The remaining eight hunters backed away from the trees, from the stream, from the beautiful paradise that had just killed four of their companions in the most brutal way possible.
Tikon's face twisted with rage and horror. He looked down at the apple still clutched in his hand—the one he'd been about to bite. His fingers tightened, crushing the fruit.
Purple juice leaked through his fingers.
"The hell is this?!" he roared, throwing the poisoned apple away.
His eyes scanned the forest, looking for threats, for enemies, for something to kill.
That's when he saw them.
Standing at the edge of the clearing, perfectly still, were dozens of figures.
Wooden puppets.
Humanoid shapes carved from dark wood, their joints visible, their faces blank and expressionless. They held crude wooden weapons—swords, spears, axes.
And seated on a throne made of twisted tree bark and roots was a knight.
Not a puppet. Something else.
