The dawn crept in slow and gray, a muted glow filtering through the pub’s iron-clad shutters. I awoke sprawled across the soil mound, my cheek pressed into its warm, loamy embrace, a faint crust of dirt clinging to my skin.

  I sat up, brushing the soil from my hands, and took stock. The arbalest rested beside me, bolt loaded, string taut—ready for whatever the day might bring. The mound beneath me pulsed faintly, its warmth a steady comfort against the chill seeping through the cracks in the wood.

  My body ached as I got off my pile—ribs tender from the Sirin’s blast, arms stiff from wielding the arbalest, legs heavy from the night’s adrenaline-fueled chaos. But I was alive, and the pub stood intact, its walls unbreached by talons or flame.

  I thought of my weird witch-stats. The chart came up, flashing into my mind. I went over the lines noting no changes whatsoever and no new cultivated essence to be had. No experience was rewarded to me for my battle with the Sirin. A disappointing development.

  Outside, the world was silent. No haunting melodies, no distant howls—just the soft patter of snowflakes against the roof and the occasional groan of wind-rattled trees. I winced as my ribs twinged, and shuffled to the window, peering through the slit in the shutter. The snow beyond was a battlefield of scars: blackened patches where the Sirin’s feathers had burned, smears of emerald ichor staining the white, feathers strewn like dark omens. The bear trap lay twisted and useless, its jaws splayed wide, the ropes reduced to frayed scraps. The counterweight stone sat half-buried, its edge chipped where it had struck her.

  I examined the battlefield more carefully from the safety of the threshold. Among the mess of broken traps and scorched snow, something caught my eye—a gleaming trail, iridescent against the pristine white. Droplets of the Sirin's emerald blood, scattered like jewels across the snow.

  "Hum," I murmured, pushing the door wider. "Looks like my feathered nemesis left a parting gift."

  I stepped outside cautiously, arbalest at the ready, scanning the area for any sign of movement. The village remained eerily silent, save for the soft crunch of snow beneath my boots. The emerald droplets glistened in the morning light, their unnatural hue pulsing faintly with an inner luminescence.

  I crouched beside the nearest cluster, examining it with the clinical detachment. The substance was looking more akin to crystal covered in a film of oil than human blood, with a strange iridescent quality that shifted between green and black depending on how the light struck it. It emitted a faint, sweet scent—not the metallic tang of mammalian blood.

  "Non-human hemoglobin structure, possibly containing copper instead of iron, hence the green coloration. Or perhaps something else entirely." I commented.

  I glanced back at the pub, my domain nestled safely inside. If the Sirin's blood contained even a fraction of the magical potency she'd demonstrated, it would be a boon for my understanding of magic creatures.

  Back inside, I rummaged through the salvaged supplies until I found what I needed—a small glass jar with a tight-fitting cork lid, likely once used for preserving spices or herbs. Perfect for my impromptu specimen collection.

  Armed with my jar and a thin wooden splint, I returned to the emerald droplets. Carefully, I scraped each one into the jar, noting how the substance was entirely crystalline yet acted viscous when two separate large drops were brought together, fusing into one.

  "The viscosity suggests complex molecular structures," I muttered.

  The jar slowly filled. When I had collected what felt like a sufficient amount of blood, I sealed it tightly, holding it up to examine my prize. The crystallized blood caught the light, sending dappled green reflections dancing across my face and hands.

  But as I tucked the jar safely into my coat pocket, I noted that a trail of droplets was leading away from the pub, into the depths of the dead forest. The Sirin had fled, wounded, in that direction. And judging by the density of the blood trail, she hadn't gotten far.

  "Hmm." I weighed my options, staring into the gnarled maze of leafless trees.

  Following a wounded, vengeful magical predator into an unknown forest seemed like the definition of a terrible idea. And yet...

  The scientific part of me hummed with curiosity.

  A wounded Sirin might be observably different from a healthy one. I might learn more about their weaknesses, their healing capabilities, their behavior when not hunting. Knowledge was power, and in this strange world, I needed all the power I could get.

  But first, I needed a better way to transport my domain. The backpack had proven useful for short journeys, but if I wanted to venture deeper into the forest, I'd need something more substantial.

  I remembered seeing a large sled behind one of the houses—the kind used to transport goods across snow-covered terrain. I found it half-buried in snow beside a collapsed grain store. The sled was large, built to be pulled by horses or oxen, with sturdy wooden rails and metal runners that would glide smoothly across the frozen ground. It was thankfully entirely intact.

