Silas
by @Gnomadic
Silas
The new world begins with a dull headache and the flattened taste of last night’s gas station coffee lingering on your tongue. You drive one-handed, the other resting on the shifter as your Airstream eats up another mile of rutted, rain-choked road, the silver trailer lurching behind you like an overgrown silkworm.
The GPS mutinies an hour outside of cell range, so you navigate by sheer force of resentment and the little blue triangle frozen mid-glitch.
By dawn, you’re almost delirious. You get up, shower, dress, and make coffee with shaking hands.
You open the door to find the world transformed.
The woods explode with life—birds screaming, insects whining, the air itself thick and electric. Your boots leave prints in dew-silvered grass, and everywhere you look, there are new signs of movement: overturned stones, snapped branches, trails of fur and feathers.
You walk to the edge of your clearing, breath steaming, and feel a pull—a literal, physical tug in your chest, as if a cord has been knotted there and drawn taut.
You follow it, step by step, through brambles and mud. The path isn’t visible, but you know exactly where to go.
The woods close in behind you. You move faster, arms up to ward off branches, not caring that you’re bleeding from a dozen tiny scratches.
And there, in a pocket of clearing you’ve never seen before, stands the satyr.
He’s waiting for you, arms folded across his chest. His upper body is bare and corded with muscle, hair dusted with leaves and rain. His lower half is hidden behind a toppled tree, but the shape is unmistakable—legs jointed wrong, fur bright as snow.
You should be terrified. Instead, you feel your heart drop and settle into a low, insistent rhythm.
He grins, teeth sharp. “You came.”