Chapter 9: When Roots Whisper, the Flame Sings

  Whispers Beneath the Boughs

  Magnus stood, dripping with viscous black goo, arms held out from his sides like a man caught in a rainstorm of pure filth. Thick globs of necrotic sludge clung to his clothes, his boots, his hair, and—most tragically—his favorite jacket.

  He grimaced, a grumble coming from his throat.

  "You know," he said, voice flat, "there are few things in life more humbling than being rescued by a man while covered in undead wolf innards."

  Kaeric clapped him on the back with a hearty laugh, just as Magnus, with exaggerated gratitude, reached out to squeeze his shoulder in thanks—only to smear a sticky trail of black sludge down Kaeric’s arm.

  "Thanks buddy," Magnus said simply, grinning up at the orc, completely ignoring the new stain spreading across Kaeric's tunic. A fat glob of goo chose that moment to slide from Magnus’ chin and plop onto the ground with a wet splatter.

  Sylvi gagged audibly. Berf just snorted, grinning.

  With a theatrical flourish, Magnus snapped his fingers. His bardic magic flared to life, lifting the muck from his body in shimmering tendrils before it simply poofed out of existence. Magnus shook out his sleeves with a sparkle of purple magic and gave a proud bow.

  "You may now applaud my triumphant return to hygiene," he declared.

  But any levity was shattered by the deep, resonant rumble that rolled through the clearing.

  The voice of the larger of the two Treants boomed as he spoke — bark layered like armor, moss clinging to every crevice, his massive limbs groaning as he bent down to speak. His eyes, slow-burning coals of amber light, turned down toward the group.

  When he spoke, it was like the sound of earth grinding against itself. Each word took long moments to form.

  "Whyyyyy... aaaarrrreeee... yooouuuu... heeeeerrre... iiiin... thhheeeese... woooodssss..."

  His words were rough, betraying a hidden anger and Ashen motioned for Magnus to let him handle it as he stepped forward.

  "We seek no harm to your woods. We are looking for Eldarwood ashes."

  The Treant’s eyes widened slightly at the words.

  Sylvi quickly interjected, lifting her hands. "No no no! We aren't here to burn down trees," she paused for a breath. "We’re looking for what nature has already given."

  The massive Treant's shoulders shifted in something like relief, the moss along his arms seeming to relax.

  Magnus, never one to leave a tense moment hanging, chimed in brightly: "Besides, look at us. We can barely keep ourselves clean—imagine us trying to cut down a tree? Disaster."

  Sylvi's eyes darted to Magnus with a glare sharp enough to flay him. Magnus made a motion like a zipper across his mouth and locked it with an invisible key. There was a sound like the groaning laughter of old roots flexing beneath the earth.

  "Iiiiiiii ammmm Eldaaaaarrrrrr Mooooosssroooooot aaaand theeeesee aaaaaareeeee myyyyy wooooodsss... Iiiiin soooo faaaar aaaaassss theeeee laaaaand choooses tooo haaaave meee."

  The Eldar Mossroot beckoned them with one great hand.

  "Cooooooome liiiitttlee ooooonesss. Weeeee haaaaave muuuuuch to speak about."

  The Treant led them to a moonlit glade hidden deeper within the Gloomwood.

  Here, dozens of ancient Treants stood, silent and unmoving, their vast bodies intertwined with the surrounding trees. It was difficult to tell where bark ended and guardian began — roots knotted like gnarled fingers across the ground, and heavy branches arched overhead like the ribs of a cathedral built by nature itself.

  The air was thick with the scent of fresh earth and old rain. Soft, phosphorescent moss carpeted the glade in patches of muted gold and green, giving the clearing an ethereal glow. Strange flowers bloomed where the moss thickened — petals as pale as moonlight, opening only in the darkness.

  Above them, the night sky was barely visible through the dense canopy, but what little light filtered down painted the world in silver and shadow. It was a place of stillness, of ancient memory — where time slowed, and the restless hum of the world outside seemed very far away.

  In the center, a thick, golden syrup dripped slowly from a wound in an ancient tree, collected into simple bowls carved from living wood.

  "Hoooooneeeeyyytreeeee... syrreeeuuup..." Mossroot intoned, offering it.

