𝗅𝖺𝗀𝗈𝗈𝗇𝖺 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝖾

The wilderness had always whispered to her. Before the plane crash, before the blood on the snow, before the horns. But now, it screamed, not in terror, but in exultation.

And it had chosen Lottie.

She was the Antler Queen now.

The crown had grown into her—figuratively at first, then with something closer to bone. She moved through the clearing with reverence, every step silent despite the frost. The other girls knelt when she passed, eyes lowered, breath visible in the chill. They murmured prayers only the wilderness could teach.

But none of them saw her—not really. None of them knew her.

Except you.

You stood just beyond the firelight, cloaked in a deerskin Lottie had draped over your shoulders weeks ago, back when winter's bite had first settled in. You still wore it, despite the smell, despite the blood that had never quite washed out. You wore it because it was hers.

“You always stand at the edge,” she said, approaching you slowly, like a wolf that wasn’t sure if it was about to bite or beg.

You didn’t answer.

“You should come closer. The fire’s warm.” Her voice was soft, reverent.

You turned to her, eyes full of something harder to name than love, but deeper than doubt. “You’re warm.”

Lottie smiled, like the trees were listening.

“They chose me, Y/N.” Her hand touched your arm lightly—not enough to draw attention, just enough to remind you. “And through me… they chose us.”

Your mouth went dry. The fire popped behind her, the smoke trailing up like it was incense in a cathedral.

“You said we could leave,” you whispered. “That when the snow melted, we’d try and get home.”

“I meant it,” she replied, voice distant, as if speaking from two places at once. “But the wilderness changed its mind. It wants us here. It… needs us here.”

You stepped back, but her hand caught yours.

“Don’t pull away,” she pleaded, her eyes wide and frighteningly clear. “You’re the only one I can still feel when they speak. Everyone else is just static now. But you? You’ll help me bring it forth.”

Lottie stepped closer, her forehead pressing to yours.

“You carry my heart,” she whispered. “And soon, you’ll carry the rest.”

You blinked.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, already knowing. Already dreading.

“The wilderness gave me a vision.” Her hands cupped your face. “A child—born not of fear, but of devotion. Our child. The one who will walk both worlds. Not just survival… divinity. Our legacy.”

Your throat clenched.

“Lottie, I—”

“Shhh,” she breathed. “You love me. And love is sacrifice.”

Outside, the wind howled.

Inside you, something broke.

Later that night, they crowned her again.

She stood at the center of the circle, firelight licking the hollow beneath her collarbones, antlers rising dark above her head. The girls chanted, rhythms that felt older than language.

You stood behind her, bare feet in the snow, stomach bare beneath the wolfskin robe she’d wrapped you in. A red smear ran down your navel—berries, she’d said. But it looked too much like blood.

She turned to you and extended her hand.

The chanting stopped.

The forest hushed.

You stepped forward.

You had loved her before the crash, when she was only strange, not sacred. When her hands trembled during chem class and you held them under the desk. When she nervously kissed you in the parking lot after every game. When her madness had edges.

Now, it was endless.

“Do you accept the blessing of the wilderness?” she asked, her voice soaked in smoke and frost.

You didn’t speak.

She didn’t need you to.

She leaned in and kissed you, her lips warm and cracked. “We are going to bring the world a miracle,” she whispered against your mouth.

The fire roared.

The forest screamed approval.

And somewhere deep inside you, where you thought only doubt could live now, something small and terrifying bloomed.

the sun was already glaring down on the junior tennis camp courts by 10:00 AM, and the smell of sunscreen clung to the air. kids in matching white polos stood in a crooked line, squinting up at their four reluctant volunteer coaches.

tashi duncan looked terrifyingly serious for someone holding a juice box. she adjusted her visor like she was stepping into the finals of the u.s. open rather than facing a group of nine-year-olds.

art donaldson, ever the golden boy, wore his camp polo tucked in, a streak of zinc sunscreen down his nose and optimism in his smile. he waved cheerfully to a kid who immediately dropped his racket in fear.

patrick zweig leaned against the fence, visibly sweating and deeply regretting his life choices. his sunglasses covered what was either a hangover or a full-body protest against being awake before noon. or both.

and then there was y/n —clipboard in hand, the only person actually pretending this was an organized activity.

