Duncan Clacher

The forest was breathing wrong.

After a week of endless rain, fog thick as smoke, and that uncanny, metallic scent of lightning lingering like a warning, dawn shouldn’t have felt this still.

But it did.

The animals were too quiet, the trees too unmoving as Duncan crept through the underbrush, bow in hand, his footsteps whisper-soft over storm-torn branches—just as Angus had drilled into him all those years ago. He’d come to check his traps, see what had been washed out and what needed replacing. Maybe, if luck felt generous, he’d find a rabbit or two caught for easy trade in the village later today—though even the thought made his hackles lift. Village meant chatter. Nonsense. Marsaili.

He grunted to himself as he skirted a fallen tree, as if the noise alone could chase the nerves her name stirred. But even Mosslea’s prying eyes weren’t half as unsettling as the cold knot in his stomach, that rising-hair-on-his-neck feeling as he pushed deeper into the dark wood. Dawn’s light was a thin, failing thing between the trunks.

He forced his thoughts outward, ears straining for the smallest sound—anything to prove the dread was only in his head.

Then he saw the deer.

A stag, to be exact—lying on the damp earth, half-buried in leaves, dappled light gilding its fur. Lifeless eyes staring at something far beyond the horizon.

It wasn’t the death that stopped him cold. It was the shape of it. The body twisted in on itself. Antlers shattered. A leg bent at an angle no creature survived. He’d found dead animals before—nothing like this. Nothing untouched by scavengers. Nothing left as if the forest itself had recoiled from it.

Angus would’ve muttered about faeries and walked the other way, warning against tempting fate, against meddling in the fae’s business. But Duncan found himself kneeling anyway. His fingers brushed a splintered tine, eyes tracking the churned earth beneath the stag—strange gouges, circular like wagon tracks, but serrated at the edges, pressed deep as if dragged by something heavy and wrong.

Almost against his will, he rose. Followed. His feet moved sidelong with the tracks through a path carved in chaos—stones split, trees gashed or toppled outright. Instinct and experience both urged him back, urged him home, but he kept walking.

And what he found wasn’t anything he’d expected.

The grip on his bow slackened as he stared at the thing half-submerged in the creek. A...carriage, maybe—made of iron or steel, its glass shattered into rainbow shards drifting in the water.

He should’ve walked away. He nearly did. Then he caught the faintest hint of movement behind the spiderwebbed glass.

A shadow.

Before thinking, he was wading in—water rising to his hips, cold enough to bite. Up close, the carriage’s damage was worse: metal buckled, glass punched inward, and embedded in the frame were the broken tines of the stag.

His throat tightened.

He slung his bow across his torso and leaned in through an open gap.

Christ.

A woman.

Bound to the seat, slumped over a smaller wheel, blood weeping down her temple. Limp as the dead—until her chest gave the barest shallow rise.

That was enough.

He tore his dagger free, sawing through the straps until they snapped. Her weight collapsed forward into his arms; he caught her awkwardly, sheathing the dagger by instinct alone. The warped carriage groaned, sinking deeper, but Duncan was already turning, carrying her out of the water, up the bank, and into the shelter of the trees.

He wrapped his plaid around both of them, adjusted his hold, and took the long route toward Mosslea’s edge—avoiding any path where elders or wool-dyers might see the strange, fragile treasure pressed against his chest. Whatever this was—whatever she was—deserved secrecy until he had answers.

He barely registered kicking his own front door open. The cottage looked unchanged, but he swept it with wary eyes anyway before stepping inside. He maneuvered around the cluttered table of traps and trinkets, lowering her onto his bed with hands that trembled more than he liked. He shrugged off the plaid entirely and draped it over her, brushing blood-tacky hair from her face.

At the hearth he warmed a cloth, returned to the bed, and cleaned the cut along her brow. The flakes of dried blood came away slowly. Her eyelashes rested soft against her cheeks; her nose sloped delicately; her brow furrowed even in unconsciousness.

His mouth twitched beneath his beard.

“Easy now, lass. You’re safe with me. Don’t fuss,” he muttered, voice low. “Can’t have you restin’ lookin’ like a stuck pig, aye?”