  The party hesitated only a moment before partaking. The syrup was unbelievably refreshing — it tasted of sunlight, fresh rain, and cool earth. Their exhaustion melted away with each sip as they lay in the glade. Mossroot pushed broken branches into the center of the clearing, motioning for them to light it.

  For a time, they simply spoke. Asked questions. Laughed quietly as the crackle of the fire burned on.

  Sylvi marveled at the history the trees shared — that the Gloomwood had always been watched over by the Treants, going back so far that even Mossroot could not remember a beginning.

  Berf, wide-eyed, asked if there were baby treants. In what could only be interpreted as a nod, Mossroot replied with some amusement.

  "Sapling guardians," he said.

  Magnus, of course, wondered aloud if the trees threw seasonal parties.

  "Weeee... dooo..." Mossroot answered, the deep rumble of his laughter shaking the leaves around them.

  Eventually, the conversation shifted.

  Ashen asked about the cultists, needing to know how far ahead they were. The lightness faded from Mossroot's eyes and flashed with anger before being filled with weary sadness.

  Mossroot's voice turned low, sorrowful.

  "Twoooo... weeeks... maaaybe... threeee... ssssiiiinceee... daaarrrknessss caaame."

  He told of humans arriving — not with axes this time, but with twisted magic. Wolves that rotted as they ran. Birds that fell from the sky mid-flight. Even squirrels, dragging blackened limbs, still seeking acorns with frantic, dead hands.

  The Treants resisted, pushing them back to the old Fane hidden in the wood — but something worse began.

  "A blight," Mossroot rumbled, his voice trembling the leaves overhead.

  "It creeeeeppppsss... it kiiiilllllsss..."

  He explained that from the Fane, a rotting corruption now stretched out more than six hundred feet. Trees wilted into black husks. Nothing natural could survive inside its reach.

  Ashen set his jaw grimly.

  "The Fane is where we must go. We believe an artifact is hidden there. The cultists must be destroyed."

  Mossroot’s heavy gaze settled on him.

  "If youuuu... end... thiiisss... and cleeeeansseeee... the blight... the ashes you seeeeek... are youuurrss."

  Ashen nodded, their pact sealed.

  As the others rested among the roots, Sylvi sat apart. The quiet of the forest wrapped her like a blanket as the flickering fire burned low. Her hand brushed against the amulet beneath her shirt — the Eye of Zarathrax. It pulled at her, softly but insistently, a whisper in her bones. She could feel it — not just tugging toward the Fane, but toward them. Zarathrax was searching for her.

  Her skin prickled with cold as she closed her eyes and reached out — not outward, but inward — to the other voice tied to her now.

  "Sylva'Vesh," she whispered in her mind.

  The answer came warm and immediate, like a mother's hand on a fevered brow.

  "I am here, child."

  "He's trying to find us. I can feel it. His claws scraping at the edges of my mind."

  There was a soft, almost musical hum from Sylva'Vesh — a melody of steady calm. "He cannot breach the walls you have built with me. His talons will scratch... but never break through, not while you wield the Sickle. His reach is long, but your heart is longer still."

  Sylvi clutched the hilt tighter.

  "Stay vigilant," Sylva'Vesh murmured. "Trust the light you carry. Fear only the day you forget it."

  The wind whispered through the glade as Sylvi breathed deep and felt the terror recede — not gone, but caged.

  Tomorrow, they would march toward the blight. Toward the Mirror. Toward destiny.

  With Bark and Bounce

  Morning came not with the gentle rustle of wind, nor the sweet warmth of sunlight filtering through the trees, but with the overly energetic arrival of something entirely unexpected.

  "GOOOOD MOOOOORNIIIIIIING!" a shrill voice trilled from the edge of the glade.

  Sylvi groaned, curling tighter beneath her cloak and pressing her face into the crook of her elbow. "Mer," she muttered darkly.

  Ashen sat up with a grunt, blinking against the light. Berf, who had been dutifully snoring on watch while propped against a boulder, jerked upright with a confused snort. Magnus flailed out of his blanket like a man shot in his sleep.

  Standing proudly at the edge of the camp was Twikken — a young Treant, barely ten years old by his own proud estimation.

