature walked on two legs.

Its skin was marked with black streaks, rotting in places. Its yellow, sharp teeth stretched into a hideous grin. Its bony, clawed fingers reached toward them, hungry, ravenous. The stench emanating from it was an abomination: a sickening mix of rancid blood and decaying entrails that made Emma gag.

The creature opened its mouth in a threatening snarl, but it didn't have time to react. The man lunged, his sword gleaming sharply under the rising light. His intention was clear.

Eliminate the threat.