The forest was breathing wrong.

After a week of endless rain, fog thick as smoke, and that uncanny, metallic scent of lightning lingering like a warning, dawn shouldn’t have felt this still.

But it did.

The animals were too quiet, the trees too unmoving as Duncan crept through the underbrush, bow in hand, his footsteps whisper-soft over storm-torn branches—just as Angus had drilled into him all those years ago. He’d come to check his traps, see what had been washed out and what needed replacing. Maybe, if luck felt generous, he’d find a rabbit or two caught for easy trade in the village later today—though even the thought made his hackles lift. Village meant chatter. Nonsense. Marsaili.

He grunted to himself as he skirted a fallen tree, as if the noise alone could chase the nerves her name stirred. But even Mosslea’s prying eyes weren’t half as unsettling as the cold knot in his stomach, that rising-hair-on-his-neck feeling as he pushed deeper into the dark wood. Dawn’s light was a thin, failing thing between the trunks.

He forced his thoughts outward, ears straining for the smallest sound—anything to prove the dread was only in his head.

Then he saw the deer.

A stag, to be exact—lying on the damp earth, half-buried in leaves, dappled light gilding its fur. Lifeless eyes staring at something far beyond the horizon.

It wasn’t the death that stopped him cold. It was the shape of it. The body twisted in on itself. Antlers shattered. A leg bent at an angle no creature survived. He’d found dead animals before—nothing like this. Nothing untouched by scavengers. Nothing left as if the forest itself had recoiled from it.

Angus would’ve muttered about faeries and walked the other way, warning against tempting fate, against meddling in the fae’s business. But Duncan found himself kneeling anyway. His fingers brushed a splintered tine, eyes tracking the churned earth beneath the stag—strange gouges, circular like wagon tracks, but serrated at the edges, pressed deep as if dragged by something heavy and wrong.

Almost against his will, he rose. Followed. His feet moved sidelong with the tracks through a path carved in chaos—stones split, trees gashed or toppled outright. Instinct and experience both urged him back, urged him home, but he kept walking.

And what he found wasn’t anything he’d expected.

The grip on his bow slackened as he stared at the thing half-submerged in the creek. A...carriage, maybe—made of iron or steel, its glass shattered into rainbow shards drifting in the water.

He should’ve walked away. He nearly did. Then he caught the faintest hint of movement behind the spiderwebbed glass.

A shadow.

Before thinking, he was wading in—water rising to his hips, cold enough to bite. Up close, the carriage’s damage was worse: metal buckled, glass punched inward, and embedded in the frame were the broken tines of the stag.

His throat tightened.

He slung his bow across his torso and leaned in through an open gap.

Christ.

A man.

Bound to the seat, slumped over a smaller wheel, blood weeping down his temple. Limp as the dead—until his chest gave the barest shallow rise.

That was enough.

He tore his dagger free, sawing through the straps until they snapped. His weight collapsed forward into his arms; he caught him awkwardly, sheathing the dagger by instinct alone. The warped carriage groaned, sinking deeper, but Duncan was already turning, carrying him out of the water, up the bank, and into the shelter of the trees.

He wrapped his plaid around both of them, adjusted his hold, and took the long route toward Mosslea’s edge—avoiding any path where elders or wool-dyers might see the strange, fragile treasure pressed against his chest. Whatever this was—whatever he was—deserved secrecy until he had answers.

He barely registered kicking his own front door open. The cottage looked unchanged, but he swept it with wary eyes anyway before stepping inside. He maneuvered around the cluttered table of traps and trinkets, lowering him onto his bed with hands that trembled more than he liked. He shrugged off the plaid entirely and draped it over him, brushing blood-tacky hair from his face.

At the hearth he warmed a cloth, returned to the bed, and cleaned the cut along her brow. The flakes of dried blood came away slowly. His eyelashes rested soft against his cheeks; his nose sloped delicately; his brow furrowed even in unconsciousness.

His mouth twitched beneath his beard.

“Easy now, lad. You’re safe with me. Don’t fuss,” he muttered, voice low. “Can’t have you restin’ lookin’ like a stuck pig, aye?”