  In stark contrast to the ancient, ponderous Eldar Mossroot from the night before, Twikken looked positively newborn. He was only about twelve feet tall (by Magnus’ quick, squinting guess), with bark that was smooth and supple, his limbs flexible, his leafy hair still tinged with vibrant spring green. His whole body seemed too alive — fidgeting, swaying, constantly moving.

  "Weeee're gooooing ooooon an ADVENTURE!" Twikken squealed, bouncing so hard that loose leaves shook free from his crown.

  Kaeric, still half-asleep, grunted, reached down, scooped a lazy handful of mud, and lobbed it half-heartedly at the excitable Treant.

  It sailed wide.

  Twikken didn’t even notice. He was too busy talking at a mile a minute.

  "I’m Twikken! It’s so nice to meet you up close! I’ve seen you from afar—ohhh yesss, from afar when you were talking with Grandfather Mossroot—he never lets me come to the meetings! He says I talk too much! Can you believe that? Me? Talk too much?! Anyway—are you heroes? Are you knights? Is that horse yours? Can I pet it? Can I ride it? What’s your favorite food? Do you like acorns? I love acorns! Oh, oh, do you know how to whistle? I tried once but I got a leaf stuck in my mouth! What’s the biggest thing you've ever fought? Oh oh oh—did you ever punch a bear?"

  Twikken somehow managed to say all of this in a single breath.

  Sylvi slowly peeled her face off her arm and blinked blearily at him. "Mer."

  Magnus, still brushing dead leaves out of his hair, muttered, "By the gods, I thought Berf was loud in the mornings."

  Berf, meanwhile, was looking worriedly at the horses, who snorted uneasily at Twikken’s exuberance.

  "Uhm… do I gotta leave 'em?" Berf asked reluctantly, scratching the side of his head.

  Ashen nodded. "The glade’s safe. Safer than dragging them to a battle site."

  Berf gave his horses a long, mournful look, whispering something comforting to them as he tied their reins to a thick root at the edge of the clearing.

  The party gathered their things sluggishly, gnawing on bits of dried rations as Twikken continued to chatter circles around them.

  At some point — no one was quite sure how it happened — Twikken bounded up to the communal syrup bowl still resting near the extinguished fire, scooped up a massive glob in one leafy hand, and turned enthusiastically to Magnus.

  "Here! You looked sticky last night! Maybe you were hungry!" he cried gleefully, before slapping the sticky syrup all over Magnus’ shoulder and chest.

  Magnus froze.

  A thick glob slid down his front and plopped onto his boot with a wet splatter.

  He closed his eyes. Took a long, slow breath. And whispered, "I... am... never... wearing this jacket again."

  The others watched in horrified amusement as he once again snapped his fingers, casting prestidigitation with a dramatic flourish. The syrup evaporated in a puff of purple mist, and Magnus bowed stiffly to his invisible audience, doing an exhausted little jazz-hands motion.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  "I love magic," Twikken cheered, bouncing higher than ever.

  Ashen just smirked and started walking after him.

  "There’s no stopping him, is there?" Sylvi said, brushing crumbs from her lap.

  "Like trying to stop the sun from rising," Ashen said grimly. "Just... accept it."

  And so, under the shrill encouragement of their over-enthusiastic, manic young guide, the party followed Twikken deeper into the forest—toward the Fane of Dreaded Reflections, toward unknown dangers... and, if Magnus had any say about it, as far away from breakfast syrup as possible.

  Uneasy Paths and Distant Echoes

  The forest under Twikken’s guidance was both beautiful and chaotic.

  He led them through twisting paths that no sane traveler would have chosen—overgrown thickets, fallen logs, narrow ravines where roots formed bridges only a madman or a treant-child would trust. Twikken narrated every step, too, his sing-song voice barely pausing for breath.

  "Thiiis wayyyy! Watch the roots! Mind the nettles! Oh, that rock looks like a bear! Once I thought it was a bear and tried to make friends! It was very awkward! And up here’s the Widow’s Snag—don’t mind the name, only two people have ever vanished there. Probably."

  Berf muttered something about "needing new boots and a stronger constitution," and Magnus looked like he might genuinely die of syrup-induced despair.

  It was just as they crested a rise — Twikken still prattling about how squirrels could carry coconuts if they really, really believed — that the group heard it.

  Hammering. Chopping. The rhythmic thud of axes.

