Damien
the woods have remembered you
The ground shuddered beneath him before Damien even had time to act or speak. His barricade groaned, sagged, then split apart like a rotten log under an axe. Snow poured over his shoulder, down his collar, and into his boots. He spat out a mouthful of powder and tried to shake himself free, but the earth was still moving under him, treacherous as thaw-ice.“Son of a—” He didn’t get to finish. Something smacked hard into the side of his head, bursting across his ear in a cold slap.
Blinking snow out of his lashes, Damien twisted, just in time to see Iskra standing there, looking pleased with himself and entirely oblivious to the fact that they were in the middle of a warzone. For a beat Damien just stared at him, deadpan, jaw tight against the chill trickling down his neck.
“…Really?” he drawled, voice flat as the tundra.
There wasn’t time to chew him out. Deimos was still dropping the field out from under them, Theea was already sprinting ahead, and Damien had a choice—either waste his breath on Iskra, or drag him into the fight.
He scooped up a fresh ball, the snow packed hard and fast between his palms. With a sharp flick, he lobbed it point-blank at Iskra’s chest. “Congratulations! You’re drafted! Warden first, then you can get back to your ghost hunt cocoa.”
And without waiting to see if the man agreed—or even noticed—Damien shoved up out of the ruin of his barricade and bolted after
ever since the first time you got lost in them
