Mirren 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.