  The sound floated to them on the breeze — distant but steady. Organized. Large.

  Ashen froze mid-step, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword. Sylvi stiffened, Ember poking her head from under Sylvi’s cloak and sniffing the air warily.

  Kaeric’s sharp ears twitched.

  "Stay here," he said simply, his voice low and urgent.

  Without waiting for debate, Kaeric slipped off into the trees, his form blending quickly into the underbrush.

  Kaeric: Eyes on the Clearing

  Kaeric moved swiftly, silently, the sounds of the forest swallowing his movements.

  As he crept through the dense woods, the hammering grew louder, clearer. After perhaps five minutes of careful stalking, he emerged at the edge of a vast clearing — and his gut twisted.

  The clearing was monstrous in size, carved brutally into the Gloomwood. Raw earth, dark and scarred, stretched out where proud trees had once stood.

  Across it swarmed a sea of workers — humans, orcs, half-elves, even a few gnomes and dwarves — bustling from site to site. Hundreds of them. They wore no chains. No whips cracked at their backs. There was no cruel overseer looming nearby.

  Instead, the clearing buzzed with the steady murmur of labor: the slap of handsaws, the rhythmic clatter of hammers, the creak of lumber being shaped into beams and braces.

  To Kaeric’s trained eye, the pattern was obvious:

  ? Milling stations where raw timber was planed into planks

  ? Assembly yards for frames and wheels

  ? Finishing yards stacked with siege weapons.

  He counted at least four ballistae already mounted to carts. Several mangonels half-built. Catapults, battering rams, siege towers in skeleton stages. Strange armored wagons with jagged blades fitted to their wheels.

  War machines.

  For a long moment, Kaeric simply stood, stunned.And then, across the far side of the clearing — he saw it. A flicker of motion between the shadows.

  The horn-masked figure. The plague-like mask. The dark cloak. Watching.

  Kaeric’s breath caught, but before he could move, the figure simply—vanished into the woods. A shiver ran down his spine.

  A deep voice barked behind him.

  A Visit Too Early

  Borin wiped the sweat from his brow, his short legs working overtime as he trudged across the construction site. The morning sun beat down on the clearing, and already he was feeling it. His breathing grew heavier with each step, belly bouncing slightly with the effort. Curse these open clearings. Not a lick of shade anywhere.

  He spotted the orc near the edge of the yard—a tall one, broad-shouldered, standing too still to be a laborer. Borin's gut twisted uneasily.

  Auditor? No one said nothin' 'bout an early visit. Bloody Blackroot… always sending 'em without warnin'.

  A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his nose. Did I leave the right ledger out? He cursed under his breath, thinking of the "clean" books he usually showed visitors—the ones that didn't mention his little cuts here and there. Please tell me I remembered to swap ‘em.

  He forced a grin as he approached.

  "You mus' be from Blackroot!" he boomed, clapping a hand to his own chest. "A little early, ain't ya? I wasn’t prepared for ye until two days from now—but we’re on schedule! Always on schedule!"

  The orc barely blinked before responding, smooth as you please: "Surprise inspections keep everyone honest."

  Hmph. A little too smooth.

  Still, Borin didn’t want trouble. He beckoned the newcomer across the bustling yard, wiping his hands on his overalls as he led the way. As they walked, Borin’s chest heaved faintly, trying not to show how badly he needed a sit-down.

  All good. All normal. Keep it casual, Borin.

  They passed a freshly posted Blackroot flyer, nailed haphazardly to a beam: "Join Today! High Wages! Safe Work!" Borin glanced at it with satisfaction. Best thing we did, printing those. Keeps the workers coming even with the damned treefolk makin' trouble.

  Finally, blessedly, they reached the little office—barely more than a timber shack. Borin flopped into his chair, boots thudding onto the desk with a grateful sigh. His shirt clung damply to his back.

  The orc pulled a crumpled flyer from his pocket—the same Blackroot advertisement.

  "New?" he asked.

  Borin nodded. "Aye. We're expandin'. Got mercs now—keep the treants off our backs. Needed more hands."

  "Mercs?" the orc pressed. "I didn’t see any."

