Hackii's Arc

Chapter 2 of 7

Six nights stood between Hackii and the dark moon. He had a summons but no roof. The manor lay too far behind him now, and the wood's edge held no walls. If he left the border to sleep at home, he feared the fae would forget his face. So he stayed. The first night he shivered under a bare oak and slept none at all. At dawn he searched the tree line for shelter. He found a ruined hut half-swallowed by the wood. Broken timber leaned against sagging walls. Moss covered the roof, and thick vines had crawled through every gap. The door hung open on one hinge. Hackii stepped inside and tested the floor. It held his weight. He decided this would be his shelter until the moon went dark. He spent the day mending it. He wedged fallen branches against the weak wall. He pulled the worst vines free and stuffed the holes with moss. By dusk the hut could keep out wind and rain. He gathered wood for a fire and sat in the doorway, pleased for the first time in two days. Then he heard scales scrape on wood. A small dragon crouched on the far wall, no bigger than a cat. Its scales burned orange in the firelight. Smoke curled from its nostrils. It watched him with bright eyes and hissed. Hackii froze. The creature opened its mouth. A thin jet of flame licked the dry vines above the door. The moss caught at once. Fire ran up the old timber faster than Hackii could rise. He grabbed his pack and dove out the door. Behind him the hut roared into flame. The dragon shot out through a gap in the roof and vanished into the trees. Hackii stood in the cold and watched his shelter burn to a black frame. All his work, gone in a breath. He did not sleep that night either. When morning came, he walked the wood with aching legs, hunting anything to keep him warm. In a low hollow he found a strange tree. Long ropes of purple and teal blossoms hung from its branches. Pink flowers bloomed among warm leaves. Beneath it grew wild lavender, a whole slope of purple spikes. Hackii cut the lavender and bound it into thick bundles. He layered the stems into a low nest against the tree's roots, out of the wind. The scent filled his nose, sweet and clean. That night he slept, warm enough, for the first time since the border. He survived the last three nights the same way, curled in lavender beneath the flowering tree. On the sixth dawn he woke stiff but alive. The dark moon would rise tonight. He had beaten the wood. But his clothes reeked of smoke and crushed flowers, and he had no fine words ready. He would face the queen as a ragged, sleepless fool. The court convened at dusk. He had one day left to become worth looking at.