I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.

Patréon.com/emperordragon

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The woods held their breath, heavy and hushed beneath the weight of late afternoon. The golden light slanted through thinning tree canopies, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers across the forest floor. Every now and then, the wind stirred — a soft, searching breath that rustled through the half-dead leaves still clinging to the branches. The air was thick with the scent of approaching rain, mingled with the sour musk of rot and the earthy perfume of decaying foliage.

Darren Cole, a maintenance worker for the county, let out a grunt as he drove the blade of his shovel into the damp, forgiving ground. Sweat clung to the back of his neck despite the cooling air, and every movement sent a dull ache through his lower back. He'd been sent out here to clear debris along the old access road — the one no one really liked talking about anymore. It wound past the edge of the preserve, near where that car went off the road just a week ago. Official reports had blamed the crash on "animal attack." Unofficially? People whispered about something else.

His coworkers called this stretch of forest cursed. Said things lived out here — things that shouldn't. Darren didn't believe in that kind of talk. He believed in time-and-a-half and job security. The real curse, as far as he was concerned, was that he was working late on a Friday.

He spat into the dirt and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of a gloved hand. "Town's full of stories," he muttered, prying a stubborn root from the ground. "Full of bored people with nothing better to do."

The blade hit something with a dull thunk — not the sharp resistance of stone, not the hollow clatter of metal. It was softer. Yielding, almost.

Frowning, Darren crouched and began sweeping away the loose soil with methodical brushes of his hand. The dirt crumbled away easily, revealing something strange beneath it — something smooth and faintly glistening. It caught the fading light, but not in the way of glass or metal. It was organic. Wet.

He made a face. "Great," he mumbled. "Another raccoon carcass. Maybe a possum this time."

But it wasn't.

The thing twitched.

He froze, instincts prickling. For a moment, he couldn't quite process what he was seeing. A slender, wet tendril no wider than a worm slowly uncoiled from the earth, slick and glistening like it had just emerged from deep underground. Darren's first thought was that it was a root, maybe one glistening from rainwater. But roots didn't move like that.

And then it moved again — deliberately, unnervingly — twisting toward him.

"What the hell…"

Before he could scramble back, the thing snapped upward — fast, impossibly fast — and latched onto the side of his neck. Darren cried out in pain and shock, stumbling back, clawing at his skin with both hands. But it was too late. The tendril was already writhing beneath his fingers, slick and strong, burrowing with terrifying precision.

He felt it slide under his skin — a sensation so alien and intimate it made him gag. It threaded through his flesh like a needle through cloth, worming deeper, moving with purpose. Like it was searching for something. Like it knew exactly where to go.

His shovel clattered to the ground.

Darren collapsed to his knees, his breaths coming fast and shallow. His eyes bulged, wild with panic, as the thing beneath his skin began to pulse — slow and steady — just under the surface of his throat. For one brief, blinding moment, the pain sharpened, flared white-hot.

And then—

Silence.

Stillness.

Relief.

His breathing slowed. His muscles relaxed.

The woods were quiet again. The wind had gone.

Darren rose slowly to his feet, his movements strangely smooth, almost practiced. The ragged puncture wound at the base of his neck had already closed, leaving behind only a faint, seamless mark — as if nothing had ever broken the skin.

He turned his head, surveying the trees around him with unsettling calm, his eyes flicking from shadow to shadow like he was searching for something unseen. Or perhaps… listening.

Then he smiled.

But it wasn't his smile.

Without a word, he reached down and retrieved the shovel, shaking the dirt from its blade. He stood straighter than before, posture crisp and unnatural, as though some invisible string now guided his limbs.

He did not head toward the truck. He did not walk back toward the road or the clearing where he'd parked.

He turned and began to walk deeper into the woods.

The sun dipped below the horizon, bleeding its last golden light into the trees. The air grew colder. Shadows thickened.

Behind him, the soil where he had knelt stirred faintly, disturbed by a whisper of the wind.

And then, as quickly as it had come…

Nothing.