Chapter 25. And the Hound...

The girls were still singing.

But not for the crowd.
Not for the merriment.
Not for the cheering children on their parents' shoulders.

This verse…
This verse was for him.

(Where does a mind like yours wander
When it's sung to sleep?)

Ydoc froze.

His breath caught in his throat, sharp and dry.
He couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t blink.

Because there, between the wagons and the outer trees, where the lanterns thinned and the shadows thickened—
stood a figure.

No one else noticed.
No one else reacted.

But he saw it.
A hundred feet away.
Perfectly still.

Tall. At least seven feet.
Hair like strands of bleached silk, swaying just slightly in the breeze.
It poured down its back like frostwater, tangled and long.

And its face—

A wendigo’s skull.
Or a dog’s muzzle.
Impossible to tell.

It didn’t breathe.
Didn’t blink.
But from within the hollow sockets, two points of light stared.
Pale as candles floating on black water.

(Mind the clamours of the restless bidders
Before you choose to weep…)

Ydoc took a half-step back—his boot quietly scuffing the grass and dry earth.
His fingers reached instinctively to his coat’s collar.
His other hand still held the petrified rose.

He blinked.

The figure had not moved.
Not an inch.

Still staring.
Still waiting.

Its head tilted—only slightly—as if curious.

And deep in Ydoc’s chest, he felt a pulse.
Not his own.
Not a heartbeat.

A memory.
Or maybe…
A warning.

(And the Hound is humming you
A lie, a lullaby…)

The words poured through the music—not from the singers, but from within.
Inside his head.
His bones.

A lullaby meant only for him.

The shape in the distance didn't breathe.

Didn't blink.

It only watched.

And then—
A soft movement.
Almost a shiver.

The long strands of its white hair stirred like sea-grass under water.
One slow step forward. Then another.

Click.
Clack.

Something dragged.

Ydoc’s vision strained, and as the lantern light curved around the edge of the crowd, he saw it—clearly now.

The beast had arrived.

He wore a tattered coat, once regal in its stitching, now stained in dry, matted blood. The sleeves were long, one torn just above the elbow, the other slicked in something still wet.

His claws were long.
Not natural.
Not feral.
Designed.

Fitted with rings of red wire and laced with stained ribbon, as if mocking courtly grace.

And in his right hand…
A knife.

Old.
Wide.
The edge chipped like a broken jawbone.
The steel reflected nothing—no flame, no moon, no soul.

His boots were leather-bound in straps that jangled faintly as he walked, adorned in totems and scraps—like mementos from prey long gone.

But it was his face—

That mask, or was it bone?
A hound’s skull, elongated and twisted, with teeth like obsidian spikes.
The snout grinned wide, open just enough to show rows behind rows.

And behind the empty sockets—light.
Cold.
Burning.
Two rings of pure white.

(Stuck in the middle of a forest made of
Flesh and bones and they’re all scared of…)

He tilted his head.
A slow, playful lean.
Like a marionette taught mockery.

The little blue spirits that had floated near the festival stage fled.
They zipped through the air like fireflies under attack.

But the music played on.
The girls on stage were unaware.

Only Ydoc saw it.
Only he felt it.

(A lost little boy who has lost his heart
Fear’s not enough, they have to tear him apart…)

And then the killer’s hand rose.
Not with the knife.
With two long fingers, he made a gesture—beckoning.

Or was it… pointing?

(It clicks and it clatters in corners and borders
And they will never
Hear me here, listen to croons and a calling
I’ll tell them all the…)

His shoulders shifted in rhythm with the song Ydoc heard—but no one else did.
The killer’s steps matched the tempo like a dream’s mimicry.

He was dancing. or a mock of a dance. like a creature with no rhythm that kills any who dares say other wise.

Or worse—he wanted Ydoc to dance too.

(Story, the sun, and the swallow, her sorrow
Singing me the tale of the Harpy and the Hare…)

And still—no one turned.
No one screamed.
No one noticed the nightmare in the forest’s edge.

Only Ydoc.

Only him.
----

Behind the tall, twisted figure—
A glow began to form.
Just a pinprick at first.

Then a smoldering blossom.

A faint flame curled into view behind the Hound’s long white hair, flickering blue, then amber, like a wound opening in the night.
Not a torch. Not a lantern.
A fire born of spite.

The creature stood in perfect stillness as the flames licked the trees behind it.
And then, he moved—

Only his mouth.
Only his jaw.

Crrrrkk—
Bones grinding.
Teeth parting like rusted iron.

Then came the voice—
Low.
Rot-sweet.
Rasping with the weight of chewed names and devoured songs.

"You are… my."

A pause.
An inhale, as if to taste the words.

"Fifty-eighth… victim…"

(And the Hound is humming
And the Hound is howling
And the Hound is humming
You)

The fire behind him grew taller now—reaching up like arms to the sky, clawing at the air.

Ydoc’s legs locked.
His hands trembled, gripping his own elbows like he could hold himself together.

He couldn’t breathe.

The world tilted sideways.
The sound of the song warped, stretching like a vinyl slowed too far—
You… You… You…

And then—

Touch.

A hand.
A real hand.

Shake.

Ydoc gasped and reeled back, face pale as bone.

There was no fire.

There was no beast.

Just applause.

Cheers rang out from the seated crowd as the last note of the Ladies of the Divide’s haunting song faded into the pink sky. The crowd was rising. The show was over.

And the one who shook him—

Ruby.

She stood close, her long red tail flicking gently behind her, ears perked, eyes soft with concern.

"Ydoc," she said breathlessly, clearly having looked for him. “There you are.”

Ydoc turned back to the tree line—
Nothing.

The flame was gone.
The creature was gone.

But his bones remembered.
His skin remembered that gaze.
His heart still thundered.

He stammered, “There was… something. Someone watching me. It spoke to me, Ruby—it said—”

But she gently placed a hand on his shoulder, her grip warm and grounding.

“I know,” she whispered.
Her gaze drifted out into the woods, then back to him.

“The Divide plays tricks. Even on us.”

Even on residents like you—was the unspoken part.
Even on those it loves.

She smiled, sad and patient, the way someone smiles when they’ve heard this all before.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s not miss the sweets before they’re gone.”

Ydoc looked back once more, just once—
The shadow was gone.
But the feeling wasn’t.

He wasn’t just being watched.

He’d been named.

He’d been numbered.

He'd been marked.