Page 84 of Knight from the Ashes (Crown and Crest 1)

“The trail continues on the other side—"

“Pranmore!” Bartholomew suddenly hollers, and Henrik and I look back just in time to see the elf darting into the trees. He clutches his mouth as he runs, and his long hair flies behind him like a banner.

Slowly, I turn to look at Henrik.

“They were imposters,” the soldier deadpans, making me snort out a quiet laugh.

“Will he be all right?”

Henrik cracks a smile. “They won’t kill him.”

“If he truly has a partial immunity to such things, I imagine he won’t be sick for long.”

“Let’s keep moving. He’ll catch up.” Henrik pauses. “Or he won’t—either way, I want to be out of the deep woods before nightfall.”

I glance around, growing uneasy once more. “Do you sense something?”

Henrik scans the densely treed landscape. “No.”

But it’s a lie.

There’s something off about this forest.

Pushing through the brush, I follow the soldier around the large rock and into a small clearing. As Henrik said, the trail continues. More boulders are scattered here, but they form a ring around the open space, almost as if they were carefully placed. They vary in size, though none are taller than my waist.

“Strange rocks,” Bartholomew says from just behind me as he pushes his way past the twigs of the large, dormant bush. “Do you think there was a settlement here at some point?”

A breeze blows through the towering pine trees, making several of the tall, slender trunks sway and creak. The wind carries the chill of the coming evening, along with a swirl of autumn leaves from the few deciduous hardwoods amongst the evergreens. But there’s something else riding its unseen cloak. Whatever it is, it’s too foreign to be familiar…and yet, it gives me a strange sense of déjà vu.

Henrik’s back stiffens as if he, too, senses we’re not as alone as we should be this deep in the mountains.

“Henrik,” I say quietly, my fingers brushing my bow. “I have the strangest feeling we’re being watched—”

I cut the sentence off abruptly and blink my eyes several times at one of the boulders—the boulder that I swear justmoved.

Apparently, my sleepless nights are catching up with me. As I stare at it, I begin to doubt myself. The rock stays perfectly still, as a good rock should.

“What is it?” Henrik asks.

Not about to admit I’m seeing things, I immediately answer, “Nothing.”

Reluctantly, he keeps walking, but his fingers rest on the hilt of his sword.

Deciding I’d feel better with my bow in my hand, I pull it from my back.

“What is it, Clover?” Bartholomew asks, concerned.

When I turn back to assure him I’m simply being cautious, my eyes slide past the young nobleman and fall on the rock behind him. Specifically, the one I thought moved earlier. The one that’s directly behind us now. In the trail—as if it got up and began following us.

The hair rises on the back of my neck, and goosebumps pebble my arms.

“Henrik,” I whisper. “Turn around.”

Perhaps it’s due to my odd request, or maybe my tone, but Henrik unsheathes his sword as he looks back.

The moment the blade is free,allthe rocks begin to move.

A surprised squeak escapes Bartholomew, assuring me I’m not hallucinating. But there’s little relief in that because the creatures, whatever they might be, have us surrounded.

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