It was something as simple as the grinding of stone against steel that woke the knight. A dull, deep, deafening sound rattled his thoughts to life. A sharp, constant pain came with it, pulling his mind back into his body.

  It felt as though this path had already been written—only waiting for him to be dragged along it.

  He could see through only one eye, but it was blurred. A persistent scraping noise sent vibrations through his skull, buzzing his consciousness in and out of lucidity.

  Branches passed overhead. No moss.

  His arms bounced uselessly above him with each jolt. A tightness around his right ankle took attention. He tried to look down.

  His left leg ached, snagging on roots and stone, dragged beneath him until the strain forced it free again. His right leg was held fast in the grip of a naked man. The pull was steady. Cold. Uncaring.

  In the naked man’s other hand was the knight’s soul-forged blade—its exposed ricasso burning blue, dark steel resting on its shoulder. Through the blur, the knight found the source of the pain.

  The hilt of his old sword jutted uselessly from his left eye, slick with blood, while the blade ran straight through his skull. He could hear the tip carving a shallow furrow through the dirt behind his head with every dragging step.

  Each scrape sent a fresh pulse of agony through him.

  Sensation came and went with every shift. He willed his arm into action, screaming in his mind for it to reach. For his hand to seize it. He could see it clearly.

  Grab the sword.

  Pull it free.

  Sever the arm.

  He tilted his head back. The blade bit into the ground.

  His vision vanished.

  When it returned, the hilt was farther away.

  Again—lifting his head—he slammed it into the dirt. Darkness swallowed him, but he could feel his arms—his hands. The tip of the blade no longer scraping the ground.

  His tongue awash with restrained screams, the knight fought to realign the scatter of broken thoughts in his head. One moment, the sky was dark—the next, blue. He was a dead man dragged across a wasteland, then a leaf drifting through a stream. The sword was steel before it was a flower.

  This wasteland—the curse he had always been—existed atop a meadow. He could see it flicker in and out of his mind—the world and what it once was—as he strained to separate the two.

  He reached for the sword, the flower, and plucked it from his eye. The meadow went with it.

  His senses snapped into place, but he waited to heal. Strength returned as slowly as his full vision, but when it did, he swung.

  It wasn’t a clean cut, but bone gave way and the grip failed.

  His other self—this reflection—wailed, taking a turning swing. The knight rolled and came up fast.

  He rose—the weight of his old sword familiar. A quick glance revealed the wombwood tree behind his reflection. His reflection faced him, wielding a part of him and no less empty for it.

  Blood still poured from the knight’s hands.

  His reflection’s wrist healed.

  The moment it finished, it charged. It did not shout or sneer—only moved, fast. The soul-forged blade went up, then came down, leaving the knight little time to react. He leapt aside and spun, leaving the wombwood creaking behind him.

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  In a stolen glance, the tree appeared to lean toward him.

  When he turned back, the reflection was already there.

  Reflex took hold.

  The knight parried, but the soul-forged blade slid through his guard as if it weren’t there. Pain flared as his index finger spun away into the dark.

  He swallowed his scream, tearing it into a low grunt.

  The knight swung at its back, and his reflection staggered toward the tree. The knight saw the roots peel apart, opening like a mouth testing its width.

  He ran at it—but the reflection steadied and turned. The knight slid to a stop just beyond the reach of its sword, then lunged on the follow-through, burying his old sword into the reflection’s collar.

  It neither staggered nor reacted.

  Before he could pull free, he was grabbed by the arm and swung around toward the tree. The knight stumbled into eager branches and writhing roots. The amber core glowed, as though it were calling.

  Footsteps behind him.

  He ducked left. Cold air rushed past—then burning tore across the side of his head.

  He spun away, putting his reflection between himself and the tree.

  For half a breath, neither of them moved.

  His reflection thrust. The knight seized its arm and drove his old sword into its chest, kicked it free, and tore the blade loose.

  Branches caught his reflection and dragged it closer.

  It fought against the branches until it was able to cut through them. The soul-forged blade sliding through as though they were nothing.

  The knight closed the distance.

  The reflection hurled its blade.

  It struck just below the knight’s left collar with enough force to knock him flat. His breath fled on impact.

  His heart stopped a few beats.

  Branches snapped. Heavy steps followed.

  The reflection stood over the knight and retrieved its blade before hacking his arm free. It kicked the arm back with a heel. He could hear his old sword slide loose and clatter out of reach.

  The tree devoured the severed arm the moment it came close enough. The knight stared at the empty space where it had been. An unfamiliar ache followed—his body tethered to something that no longer existed.

  The reflection drove the soul-forged blade into his shoulder again, seized his ankle, and dragged him. The sword, unmoving, slid through flesh and bone without resistance. Splitting his shoulder just below his neck.

  The knight screamed as his right shoulder healed into nothing, and his left arm trailed behind, lifeless.

  Desperate, he sat up and pulled his leg in until the reflection’s hand was close enough.

  He bit down on its finger and chewed without restraint.

  The reflection recoiled.

  The knight kicked its knees.

  It fell.

  Strength returned to his left arm. He turned to take back the soul-forged blade, but the reflection tackled him from behind, locking at his waist.

  He reached—caught the blade by its edge.

  It sliced his hand, but he moved it enough to knock it on its side.

  His reflection seized his hair, but the knight gripped the sword and twisted onto his back. It dodged the wild swing and advanced, unguarded and relentless.

  The knight gave it no ground.

  He drove the blade through its eye.

  It went limp.

  He shoved the body aside and rolled it onto its back.

  The reflection was unarmed, as the knight stood over it.

  It twitched as the blade shifted. The knight pulled the sword free then dropped onto its chest.

  With everything left in him, he brought the pommel down.

  Bone cracked and blood sprayed.

  He persisted.

  The first blow was malice. The tenth, penalty.

  He stopped only when his bare knuckles struck earth.

  He looked at the reflection’s arm, then at the stump of his own shoulder. With a grunt, he lifted the sword and let the world pull it back down. The reflection’s arm sliced clean where it matched his own loss.

  He turned the blade on himself, skinning his shoulder until muscle lay bare. He set the sword aside and pressed the arm into place, nearly smiling as his body accepted it as his own.

  Slowly, he stood.

  The head came off first, its face a half-healed crater. He kicked it into the tree. It fed eagerly. The amber pulsed and the tree reached for more.

  He obliged.

  Piece by piece, he fed the tree until the core darkened and the roots fell still.

  Until he stood alone.

  Then, he retrieved his old sword. With both blades, he walked to the trunk and drove them into the base, sitting between them as bark scaled over the dormant amber.

  He looked up for the Question.

  Instead, he saw an apple.

  It grew quick and colorless. When ripe, it fell between his feet, white at first—then black as it rolled to a rest.

  He stared at it for some time. Absently running his new fingers over his ear. It had grown back.

  The wombwood stood motionless, as though it were any other tree.

  He picked the apple up. It was heavier than it should have been. Cold.

  He bit into it.

  The flesh was tender and gray. No taste—then every taste. His stomach clenched. His body rejected it. He forced it down.

  Nothing.

  He waited for pain.

  He felt only satiated.

  The Question stepped into view, surveying the tree, the swords, and the blood as he finished the apple.

  “That was unwise,” it said—not accusing. Almost disappointed.

  The knight wiped his mouth and stood. He took up the soul-forged blade, leaving the old one behind.

  He turned toward the swamp and walked back into it.

  The Question followed.