The first rule everyone learns is not to follow the lights.
The second rule—spoken less often, usually after someone goes missing—is that the forest is not empty. It is full of witnesses. Roots that remember footsteps. Leaves that remember breath. And things older than names that remember promises.
I broke both rules on the same night.
The road ended a mile behind me, swallowed by fog and pine. My boots sank into soft earth as I crossed the boundary where the air cooled too quickly, like I'd stepped into a held breath. The moon hung low and pale, its light caught in the branches like a blade lodged between ribs.
I knew this place.
Not by map or memory, but by the way my pulse stuttered—as if my body recognized a debt before my mind would allow it.
"Just get it over with," I whispered to myself.
The forest listened.
A sound answered—not a voice, not quite—but the creak of bending wood and the faint chiming hum that came when the veil thinned. Silver motes drifted between the trees, hovering just at the edge of sight. Not lights.
Invitations.
I ignored them and walked on.
The Hollow revealed itself the way lies do: slowly, beautifully, and too late to turn back from. Trees curved inward, their trunks pale and smooth as bone, branches knitting together overhead to form a cathedral roof. Vines glimmered faintly, threaded with bioluminescent flowers that opened as I approached, breathing out a scent both sweet and rotten.
At the center stood the throne.
It was different than I remembered.
Last time, it had been smaller—almost modest—woven from roots and thorns, low to the ground like something pretending to be humble. Now it rose taller, shaped from antler, ivory bark, and something that looked uncomfortably like vertebrae. The forest had grown… generous.
Or hungry.
"She's coming," a voice murmured near my ear.
I spun, heart slamming, but there was no one there—only a ripple in the air, like heat over stone.
"Late," another voice chimed. Younger. Crueler. "Humans are always late to their endings."
I stepped forward anyway.
"I didn't come to be mocked," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "I came because I was called."
The throne breathed.
Vines shifted. Branches groaned. And then she was there—no entrance, no movement, simply present, as if the forest had decided she had always been sitting there and reality had finally caught up.
The Fae Queen regarded me with lazy interest.
She wore no crown. She didn't need one. Power settled around her like gravity—unseen, undeniable. Her skin shimmered faintly, like moonlight caught beneath ice. Hair the color of autumn rot cascaded over her shoulders, threaded with thorns and blossoms that opened and closed as she breathed.
Her eyes pinned me in place.
"Ah," she said softly. "The borrower returns."
My hands clenched at my sides. "You summoned me."
She smiled.
That smile had not changed. It was still too sharp at the corners, still heavy with the promise of kindness that would cost you something later.
"I don't summon," she corrected. "I collect."
The forest leaned in.
I swallowed. "You said I had time."
"I said," she replied gently, "that time would behave."
Her gaze flicked over me, slow and intimate, like fingers tracing scars. "And it has. Your sister lives. Strong. Whole. Laughing."
The image hit me without mercy—my sister's face in sunlight, color returned to her cheeks, breath easy in her lungs. The miracle I had begged for. The miracle I had bought.
"Yes," I said. "She does."
The Queen rose from her throne. Each step she took caused the ground to bloom beneath her feet—flowers erupting, then blackening as she passed.
"And you?" she asked. "Have you lived just as fully?"
I said nothing.
She stopped in front of me, close enough that the air felt charged, humming through my bones. "Do you know why mortals make the worst bargains?"
"Because we're desperate," I said.
"No," she replied. "Because you lie to yourselves about what you love."
Her fingers lifted my chin. They were cool. Not cold—measured.
"You offered your life," she continued. "Your service. Your future. All very dramatic. All very meaningless."
My heart began to pound.
"I told you," she said softly, "that the debt would be taken from what you held most precious."
Her hand fell away.
"Tonight," the Queen said, "you will finally understand what that meant."
The forest shifted.
Footsteps sounded behind me.
I turned.
And the world narrowed to a single, unbearable point.
Elias stood at the edge of the Hollow, confused, human, real in the way dreams never are. His jacket was damp with mist. His dark hair curled at the collar the way it always did. His eyes—gods—his eyes searched the trees until they found me.
Relief flooded his face.
"There you are," he said. "I don't know why, but I felt like I needed to follow you."
My chest caved inward.
The Queen's voice brushed my ear like a lover's whisper.
"Your debt," she said, "has arrived."
And the forest smiled.