Page 120 of The Prince and His Stolen Throne
Rick and Brendon exchanged a guilty look. Finding the armor again in the dark forest was as likely as finding a particular scuff mark on a palace floor. “We can bring the helmet with us,” Brendon suggested.
“Yeah, maybe just tie it to your pack,” Rick said. “Or wear it, but keep the visor up?”
Kit chose the second option, plopping the helmet back on their head. “Let’s fight some monsters.”
The forest had been a level two or three spooky when they’d entered it. The perpetual darkness was a nice touch, making it difficult to navigate or distinguish day from night. The monsters were, of course, the highlight for Kit. Any time they could swing their sword at a moving target, whether it was a ghost, a tentacle, or tiny stick figures, made for an excellent afternoon—evening—morning? But honestly, they’d expected more ambiance, more bone-chilling horror.
Kit didn’t truly respect their surroundings until they came to the dead and buried corpse of a once thriving city.
The trees watched them.
Not somethinginthe trees. The trees themselves.
It was an important distinction.
Lumpy, misshapen knots bulged from the trees like dozens of eyes. Hollows opened in greedy mouths, inviting unsuspecting critters to climb inside and make themselves at home within the tree’s stomach.
At first, there was a single face per tree, personifying it into the watchful guardian of the forest. As the parents progressed into the city, passing the ruined homes and businesses, the trees became more mutated. Every few feet up the towering, ancient trunks, a new face emerged. Some looked furious, their hollows jagged and snarled. Others looked horrified, their holes and knots curved into an endless scream. Like the trees had swallowed dozens of victims and preserved their anger and terror forever.
Despite their grotesque features, Kit thought fighting trees sounded kind of boring. Shifting roots could only move them so fast across the soil, and the old cobblestone road slowed them down further. Kit watched a root in anticipation, trying to gauge the speed of their potential opponents, only to discover it wasn’t moving at all.
“Why do you lookdisappointed?” Rick groaned. “We don’twantto fight our way into the evil lair.”
“You don’t,” Kit grumbled, dragging their feet.
“Do I have to remind you that this is the children’s quest, not ours?”
“Delilah could take a few trees,” Kit replied, beaming with pride. Franny may have been worried about their daughter’s survival, but Kitknew better. Delilah was a scrappy fighter who wouldn’t let some living wood bully her.
“I’m more worried about the min—agh!”
“What’s a Minagh?” Kit hoped the beast would prove a challenge.
Their question was drowned out by Brendon shouting his husband’s name and the harsh creak of furious wood.
The helmet unfortunately obscured Kit’s peripheral vision, so they had to swivel their head around to look at Rick straight on. One of the nearby trees had wrapped a thin branch around his throat and was dragging him toward one of its gaping mouths.
Brendon had hold of Rick’s legs, adding his weight to the equation. It slowed the tree down, but his boots slid steadily across the ground. “Kit,do something!”
Kit leapt forward and severed the branch with a quick swipe. As their blade sliced through the wood, they registered the odd glow beneath the bark, the hot scent of burning wood. It was too late to pull back and rethink their strategy. The sword cut cleanly through and came out the other side covered in vibrant orange sap. It sizzled against the blade, melting little pockmarks into the metal.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Rick and Brendon said in unison. Some of the sap had gotten onto Rick’s pantleg, catching the fabric on fire. Rick fell backwards, his ass smacking hard against the ground and his affected leg raised high in the air.
Brendon whipped off his coat and wrapped it around his husband’s leg to smother the fire. After a few seconds passed and the coat didn’t catch fire too, he unwrapped it to see the state of Rick’s leg. A chunk of his pantleg had burned away, exposing a bright red sock and an inch of uninjured bronze calf.
Rick flopped against the ground in relief. His husband still held his ankle in the air, clutching it like he was afraid Rick would catch fire again. If it made him feel better, Rick would let him keep it for now.
Kit stood a few feet away from the tree, glaring at their melting sword. It flopped over in the middle, drooping like a disappointing bedmate. They turned their glare on the tree, which was now waving its branches, stirring up a cool breeze as each twiggy hand passed an inch from Kit’s face.
The roots stayed firmly grounded in place, a stationary target. One Kit couldn’t fight because theirsword was melting!
“Once this curse is broken, I’m coming back for you,” Kit declared, pointing at the tree with the remains of their sword. “Now, what were you saying earlier?”
Heavy footsteps and shouts forestalled Kit as three orcs ran toward them.
“Minions,” Rick sighed. “I’m more worried about theminions.”
“Halt! You’re trespassing in the Lord of Grimnight’s forest!” the lead orc cried as they approached the group.