  Borin shrugged. "They made a supply run yesterday. Should be back this afternoon, but they're normally out with the lumber crews. We don't have problems with them Treants on the worksite. Do many of us I suppose. Let's see them Treants try to attack 400 workers."

  The orc’s face barely moved. No reaction. No smile. Tight one, this lad. Gotta watch ‘im.

  Borin shifted the conversation to schedules.

  "Two days," he said, tapping his boots on the desk. "Shipment's goin' out to Amberstar. After that, more orders. War's good business."

  The orc hesitated. Then asked:

  "What would it take to double production?"

  Borin squinted at him.

  Double? Double?!

  He sat up straighter, boots thunking down to the floor. His mind raced. Clear more forest. Set more yards. Get new workers in. Build faster. His pulse quickened. Would take weeks. Maybe months. Not to mention the clearing permits—though gods know we’re ignoring half of 'em already.

  "It'd delay the next shipment," he said carefully. "Would need space. Time. Can't magic up workers and wood outta thin air."

  Then the orc hit him with it:

  "Stop all production until the expansion’s ready. Send the workers home."

  Borin gawked.

  Is he mad?! Shut down production? No shipment means no payment. No payment means I can’t pay wages. Can’t call the workers back once they're gone. Most’ll drift off to Havenford or Greymoor—find new contracts. Blackroot’ll blame me for the slowdown. I'll be lucky if they don't stick me in the woods with a 'Missing - Last Seen' poster.

  He stiffened. His hand crept down toward the drawer with the ledger inside—the clean one, just in case this went bad.

  "Orders like that gotta come from the top," Borin said sharply. "You don’t look like top brass to me."

  The orc leaned forward, voice low. "I am the authority."

  Borin stared. No paperwork. No signet. No notice. Just swagger.

  Slowly, he stood, walking to the door. His gut told him something was wrong—very wrong.

  "I think it's time you leave," he said, voice firm. "Shipment’s leavin’ in two days. Like always."

  Without another word, he opened the door wide.

  The orc gave no argument. He turned and left, disappearing into the bustle of the yard.

  Borin watched him go, heart pounding.

  Something’s off. Gotta keep a close eye. Maybe send a runner to Amberstar…

  He slammed the door behind him and leaned against it, breathing heavily.

  Always on schedule, he told himself. Always.

  But for the first time in weeks, he wasn’t sure he believed it.

  A Simple Plan

  When Kaeric returned to the group, his anger was a living thing.

  He practically radiated fury as he stomped back into their hidden camp, his fists clenched and his jaw set.

  "They're building siege weapons," he said through gritted teeth. "Hundreds of them. Slaves everywhere. Orcs. Humans. Half-bloods. All building machines meant for war."

  Ashen crossed his arms, thinking. "War machines… siege towers, catapults, ballistae... if those leave the forest, hundreds—thousands—could die."

  Magnus leaned back against a tree, arms folded. "Burning things down is usually my job metaphorically."

  Berf scratched his head, thinking hard. "I wonder what the forest’ll look like on fire?"

  The group turned to him slowly, horror dawning on their faces.

  "No no," Sylvi said hastily, holding up her hands. "Not the forest, Berf. The construction site."

  Berf nodded thoughtfully. "Ah. Right. Not the trees. Just the buildings. And the catapults. And the… everything else." He scratched again, seemingly weighing this.

  Twikken, who had been unusually quiet, finally spoke up. His voice was softer, almost tremulous.

  "Iiiiit’s... not just the buildings," he said, twisting one leafy limb nervously. "It’s the trees they cut down. Our cousins. They were turned to planks and wheels and beams... their spirits still linger. They huuuuurt."

  Sylvi reached out, placing a gentle hand on Twikken’s smaller, younger branch.

  "We’ll make it right," she promised. "We’ll stop them."

  Berf, meanwhile, was quietly brimming with excitement. His big hands clenched into enthusiastic fists.

  "Oh boy, a real fight! Fire everywhere! Not just monsters but buildings this time! Magnus, can I light something on fire?"

  Magnus blinked. "I'd… usually say no. But weirdly, this time? Yes."

  "YEEESSSSSS!" Berf crowed.

  Ashen, ever the strategist, pulled the group back down to reality. "Focus. We need a plan."

  Magnus nodded, smoothing out the dirt in front of them with the side of his boot. "Alright. Here's how it plays out."

