In the Dead-Lands, color was a memory. The sky was the grey of a drowned man’s skin, and the earth was a fine, choking powder that tasted of ash. But Oakhaven was different. Oakhaven was a wound of vibrant green in a world of rot. Here, the apples were heavy with sweet juice, and the wheat swayed like a golden sea.
Miren, the village healer, stood at the edge of the fields, her hands stained purple with the juice of crushed nightshade. She was twenty-four, and for as long as she could remember, she had been the one to mend broken bones and soothe the fevers of the dying. She knew the secret of Oakhaven—or at least, the secret the elders allowed the young to know. They called it “The Mother’s Grace.”
“It’s time, Miren,” a voice said behind her.
She turned to see Elder Thomas. He was ninety years old, yet he stood as straight as a young oak. His skin was unnaturally smooth, a common trait among the elders of Oakhaven. In his hand, he held a velvet pouch.
“The twenty years are up,” Thomas said, his voice devoid of emotion. “The Mother is restless. The Well is running silver.”
Miren felt a cold stone settle in her stomach. Every twenty years, the village held the Ceremony of the Thread. A name was drawn, a “daughter” was chosen, and she walked into the Shudder-Wood to give thanks. No one ever came back, but the crops stayed green, and the elders stayed young.
“The lot has been cast?” Miren asked, though she already knew the answer. There were only three women of the proper age in the village.
“There was no lot cast this time,” Thomas replied. He opened the pouch and pulled out a coin. It wasn’t gold or silver. It was made of polished bone, and on one side, a single strand of human hair had been lacquered into the shape of a heart. “The Weaver asked for you by name, Miren. She says the healers have the softest hearts, and hers is growing brittle.”
The village was silent as Miren walked toward the center square. The neighbors she had healed, the children she had delivered—they all looked away. They didn’t want to see the “Mother’s Choice.” They only wanted to ensure their harvest wouldn’t fail.
“You’ve done so much for us,” whispered a woman whose son Miren had saved from the rattling-cough just a month prior. “Your sacrifice will keep us alive.”
“My sacrifice is a murder,” Miren said, but her voice was drowned out by the rhythmic thumping of the village drums.
They dressed her in a gown of raw silk, so thin it felt like a cobweb against her skin. They braided her long, chestnut hair with silver wire and gave her a lantern filled with glow-worm oil. She was given no food, no weapon. Only the Silver Coin.
As the sun—a pale, sickly orb—began to sink below the horizon, the gates to the Shudder-Wood were opened. The forest was a wall of black, twisted timber. The trees there didn’t grow toward the light; they grew toward each other, their branches intertwining like the fingers of a starving man.
“Go now,” Elder Thomas commanded. “Go to the Well. Follow the threads.”
Miren stepped past the gate. The moment she crossed the threshold, the sounds of the village—the drums, the weeping, the bleating of sheep—vanished. The forest didn’t just swallow her; it felt as if it had been waiting for her.
The ground was soft, covered in a thick carpet of what looked like moss but felt like hair. Every step she took released a faint, metallic smell. As she moved deeper into the woods, she saw the first of them: the “Woven Ones.” They were birds and small woodland creatures that had died long ago, their skeletons encased in intricate webs of silver thread and human hair. They hung from the branches like macabre ornaments, their hollow eye sockets watching her progress.
She wasn’t just walking into a forest. She was walking into a loom.