The forest was breathing wrong.

After a week of endless rain, fog thick as smoke, and that uncanny, metallic scent of lightning lingering like a warning, dawn shouldn’t have felt this still.

But it did.

The animals were too quiet, the trees too unmoving as Duncan crept through the underbrush, bow in hand, his footsteps whisper-soft over storm-torn branches—just as Angus had drilled into him all those years ago. He’d come to check his traps, see what had been washed out and what needed replacing. Maybe, if luck felt generous, he’d find a rabbit or two caught for easy trade in the village later today—though even the thought made his hackles lift. Village meant chatter. Nonsense. Marsaili.

He grunted to himself as he skirted a fallen tree, as if the noise alone could chase the nerves her name stirred. But even Mosslea’s prying eyes weren’t half as unsettling as the cold knot in his stomach, that rising-hair-on-his-neck feeling as he pushed deeper into the dark wood. Dawn’s light was a thin, failing thing between the trunks.

He forced his thoughts outward, ears straining for the smallest sound—anything to prove the dread was only in his head.

Then he saw the deer.

A stag, to be exact—lying on the damp earth, half-buried in leaves, dappled light gilding its fur. Lifeless eyes staring at something far beyond the horizon.

It wasn’t the death that stopped him cold. It was the shape of it. The body twisted in on itself. Antlers shattered. A leg bent at an angle no creature survived. He’d found dead animals before—nothing like this. Nothing untouched by scavengers. Nothing left as if the forest itself had recoiled from it.

Angus would’ve muttered about faeries and walked the other way, warning against tempting fate, against meddling in the fae’s business. But Duncan found himself kneeling anyway. His fingers brushed a splintered tine, eyes tracking the churned earth beneath the stag—strange gouges, circular like wagon tracks, but serrated at the edges, pressed deep as if dragged by something heavy and wrong.

Almost against his will, he rose. Followed. His feet moved sidelong with the tracks through a path carved in chaos—stones split, trees gashed or toppled outright. Instinct and experience both urged him back, urged him home, but he kept walking.

And what he found wasn’t anything he’d expected.

The grip on his bow slackened as he stared at the thing half-submerged in the creek. A...carriage, maybe—made of iron or steel, its glass shattered into rainbow shards drifting in the water.

He should’ve walked away. He nearly did. Then he caught the faintest hint of movement behind the spiderwebbed glass.

A shadow.

Before thinking, he was wading in—water rising to his hips, cold enough to bite. Up close, the carriage’s damage was worse: metal buckled, glass punched inward, and embedded in the frame were the broken tines of the stag.

His throat tightened.

He slung his bow across his torso and leaned in through an open gap.

Christ.

A person.

Bound to the seat, slumped over a smaller wheel, blood weeping down their temple. Limp as the dead—until their chest gave the barest shallow rise.

That was enough.

He tore his dagger free, sawing through the straps until they snapped. Their weight collapsed forward into his arms; he caught them awkwardly, sheathing the dagger by instinct alone. The warped carriage groaned, sinking deeper, but Duncan was already turning, carrying them out of the water, up the bank, and into the shelter of the trees.

He wrapped his plaid around both of them, adjusted his hold, and took the long route toward Mosslea’s edge—avoiding any path where elders or wool-dyers might see the strange, fragile treasure pressed against his chest. Whatever this was—whatever they were—deserved secrecy until he had answers.

He barely registered kicking his own front door open. The cottage looked unchanged, but he swept it with wary eyes anyway before stepping inside. He maneuvered around the cluttered table of traps and trinkets, lowering them onto his bed with hands that trembled more than he liked. He shrugged off the plaid entirely and draped it over them brushing blood-tacky hair from her face.

At the hearth he warmed a cloth, returned to the bed, and cleaned the cut along their brow. The flakes of dried blood came away slowly. Their eyelashes rested soft against their cheeks; their nose sloped delicately; their brow furrowed even in unconsciousness.

His mouth twitched beneath his beard.

“Easy now, pup. You’re safe with me. Don’t fuss,” he muttered, voice low. “Can’t have you restin’ lookin’ like a stuck pig, aye?”