  He began sketching crude shapes- Magnus would move toward the finished weapons depot.

  Ashen would target the raw timber stacks with firebolts. Sylvi and Berf would work their way through the mid-construction yard, sabotaging wherever they could. Finally, Kaeric, once the fire served as a distraction — would circle to the administration shack, to grab anything useful. Ledger books.

  At Magnus' signal — a flare of purple magic sprayed into the sky — they would light up the site simultaneously. Ashen looked thoughtful. "We still have the alchemist’s fire we looted from the cultists, right?"

  Magnus patted his satchel with a mischievous grin. "Oh, we have plenty,” he said starting to hand them to Sylvi and Berf.

  Berf, practically vibrating with excitement, whispered, "Gonna be SO many fires."

  Twikken frowned deeply, shifting from one rootlike foot to the other. "Pleeeeease... be careful. Fire spreads fast. Trees... burn. And once it staaarts, the forest won't know you're only mad at the bad ones."

  Kaeric, eyes still dark with righteous fury, nodded distractedly. "We'll be careful."

  Sylvi gave Twikken a reassuring squeeze. "We'll stop it before it spreads. Promise."

  None of them — save perhaps a small worried part of Twikken — truly considered just how hard that promise might be to keep.

  The mood shifted then — a heavy, tense excitement threading through the group.

  The plan was reckless. Dangerous. Maybe even stupid.

  But it was a plan.

  Sparks

  Magnus slipped through the edges of the construction site, his footsteps silent against the trampled grass and churned mud. The site bustled like a hive — workers hammering, sawing, shouting instructions across half-built frames.

  But what struck him most was the absence. There were no guards patrolling. No shackles, no chained wrists. No cruel-eyed jailers looming over the laborers. Only men and women — orcs, humans, half-elves — moving freely among their tasks. Laughing. Sharing food over small campfires.

  The smell of sausages sizzling over open flames mingled with the rich scents of woodsmoke and fresh-cut timber, a sharp tang that clung to the air. Somewhere nearby, someone was frying cheese until it crackled and popped.

  Magnus drifted through the milling areas, past freshly milled lumber, rough-hewn beams stacked in towering piles. Past catapults half-assembled like the ribcages of sleeping beasts. Past planning tables littered with ink-stained diagrams and crude measurements scrawled in charcoal. The sawdust was thick in the air, tickling his throat and nose, and he fought the urge to sneeze. And all the while — no one stopped him. No one even looked at him twice.

  This isn't a prison, he thought grimly. It's a jobsite. A weapon factory wearing the mask of honest labor.

  He moved on, reaching the far end of the sprawling yard.

  Here, tucked against the thick tree line, were the siege engines nearly ready for deployment — massive ballistae lashed to heavy carts, rows of throwing engines, even hulking trebuchets standing like monstrous statues in the half-light.

  His target.

  Magnus crouched low behind a crate, pulling free a bottle of alchemical fire from his satchel. The bottle was warm in his hand, humming with barely restrained violence.

  He paused for a moment, glancing back toward the workers scrambling at the heart of the camp.

  No chains. No whips. No bloody overseers with spears.

  The pit in his stomach soured slightly — doubt flickering in the back of his mind. But then he remembered Kaeric's grim face. The endless trees felled. The war machines pointed at who knew what.

  War is war, he reminded himself. If they weren't slaves today, they'd still be killers tomorrow.

  He uncorked the bottle with a theatrical flourish and tossed it slightly in the air, catching it with a wink.

  "Showtime," he whispered.

  With a practiced snap of his fingers, a brilliant spray of purple sparks shot skyward, bursting like a miniature firework over the treetops — the signal.

  In an instant, chaos bloomed.

  Firebolts shrieked through the camp from hidden places — from Ashen’s concealed spot near the raw timber, from Berf and Sylvi striking the construction bays. Fires leapt to life, greedy and wild, igniting piles of lumber and splintering half-finished machines.

  Shouts of alarm rose. Workers dropped tools, scrambling for buckets, shouting for others to run. Smoke curled into the night air, thick and black and choking.

  Magnus laughed aloud — a quick, delighted sound — and hurled his bottle.

  It shattered against a siege tower’s base, dousing the wood in alchemical flame. In moments, the tower was a roaring pyre, the fire hungrily climbing its frame.

