The bear charged, and the world seemed to slow down. It wasn't the heavy sprint of a beast, but the inexorable advance of a tidal wave. It moved in an unnatural silence, its steps producing no sound on the wet grass, as if it were running in another world overlapping ours—a nightmare of fury about to break through the barrier of reality.
"Victor, get back!" Margot shouted.
With a battle cry that was pure, concentrated rage, she lunged forward. Margot moved with sinuous grace, in a dance of death that swept everything in its path. She dodged the first enormous swipe with a pirouette so fast it seemed like an optical illusion, slid under the beast's flank, and plunged both stilettos into its dark fur. For a moment, the bear staggered, confused by this adversary so small, fast, and lethal. Margot had the upper hand. Her dance succeeded where reason faltered.
"It's not solid!" she yelled at me, backing away to avoid a second strike. "The blades pass right through it!"
I tried to help. I hurled a stone that passed through the bear's shoulder without any effect. Panic rising, I placed a hand on the ground, feeling the medallion still active. Grow! I thought. Fear and haste prevented me from concentrating properly—the thorns I summoned were weak, spectral. They tried to wrap around the creature's legs but passed through it like smoke. It wasn't real. A ghost of fur and claws.
Just as Margot, seeing my magic fail, prepared for another attack, the bear moved with terrifying speed. It didn't stop until it was on top of her. The bear moved with unnatural elegance—not raw fury and brute strength, but a lethal, sinuous determination to kill. With a lightning-fast swipe, it struck her a glancing blow. I saw its claws, long and dark, tear into her side with the same ease a blade slices through canvas.
That was the moment it reared up on its hind legs and opened its jaws.
The cello chord that emerged hit us with the force of an invisible hammer. It wasn't just a sound. It was a shockwave of pure suffering. I watched Margot fly backward as if she'd been struck by a cannonball. She slammed against the trunk of an oak with a dull, horrible sound, then crumpled to the ground, a trickle of blood running from her side.
The bear charged again, this time toward her, helpless on the ground.
Panic froze me. Strength was useless. Agility was useless. Angelica, Anje, even my brother's ghost... they'd all told me the same thing. Listen. Think. Don't force it.
I closed my eyes. I gripped the medallion, but this time I didn't want to attack. I opened myself up, letting the fear and the creature's aura flood through me.
And then I saw it. I had a vision. One of its memories tore through my mind. The warmth of sunlight on dark fur. The scent of rosewood and beeswax. And music. A cello, played by gentle, wrinkled hands. An elderly man played in a room full of light, adorned with beautiful paintings. At his feet, a black bear cub listened, head tilted, captivated by that melody. I felt the beast's unconditional love for its master.
I opened my eyes. The bear was one step away from Margot, ready to strike. But it hesitated. It had felt my intrusion, my understanding. In its milky eyes, for an instant, fury gave way to confused sadness.
I didn't move a muscle, didn't shout, careful not to break that unnatural stillness. I did the only thing that seemed right.
I started to hum. A broken, off-key melody, my voice trembling with fear and effort. But it was his song. His master's song.
The bear stopped. It turned slowly toward me. The growl in its throat transformed into a low rumble, a confused lament. It no longer saw me as a threat. It saw an echo, a ghost of its world now lost forever.
I approached Margot slowly. She was conscious but gasping in pain. The bear didn't move. It just watched me, head tilted—an enormous, tragic statue of black fur.
"Victor..." Margot gasped.
"Shhh!" I told her. "Everything's going to be okay." I took her hand. I kept my other hand pressed tight against my medallion. This time, I didn't try to draw energy from the earth. I looked at the bear and asked. Silently. Help me save her. She's not a threat. She's my friend. Help me.
Something happened. The medallion grew warm, emitting a glow different from usual. A different energy—ancient and melancholic—flowed from me, through my artifact, to Margot. It was the warmth of that memory. The wound on her side stopped bleeding. I watched the skin slowly knit back together.
And I watched the bear dissolve.
I can't say it died. It simply vanished. Its massive form became translucent, a flickering image of smoke and frost. Before it disappeared completely, its milky eyes fixed on me, and for the first time since we'd encountered it, there was no fury, no pain. There was... gratitude. Then it dissolved, and the last thing we heard was the distant echo of a single, perfect cello note.
"What... what did you do?" Margot whispered, sitting up, her hand touching the side that was now miraculously healed.
"I... freed it," I replied, exhausted. I'd understood that every guardian of the woods lived in a prison. And we'd just found the key to free them.
We followed the path the bear had cleared. It led us to a small side door of the manor. The door was ajar—it seemed like an invitation to enter.
I peered inside. The room was shrouded in half-darkness. And I saw them. Nicolas, Sophie, Jean-Pierre. They were sitting on benches, motionless, their gazes fixed on an improvised stage at the back of the room that looked like a small auditorium. They didn't blink. Their movements were slow, rigid, like marionettes moved by invisible strings. With the medallion still faintly active and pulsing, I saw the truth. Their auras, their sparks of life, were extinguished, smothered by a thick black smoke that enveloped them and connected them all to the stage.
Behind them, from the stage, a tall, thin figure made of smoke and black feathers rose up. It had seen us.
With a slow and terribly theatrical gesture, the Homme-Corbeau bowed, like a master of ceremonies welcoming his new, long-awaited audience.
I stood paralyzed, my heart hammering in my throat. We'd fallen into his trap without even realizing it. We were marionettes on his stage too.
Then the creature straightened. With a slow, almost lazy gesture, it raised one of its shadow wings. It pointed at the silent audience, at Nicolas.
From the stage, a beautiful and melancholic cello melody began to play. But it wasn't the one I'd heard in the fight with the bear—it was different music, anguished, a danse macabre. And like a marionette whose strings had been pulled, Nicolas stood up. In his hand appeared a small piece of wood and a whittling knife. With empty eyes, he began to work, his movements stiff, unnatural—a parody of his own talent.
The Homme-Corbeau slowly turned its head toward us. I couldn't see its face, but I felt its thought in my mind, cold and clear as glass.
"Stay. Enjoy the show, or I'll be the next artist."
Its shadow gaze settled on Margot, and the darkness composing its face contorted, rippling for an instant into a silent grin.