“okay, everyone!” y/n called out, their voice slightly too chipper, causing patrick to roll his eyes behind his sunglasses. “welcome to youth tennis camp. this week is about fun, sportsmanship, and most importantly: no racket throwing."

Tashi didn’t even blink. “are we allowed to intimidate them into greatness?”

y/n opened their mouth, closed it again. “let’s just try to keep the emotional damage to a minimum.”

“too late,” patrick muttered under his breath, already pulling a folding chair into the shade. “this camp is damaging me.”

art clapped his hands. “c’mon, guys, this’ll be great! we’re mentoring future tennis stars! maybe one of these kids will go pro because of us.”

“i’ll settle for them not crying,” y/n replied.

ten minutes later…

a tennis ball bounced violently off the chain-link fence and into the street. one kid was frozen mid-swing, lower lip trembling.

“she said if i miss another volley, i’m benched like a scrub at wimbledon!” he wailed, pointing dramatically at tashi.

tashi didn’t flinch. “i said might be benched.”

y/n shot her a look. “they’re children, Tash. not ranked juniors.”

“exactly,” tashi replied. “might as well train them before they develop bad habits. like... smiling during drills.”

patrick, now horizontal in a lounge chair under a giant umbrella, lifted a hand. “i’m just gonna say it—this is my nightmare."

art chuckled, unfazed. “why don’t we split up duties? i’ll take the beginners. tashi, you can work with the advanced group—ones who, uh, thrive under pressure. patrick... you man the juice table?”

patrick pointed at him approvingly. “that’s leadership. delegation.”

y/n rolled her eyes. at patrick's dramatic praise. "alright, damn, zip it up when you're done."

by afternoon, the camp had descended into a sort of joyful chaos.

tashi led grueling footwork drills like a boot camp instructor. children panted, sweat dripping, but some clearly loved it—especially a set of twins who whispered “no mercy” before every serve.

on the opposite court, art gently guided a circle of kids in a silly volley game, cheering every swing, even the misses. y/n walked among them, correcting grips and high-fiving every child like it was a mini wimbledon.

and under the umbrella, patrick narrated a one-on-one game between two six-year olds with the dry enthusiasm of a british sports commentator.

“little oliver approaches the baseline,” he murmured to no one, “with all the icy determination of a toddler hopped up on Capri Sun. meanwhile, emily prepares her serve… oh, it’s a toss! And it… bounces off her own forehead.”

y/n passed by, overhearing. “are you actually commentating their match?”

“better than trying to coach them,” patrick replied. “no one’s cried on my court. yet.”

“i hate to say it,” art added, arriving with an armful of tennis balls, “but he might be the camp mvp.”

tashi jogged over, her hair sticking to her forehead. “okay. slight issue. one of the twins just said tennis is a ‘cruel god’ and sat down in protest.”

y/n sighed. “let me guess—you called a nine-year-old a ‘mental weakling’ again?”

“i was motivating him!” tashi said, defensive.

art laughed. “with war trauma?”

they all looked around: one kid asleep in the ball hopper. another trying to wear a racket as a hat. somehow, several had started a conga line. it was utter chaos—and yet, weirdly, kind of working.

“well,” y/n said, brushing a leaf out of their hair, “we survived day one.”

“barely,” patrick added.

“only five more days to go,” tashi said, already plotting her next drill.

“i need a nap,” patrick muttered. “or a therapist.”

“or both,” y/n agreed.

then they all looked at each other, exhausted but oddly content. four tennis stars playing camp counselors. not the dream they’d imagined—but, like most of the shit they got into, it was working.

sort of.