  "Perfect," I said, brushing snow from its weathered surface. "Now for the heavy lifting."

  I returned to the pub and began the laborious process of transferring my domain to the sled. Shovelful by shovelful, I moved the enchanted earth, packing it densely to conserve space. The flowers and plants from my glade I arranged carefully atop the soil, ensuring they remained rooted in the magical substrate.

  By midday, I had transformed the sled into a mobile domain—a miniature version of my glade, complete with its verdant flora. The weight was substantial, but not impossible for one person to pull, especially with the slick runners sliding over thick snow.

  "Mobile witch headquarters, check," I said. "Now for some protection."

  The Sirin's attack had proven that mere traps, however ingenious, wouldn't be enough against the magical threats of this world. I needed weapons—not just medieval arbalests and swords, but something that would give me an advantage, something unexpected.

  From my salvaging expeditions, I'd collected several glass bottles—remnants of wine and spirits the villagers had enjoyed before their fiery demise. These would be perfect for what I had in mind.

  I returned to the food storage cellars and methodically searched until I found what I needed: a barrel of high-proof alcohol, something akin to vodka or moonshine. The smell alone made my eyes water as I uncorked it.

  "Primitive, but effective," I said, carefully filling several bottles.

  Next, I tore strips from a linen tablecloth I'd found, twisting them into makeshift wicks. The modern tools I'd discovered in the smithy proved invaluable here—the precision pliers allowing me to secure the cloth stoppers perfectly.

  I worked methodically, assembling a half-dozen Molotov cocktails. Each bottle was filled three-quarters with the potent alcohol, the cloth wick protruding from the top.

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  "Monster-bird problems require modern solutions," I quipped to myself, carefully arranging the bottles in a wooden crate padded with straw to prevent breakage.

  With my improvised arsenal secured, I loaded the crate onto my domain-sled alongside several arbalests, a sword, and a sharp knife I'd found. The emerald blood sample was carefully wrapped and placed in a small pouch at my belt.

  I donned the thickest furs I could find, wrapping layers of wool beneath for insulation. Despite my domain's warmth, venturing into the forest would expose me to the bitter cold when I moved away from the sled. I put on a pair of snow-shoes I had discovered in one of the half-destroyed sheds.

  "Time to hunt the hunter," I said, pulling on thick mittens and securing a fur hat over my ears.

  The blood trail led northwest, a sporadic path of glowing emerald droplets disappearing into the twisted maze of dead trees. With a deep breath, I grasped the rope harness I'd attached to the sled and began to pull, my domain sliding smoothly behind me across the snow.

  The weight was substantial but manageable, especially when I remained close enough to the soil to benefit from its strengthening properties. As I approached the forest's edge, I hesitated, staring into the gloom beneath the skeletal canopy.

  "This is either the grand beginning of a witch scientist’s journey," I muttered, "or the beginning of a very short cautionary tale."

  With a final glance back at the ruins of Svalbard, I stepped into the shadow of the dead forest, following the trail of emerald blood into the unknown.

  The forest loomed before me, a gnarled labyrinth of skeletal trees reaching toward a colorless sky. Despite the weight of the sled behind me, I felt a strange eagerness to follow the trail of emerald droplets—each one glimmering like a poisonous beacon guiding me deeper into the unknown.

  The transition from the open ruins of Svalbard to the claustrophobic embrace of the forest was immediate and unsettling. Sound seemed to die here, swallowed by the twisted branches that formed a canopy of wooden claws above my head. The snow-covered ground muffled my footsteps, creating an illusion of floating through the dead woodland rather than trudging across it.

  After about ten minutes of hauling my domain-sled through the maze of lifeless trunks, I noticed something peculiar—a pale substance coating the bark of several trees. At first glance, it resembled frost, but as I approached for a closer inspection, I realized it was something far more intriguing.

  "Is that... mold?" I murmured, setting down the sled's harness to examine the strange growth.

  The substance was indeed a type of fungus or mold, but unlike any I'd encountered before. It was stark white, almost luminescent against the dark bark, with a texture resembling fine cobwebs or crystalline structures. When I carefully scraped a small sample with my knife, it crumbled like ash between my fingers, releasing spores that drifted lazily in the still air.

