The forest had become impatient, no longer caring to be slow nor subtle. Whereas it had before opted to move inch by inch, hidden from view, it now rushed forward with reckless abandon, grasping and snatching at Malt at every available opportunity.

As he barreled forward, he could feel the vines lick the back of his heels, always just a hair away from snatching his feet from beneath him. He could see the canopy overhead growing thicker and thicker as the branches twirled and intertwined with one another, forming an impenetrable barrier that blotted out the sun.

Most worryingly of all he could now recognize the sickeningly sweet scent that wafted throughout the place. It vaguely resembled the smell of wildflowers, but like all other things in that godforsaken forest, it was distorted and uncanny, so thick and syrupy that it stung his eyes and threatened to make him vomit.

Beyond the stench, it was probably the thing that was causing his shortness of breath and irregular thoughts as well. Whether he wanted to or not, the thought of giving up occasionally forced itself into his mind, and as the smell grew more and more potent, so did the thoughts.

The only thing driving him forward was the voice. The voice had already gone silent for several seconds by then. The scream only lasted a split second and could’ve just as easily been a figment of his imagination rather than an actual person, considering his condition.

Thankfully, it wasn’t.

In the distance he could roughly make out two figures. One was a small hooded humanoid figure, presumably the source of the voice. It was feverishly shuffling through a rucksack, occasionally glancing back at the figure slowly approaching it.

The second figure was very obviously not human. It didn’t even have a distinct shape, nor did it remotely sound like one.

It was a large writhing mass of roots and vines that seemed to have emerged from the earth, nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding forest. Dozens of squirming vines grew from somewhere within mass, reaching out and pulling at the terrain around it to propel the thing forward.

It was dragging itself toward the hooded figure, all the while emanating disturbingly human sounds from within it. The figure grew increasingly panicked as the mass approached, whatever it was scrambling for, they wouldn’t reach it in time.

Without a second to think Malt dashed forward and drew his sword. The moment he was in range he swung down with all his strength, severing several vines and forcing the mass to rear backward. It let out a shrill screech of distress that resonated throughout the forest.

Not allowing it to recover, Malt continued his assault, hacking and slashing viciously at the mass. It tried to outstretch it’s tentacle-like vines outward to block the blade, only to have them lopped off as well. The thing showed little resistance and wasn’t nearly rigid enough to withstand the sharp edge, so it limped backward, clearly outmatched.

Or so he thought. From within the mass emerged several thinner vines that lashed at him like whips, leaving stinging marks where his gambeson didn't cover.

He flinched backward, unable to withstand the barrage. The moment his eyes shut, the vines took the opportunity to curl around his blade, starting to encase it.

He tried to wrestle the weapon back but to no avail, the squirming sheathe of green was making its way up the blade and to his hand. Only when the little vines started curling around his fingers did he finally release the blade.

He backed away, clenching his fists. As a last ditch effort he reached for his dagger, only to realize that he’d discarded it earlier in a fit of panic.

By that point the mass had already dragged his sword deep into itself, effectively leaving Malt completely unarmed. The thing’s tentacles on the other hand were already growing back, from each severed nub a new set of graspers were already beginning to emerge.

Witnessing this impossible feat of regeneration, Malt immediately accepted the fact that there was no winning against the thing.

He glanced backward to make sure the hooded figure was still behind him. Then, while the mass was preoccupied with his sword, he turned around and scooped the person up off their feet, inciting a small yelp of surprise.

Ignoring the unintelligible cries of animosity, he slung the person over his shoulder before making off in the opposite direction. As bad as he felt for essentially kidnapping them, the time for apologies would come later. The only thing that mattered at that moment was getting out in one piece.

With one hand supporting the person (and making sure they didn’t run off), he used the other to brush away the foliage that was now slithering toward them at an alarming speed.

All the while he felt the person pounding against his back with surprising strength, considering their small stature. Unable to talk whilst gasping for breath, he internally mumbled an apology as he chose to overlook their struggling.

They must’ve gotten tired of it at some point, because the moment Malt slowed down to take a breath the person suddenly drove their knee into his gut.

The sharp pain caused him to drop the person and keel over, clutching his stomach. Before he could yell curses at the person he felt another harsh impact to his jaw.

His head twisted violently and the muscles around his neck began to cramp up as a wave of dizziness enveloped him.

Before he could even recover from the first strike, he could vaguely see another flying toward his head. Just barely, he managed to get his elbow up and block the blow, but the impact was still nearly powerful enough to knock him over.

As his vision slowly came back to him, the features of his assailant gradually came into focus.

An extremely small stature, delicate hands, neither of which were holding a weapon, and an evergreen cloak whose hood obscured a... child’s face?

To his bewilderment, the person dishing out those heavy blows seemed to be a little girl whose age couldn’t have entered the double digits yet.

Her messy brown hair barely reached her shoulders and was partially covered by a hood. She only stood about as tall as his chest, and Malt wasn’t particularly tall either. Her delicate features and large eyes practically screamed child, no matter how you looked at it, she couldn’t be more than seven or eight.

Yet, no child could deliver strikes that powerful. The impact of her swings were easily as heavy as a grown adult’s, if not slightly heavier.

Could it just be that this child was just insanely skilled at some martial art? No, even if she was somehow a master of hand-to-hand combat, a body that small shouldn’t physically be able to produce that much force. Could he have been struck by something else? He quickly scanned the area and found nothing that could’ve attacked him, besides the foliage that was still creeping toward him of course. Also, the girl would’ve probably fled if something powerful enough to deliver such vicious blows had arrived.

After going through all the possibilities that he could, he finally reached a conclusion.

A smug prick once taught him: when in doubt, blame magic.

There were so many variables, so many possibilities that his otherworldly logic couldn’t possibly think of in a world with magic. Magic was the be-all and end-all in this world, if there was a question that couldn’t be answered with normal logic, magic was your best bet.

With this in mind he couldn’t afford to let his guard down, even if she was “just” a little girl.

Her eyes were fierce and made even him uncomfortable. She was baring her teeth and practically snarling at him, much like he himself had done to escape the khods a few days back. Every part of her body language put him on edge.

Her stance was low, so low that her hands were only inches off the ground. It was an unusual stance that he would’ve written off as flashy and ineffective had he seen anyone else use it, but his gut was telling him that underestimating her wouldn’t end well.

Luckily, or maybe unluckily, he had to try to make peace somehow so fighting was out of the question. Judging from the clothing under her cloak, she must’ve come from a relatively civilized village or town.

The question was then, how did she end up here in the middle of that damned forest in the first place? Even though she was plenty intimidating, she still looked like a kid that should be frolicking around in the capitol or in some homey village, not having to fight for her life in some twisted forest.

He wasn't some moral paragon, but leaving a kid in such a miserable place would be beyond fucked up, in his opinion.

As a bonus, she could lead him to safety as well. It was a win-win situation.

While maintaining eye contact, he slowly raised his hands into the air and straightened from his combat stance.

The girl remained low to the ground, her eyes flitting across his body, trying to find a weapon. Seeing that he had none, and that he wasn’t posing a threat, she slowly lowered her hands.

Although still suspicious she had obviously recognized the fact that he wasn’t trying to hurt her.

He opened his mouth and prepared to speak for the first time in days.

Before the words could come out, the ground trembled slightly.

They both froze and looked downward just in time to see little tendrils of wood punching their way out of the earth.

Malt looked into the mostly covered sky and let out a deep, forlorn sigh,

“And we were just making some progress too.”

He grasped the girl’s hand and dashed off into the woods once again.