1. One

Deep in the forest, the creak of walking trees broke through persistent silence. Leaves whispered in a rush of movement, branches cracked, and roots thrashed the earth with each heavy step. The trees soared high, the hut nestled within the crowns quaint, its occupant far out of reach and nowhere in sight.

Ryurikov sucked in an excited breath, hiding behind an ancient oak, his leather boots scuffing leaf-wilt and twigs as he moved to peer past it. Three enormous trunks tromped past, roots and boughs swaying. He broke into a run after them.

A swish, the noise peeling his eyes wide open. An arrow, narrowly missing his head to penetrate the bark of a tree-leg ahead of him. Ryurikov jumped, arms extended, and grabbed hold of a branch. He spluttered against sprinklings of grime as he climbed, his cloak fluttering and legs kicking with each of the trunk’s forward steps, robbing him of his support.

Another swish, followed by a sharp pain in his calf.

“FUCK!”

He hoisted himself further up, ignoring the arrow now in his leg as best he could, grasping roots and branches until he reached the canopy, vibrant green shrouding the hut’s underbelly. Fierce winds whipped his hood off his head, copper locks flitting about while he balanced on a bough and glanced down.

The gang of enforcers who had chased him into the forest were now at the hut’s heel, their gaudy yellow and crimson attire visible even from such a height.

Ryurikov grumbled in annoyance. He thought he’d lost them hours ago. He reached over his shoulder, groping for arrows he no longer had. Well, fuck.

He continued the ascent, eventually reaching the tree’s crown, where outgrowth wove into crooked steps. He held on tight to a branch, lichen crumbling under his leather gloves. Swaying back and forth as the three trees continued their stride, Ryurikov waited until the odds were a little more in his favour, then leapt.

His chest collided hard with the bottom of the stairs, hands slapping across the worn wood before he grabbed hold of a spindle and pulled himself up. Heavily, he leaned on the wooden balustrade and inspected the damage to his right leg. The arrow was still there, tip firmly lodged into flesh. That hurt. A lot.

With clenched teeth, he grasped the shaft in both hands and snapped it off.

His pained yowl sent birds skyward, the rapid strike of wings echoing. He watched them, briefly, then pulled the dark green hood back over his head and adjusted his scarf to hide.

It wouldn’t do for the witch to know his face.

From the scabbard at his hip, Ryurikov eased free a borrowed short sword, old and ornate, when an otherworldly roar sent more birds aflutter.

The canopy of the tree-legs below him blocked the ground from sight. Not that he needed to see to know what was down there, likely tearing the enforcers apart.

Past the treetops in the distance, the sun melted into the horizon, remnants of blue still streaked across. He better get this over with and escape before nightfall.

Ryurikov climbed the steps—limped, mostly. That arrow really hurt. Blade at the ready, he brought his fist down on the door’s gnarled surface, banging with such force the glass of the circular window rattled.

“Come out, witch,” Ryurikov bellowed over the loud gales and wood-groan of moving trees. “You have something I want.”

“You and everyone else.”

He stilled, eyes widening. The voice hadn’t come from inside the woodsy dwelling. His mind galloped with frantic thoughts. Would he have time to turn, to swing his sword? Or would she curse him the second he moved?

Something prodded him in the back.

“Well, fuck,” Ryurikov said. “Mind if I look at you? Least you can do, if you’re going to kill me.”

“You can turn,” croaked the witch.

He didn’t trust she would just let him see her when no one else had, but he didn’t fancy being stabbed in the back either. Steeling himself, Ryurikov turned, blade lowered, and found himself staring at…

No one.

Just more leaves flittering, until he heard a creak on the steps behind him. He spun back ’round and came face to face with an aged fist slamming right into his nose, shattering it.

Ryurikov staggered back, dropping the sword as he flailed before catching himself on the balustrade near the bottom of the steps.

Eyes watering and face throbbing, he barely saw the diminutive woman standing before him, but he saw that broom in her hand. A broom she swung, and it connected with the top of his head hard enough to make his teeth clack together. Straw swept his feet out from under him and he fell the rest of the way.

Branches broke under him, snagged his cloak, tore at his skin. His world spun endlessly—until there were no more tree-limbs to catch him. Wind lashed Ryurikov’s head, and the last thing he felt was the bone-crunching end to the fall that broke his back.