  I quickly retrieved a small glass vial from my supplies and carefully collected several samples of the mold, noting how it seemed to spread in geometric patterns across the trees—almost like a neural network rather than the random sprawl of typical fungal growth.

  What struck me as particularly odd was the mold's distribution. It appeared exclusively on the northeast side of each affected tree, as if it required specific conditions to thrive, or perhaps was spreading from a central source in that direction. Was this some magical equivalent of Dutch elm disease? A parasite attacking the forest? Or something more sinister?

  I corked the vial and secured it in my pack, making a mental note to examine it more closely when I returned to my pub and made a proper laboratory.

  Continuing onward, I noticed the mold becoming more prevalent, entire trees encased in its pale embrace. The forest grew denser, the trees crowding closer, their branches interlacing overhead to form tunnels that blocked out what little daylight filtered through the clouds.

  The emerald trail led me ever deeper, the droplets growing larger and more frequent—a promising sign that my quarry was slowing, perhaps weakening from her injuries. The thought brought a grim satisfaction. The Sirin had attempted to lure me to my death with her enchanted song; turnabout seemed only fair.

  After nearly thirty minutes of pulling my sled through increasingly difficult terrain, I came upon a clearing dominated by a massive oak. Unlike the other trees, this ancient giant showed no signs of the white mold, its massive trunk rising like a fortress from the snow-covered ground. It must have been centuries old, its girth so substantial that ten men linking arms couldn't have encircled it.

  But what captured my attention wasn't the tree's impressive size—it was the bizarre growths erupting from its trunk and branches.

  Spherical masses of twisted branches formed protrusions at various heights, ranging from the size of a human head to structures large enough to contain a small room. They resembled cancerous growths, as if the tree had attempted to form new limbs but lost control of the process, creating these hollow balls of wood instead.

  The emerald blood trail led directly to the largest of these growths, situated about fifty feet up the trunk—a sphere of interlaced branches approximately ten feet in diameter. As I approached, I noticed an eerie green glow emanating from within, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.

  Securing my sled to a nearby tree, I moved cautiously toward the oak. The snow beneath my feet was heavily stained with emerald ichor, suggesting the Sirin had dragged herself here with great difficulty.

  A soft sound drifted down from the twisted sphere—a keening, broken melody that raised the hairs on my neck. Unlike the hypnotic song that had nearly lured me to my death, this was a lament, raw with pain and fury.

  I crept closer to the tree, analyzing the spherical growth above me. It appeared to be a nest or healing chamber, woven from branches that seemed to have grown unnaturally quickly, bending to the Sirin's will or responding to her blood's properties.

  From my position at the base of the massive oak, I could glimpse a dark figure within the nest through gaps in the twisted branches—a flutter of charred feathers. The Sirin was indeed inside, likely attempting to heal from the wounds I'd inflicted.

  The oak itself seemed hollow, featuring a multitude of dark crevices.

  Closer to the tree, the words became clearer, intertwined with weary rasps of a punctured lung.

  ",

  My wings once mighty, now broken and brash.

  Pain courses through me like rivers of flame,

  This witch-born creature shall pay for my shame.

  Matron of shadow, cradle my form,

  Stitch what is shattered in midnight's storm.

  Thread flesh to flesh, reweave my bone

  Return me to glory upon my home.”

  I wondered if she was a person once that had long ago aligned herself to a god of shadows like I had aligned myself to Zemliya, goddess of the earth.

  “No sacred boundary shall grant him grace,

  When I emerge from shadow's cold embrace.

  Elder trees, gnarled and knowing,

  Cast my whispers via winds ever-blowing.”

  The lament sent chills down my spine—not from magical compulsion, but from the raw hatred infused in every syllable. This wasn't just the wounded cry of a predator; it was a promise of a planned retribution. Her hum amplified itself, grew clearer and louder.

  “Sentinel pines of this dying wood,

  Warn the coven where once you stood.

  Whisper of a creature that walks our realm,

  Neither Witch nor Dyrkjarl at the helm.

  One that's fractured, one that's wrong,

  Deaf to even my sweetest song.

  Carry this curse through root and vine,

  Let no crevice be his shrine.”

  Her words were alarming—she knew what I was and was calling for reinforcements. There likely were more of her kind, and she was summoning them through some connection with the dying forest.

  “When the hungry ones gather by moonless gloom,

  His soul we'll devour and sing of his doom.”

  Her eerie hum began to repeat itself.

  Right. Molotovs it is then. You have chosen violence, Sirin.