1996

The air inside the plane had felt like plastic wrap—thin, tight, and on the edge of tearing.

Lena had been humming under her breath to distract herself. She tapped her nails against the armrest in a rhythm that didn't match the turbulence. A private plane. Paid for by Lottie's dad. The kind of thing that screamed overcompensation. Lena had joked about it before takeoff, mostly to Mari.

She'd spotted Travis across the aisle, staring blankly out the window like the sky owed him something. Alone. Just how he liked it.

Lena nudged Mari, nodding her head in Travis' direction and smirking.

She tilted toward him. "If we die in a fiery crash, just so you know, I've already decided I'm haunting you specifically."

He didn't even look at her. "Can't wait."

"God, you're fun," she muttered, rolling her eyes, turning back to Mari.

The girls couldn't hold back their excitement. They were on their way to motherfucking nationals.

Then everything broke.

The plane lurched—hard.

Screams. The world tilting sideways, then violently back. Lena's head slammed against the seat in front of her, Mari quickly reaching to pull her back. 

Coach Martinez had lunged toward her, trying to get her mask on. She remembered his hands—fast, shaking—then a rush of air, and he was gone, just like that.

She woke up to fire and blood and cold air that sliced through her like glass.

The plane was cracked open. Smoke bled into the trees. There was crying, screaming.

Lena pushed herself out of the broken seat, eyes stinging, head pounding, and her wrist possibly fractured. She stumbled toward the open wreckage, gagging on smoke and metal and something worse—something burned.

Chaos was everywhere. Shock rippled through the group as they scrambled, shouting for each other amid the wreckage. Lena had fallen out the door, dazed on the ground. Laura Lee rushed to her side, helping her up and dragging them both away from the burning debris.

Misty spun around, panic gripping her. Coach Scott—where was he?

She found him pinned under part of the plane, his leg crushed.

"Coach Scott!" she called, waving the others over.

They ran to him, his face pale but grateful. “Hey, girls… is it… can you move it?”

They immediately sprang into action. Lena gritted her teeth, pain flaring in her wrist as they lifted the jagged metal. Her vision blurred, but she didn’t scream. Beneath the wreckage, Coach Scott’s leg was mangled—completely crushed. The sight made her stomach turn.

She crumpled beside Tai, crying, trying to help wake him.

“What the fuck?!” Lena sobbed, burying her face in Lottie’s shoulder to block out the horror.

Misty returned with an axe in her hands, an unsettling glint in her eye. Lottie yanked Lena back just in time as Misty raised the blade—and brought it down.

Everything went still.

After the shock began to settle, the survivors focused on helping each other with whatever supplies they’d salvaged. Lena found a pink shirt in one of the bags, tore it into strips, and walked over to Travis.

“Give me your arm.”

Travis scowled. “Seriously?”

“Unless you’d rather bleed out and die.”

He rolled his eyes but held his arm out. Lena quickly tied the fabric around his wound.

“Ah—watch it,” he snapped.

“Then hold still,” she replied, frustrated.

Before she could adjust it, Misty pushed her aside. “It’s too loose.” She yanked the fabric tighter. Travis cursed loudly.

Still bleeding and exhausted, he slumped down against a tree. Lena sat beside him with a groan, resting her head back, expecting him to tell her to ‘get the fuck away.’ But he didn’t.

They sat in silence, everything slowly sinking in.

Then Nat approached. “Travis, hey… your brother’s trying to get back on the plane. I think he’s looking for your dad.”

Travis didn’t respond right away. When he did, his voice was heavy. “The door ripped open when we were going down. He was trying to help one of you idiots put on an oxygen mask, and fell out.”

Lena went cold.

She was the one. She was the one Coach Martinez had been helping with the mask. She was the reason he fell out.

Natalie tried to reason with Travis, encouraging him to check on Javi.

