Dom Thornwood's Arc

Chapter 13 of 14

Dom stepped through the wooden frame, and the air on the other side felt thinner. A great stone ring stood ahead of him, etched with rows of small carved slots, each one a name for a place he would never visit. The moth-stag stopped beside it and folded its wings. A man waited under the ring, his back to the low sun. Dom walked closer. The man turned. His face was Dom's own face, aged fifty years. White hair stood up in soft tufts. A red scarf hung at his throat. Lines crossed his brow like furrows in a field. His shadow fell toward the light instead of away from it, a dark finger pointing the wrong way across the dirt. The old man smiled, the same smile from the tree line three years ago. "You came back," he said. "You always do." Dom set the skull down between them. He held up the flower bridle. His hands were steady. "Then you take this next," he said. "I am done carrying it for you." The old man's smile slipped. He reached for the bridle, and the moment his fingers closed on the stems, his shadow swung around and fell behind him, the right way at last. Dom felt the wrong shadow settle onto his own boots like a cold coat. The stag lowered its head to him. The ring behind them began to hum.