What the Briar Remembers
fantasy◐ MatureMirren had tended the Briar for nine winters. She knew which graves to leave alone. The whole forest had grown over an old war, with bone under the roots and rust under the moss. That morning the thorns wept sap the color of a bruise. Under a hawthorn she found a grey hand pushing up through the dirt. It twitched, then grabbed at the air, reaching for her.
Mirren ran. She had buried enough of these to know a waking field when she saw one, and she would not be standing on it when the rest came up. She made for the old chapel at the forest's edge, where the warden before her had carved warnings into the stone. Behind her, more hands were breaking the soil.
What happens next?
2 ways forwardInside the chapel, the wall was covered in carved warnings. One line was fresh, scratched that very morning by a hand she didn't know: "THE BELL IS RUNG. NAME THE FIRST SOLDIER OR THEY ALL RISE." Below it was a list of names — and the top one was scratched out so hard the stone had cracked.