In the mist-laced woods beyond Blackvale, where the trees grew in perfect circles and mushrooms glowed faintly blue at dusk, children were warned never to follow a wounded deer.
Especially not one with antlers like shattered mirrors .
Old Finn, the village hunter, knew this best. Thirty years ago, he’d taken a shot at a stag with an odd, limping gait—only for his bullet to pass straight through it. The creature had turned its head slowly, fixing him with eyes that held too many reflections (Finn swore he saw his own childhood home burning in those black depths). When he blinked, the stag was gone… but his rifle had rusted overnight, its barrel twisted like a dried vine.
Now, on the eve of each new moon, something walks the overgrown logging roads:
— A shape with a hollow chest where a heart should be
— Hooves that leave no prints, but make the sound of falling water
— And antlers that chime softly when the wind blows, as if hung with invisible bells
The villagers leave offerings at the edge of Hollow Hill—a handful of acorns, a lock of hair, sometimes a bloodied hunting knife. They know better than to speak of what they’ve seen.
But last winter, a reckless girl named Elara followed the stag’s echoing footsteps deep into the pines. She returned at dawn, her wool coat damp with fog, her pockets full of splintered antler shards.