The Crying Tree groaned.
Its voice—once mournful—twisted into something deeper, more guttural. The face on its bark contorted, eyes turning black, mouth splitting unnaturally wide. The weeping stopped.
And then it moved.
Roots burst from the ground like serpents, tearing through moss and soil. One lashed toward Yurko, who stumbled backward, narrowly avoiding its grasp. Another coiled toward Lybid, who threw up a wall of vines in defense.
"The forest is turning!" Maksym shouted. "The sorrow's gone—something else has taken hold!"
"Run!" Methodius cried. "Back the way we came—"
"No," Shchek said.
He stood still, his eyes unfocused. Listening.
Then—
"This way."
He broke into a sprint—not away from the tree, but toward a narrow, almost invisible trail winding between crooked stones.
"Shchek?!" Lybid shouted. "Where—?"
"Trust me!" he called back.
Something in his voice—calm, but urgent—forced their feet into motion. They ran after him, dodging slashing roots and the tree's howling groans. Bark cracked open like old bone. Crimson sap sprayed the air.
The forest bent behind them.
But Shchek knew the way.
Left at a fork none of them saw. Under a root arch that hadn't been there seconds before. Down a slope that shimmered like memory.
Only once did he falter—when the voice returned.
"Turn here. Do not stop. Let them follow. The tree is not what you think."
He obeyed.
When they finally emerged into a patch of thin birches, the air cleared. The sound of pursuit vanished. The Crying Tree had not followed.
Only then did they collapse, gasping.
Yurko stared at Shchek. "What was that?"
He said nothing.
Maksym narrowed his eyes.
Lybid didn't say anything. Not yet.
The others exchanged glances—suspicion brewing.
But one thing was clear:
Without Shchek, they'd be dead.
And 'She' knew it.