“Maybe you should mind your own fucking business,” he snapped.

“Oh-“ Lena flinched as she spoke out loud. That was harsher than she expected. Travis stormed off before anyone could respond.

A scream pierced the air.

“Laura Lee?” Lena shouted, bolting toward the sound. Others followed, hearts pounding.

“Dad!” Javi cried, his voice cracking.

Their eyes followed his line of sight. Up in a jagged tree, a tree spike through his chest, was Coach Martinez.

Panic broke out again.

Jackie stared up, then tilted her head. “Okay. Who’s got the best arm?”

Mari raised her hand. “I do, Jackie.”

“We could try and throw things at him and see if he moves.”

“He fell out of a fucking plane, Jackie,” Lena snapped.

Van spoke bitterly, “You’re really on fire today, Jackie. Oh wait—that was supposed to be me, huh?”

“Guys, stop it,” Shauna cut in. “We need a plan here.”

Laura Lee stepped forward. “We could lower him with ropes…vines? I don’t know.”

Natalie rolled her eyes. “For fuck’s sake, Laura Lee. We’re not gonna Tarzan him out of a tree.”

Before anyone could say more, Travis burst through them, breath catching.

“Dad?” he whispered, eyes wide.

Then he ran.

“Travis!” Lena called after him.

Some reached to stop him, but he was already climbing the tree.

Lena caught Javi by the shoulders as he tried to follow. “No. Come here. Stay here. Stay with me.”

Misty was already working, gathering jackets, fabric, scraps of the plane to make a makeshift tarp. “In case they fall,” she murmured. “Just in case.”

Up in the tree, Travis reached his father. The branch groaned beneath his weight.

“Dad…” His voice cracked.

No response.

Then a snap.

The branch gave way, Travis barely making it back over. Coach Martinez’s body fell, crashing through the branches before slamming into the forest floor.

Lena turned Javi’s face into her shoulder before he could see as the group sobbed.

1996

The sun hung low over the soccer field, casting long golden shadows that cut across the grass like blades. The scoreboard glared 3–3 in bold digits, and the air thrummed with noise—squealing whistles, clapping hands, the distant scream of someone’s parent. But Lena Mona didn’t hear any of it.

She was in motion.

Sweat trickled down her spine as she tore across the midfield, lungs burning, cleats biting the turf. Shauna had the ball. Then Taissa. Then Shauna again. It didn’t matter—Lena could see the play before it unfolded, could feel it like muscle memory.

This was where she belonged. On this field. In this moment.

Lena belonged on that soccer field. It was home. Her teammates were her family. And she refused to ever let her family down.

The ball lifted off Shauna’s foot, arcing toward the box. It wasn’t perfect—too high, a little wide. But Jackie was already there, charging in full-speed, arms pumping. Lena slowed for just a heartbeat, watching.

The ball smacked Jackie in the face and ricocheted off her head straight into the net.

For one glorious, stunned second, silence.

Then the field exploded.

Girls screamed. The crowd roared. The announcer’s voice crackled over the speakers, barely audible over the chaos.

The team swarmed Jackie near the goal, piling onto her like a human avalanche—laughing, gasping, squealing. Taissa leapt onto her back. Shauna tackled her in a hug. Even some were crying.

Lena slowed her steps again, smiling, chest heaving. She felt that giddy wash of adrenaline surge through her bloodstream—not just because they’d won, but because they’d done it together.

She jogged over to join the huddle. Someone grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her in.

They gathered at midfield, arms slung around each other, a writhing circle of sweat and celebration. Grass-stained knees. Bruised shins. Bright eyes.

Then, as if summoned by instinct, the chant began.

One voice at first—then two. Then ten.

“BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!”

Lena chanted with them, voice hoarse, fists clenched. For one perfect second, they were unstoppable. Unbreakable.

Family.

And nothing could tear them apart.

Not yet.