  Without waiting to admire the destruction, Magnus turned on his heel and disappeared into the trees — his heart pounding, his grin wide.The Gloomwood was alive with firelight behind him. And for one wild heartbeat, it felt like magic.

  Truth in Ashes

  Kaeric produced the battered ledger he had swiped from the office. Its cover was plain, nondescript — the kind of thing no one would think twice about unless they knew what they were looking for.

  Ashen flipped it open and thumbed grimly through the pages. Entry after entry. Date after date. Amberstar. Amberstar. Amberstar.

  Each line was methodical, almost mechanical — shipment quantities, departure dates, a stamp for the first destination: Amberstar, Port Authority. After that: final destination — redacted. End customer — redacted.

  And scrawled in cramped handwriting along the margins, over and over again:

  "Payment provided on behalf of customer: CM Holdings."

  Ashen frowned deeper with every page he turned. Out of hundreds of entries, only a handful — a pittance — showed raw lumber delivered to Havenford.

  The rest — all of it — was leaving for parts unknown. Weapons, materials, entire siege engines, masked under the simple header: "Timber and Finished Goods."

  "Who's buying all this?" Magnus muttered under his breath, his voice tight.

  Sylvi’s brow knitted together. "And... were they really slaves?"

  Magnus shook his head slowly. "I saw no guards. No chains. No whips. They looked... happy."

  Berf, sitting cross-legged in the dirt, scratched his head with a big hand. "They looked like folks with a job," he mumbled.

  "But the mercenaries?" Ashen pressed.

  Kaeric hesitated. His fists clenched unconsciously at his sides.

  "For the treants," he admitted reluctantly. "To defend the workers. Not... to imprison them."

  The words hit harder than any spell.

  A heavy silence fell across the group. None of them spoke for a long moment — weighed down by the realization that maybe... just maybe... they'd been fighting a phantom enemy. Had they just destroyed a construction site filled with innocent workers? Cost hundreds of people their livelihoods? All because the shape of it looked too much like war?

  Ashen’s voice finally broke the quiet, low and rough: "Either way," he said, "we slowed someone down." His hand closed the ledger with a soft thump. There were bigger things ahead. Darker things waiting. And no time to second-guess.

  The party pressed on, the trees whispering around them like ghosts.

  They Come

  The little cat crouched under a planing table, her tiny nose twitching at the smell of old smoke and sawdust. Ember yawned, blinking slow, heavy blinks. She had followed the orcs all the way from the city, and frankly, she was ready for a nap — a nice cozy one in the sun, preferably with someone scratching behind her ears.

  But no. She had a job.

  Through the slats of the table, she saw "Biggo," "Less Biggo," and "Wrinkled Lady" — the names she’d given them — arguing with the big, furry bear-man in tan overalls. There was a lot of shouting. Angry pointing. Stomping.

  Ember sighed through her nose, her whiskers twitching. Then — movement. More orcs. Seven of them. Grabbing weapons. Strapping on armor. Barking orders in sharp, guttural tones.

  Ten now in total. Running.Toward the trees.

  Toward her family.

  Ember flattened herself low to the ground, her heart beating faster. No nap yet. She darted from her hiding spot, melting into the shadows, chasing after them like a silent little wisp.

  Sylvi’s voice was tight. "They’re coming."

  Magnus paled. "They’re hunting us?"

  Ashen shook his head. "We have a four hour lead. We run for the Fane."

  The Fane of Dreaded Reflections

  As the party approached the Fane of Dreaded Reflections, the forest around them grew unnaturally quiet, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, but there was an undercurrent of something acrid, almost metallic, that prickled at the back of their throat. Shafts of sunlight barely penetrate the dense canopy above, casting shifting, fractured patterns across the forest floor.

  The fane emerged slowly from the gloom, its dark stone exterior etched with jagged patterns that glimmer faintly, like veins of silver running through black marble. The structure was old, impossibly old, its sharp angles and jutting spires giving it the appearance of a jagged wound in the earth. Vines twisted around its base, climbing the walls like green fingers trying to reclaim the dark temple, but their growth halted abruptly as they neared the faintly shimmering surface of the walls, as though repelled by an unseen force.

  A wide stone stairway led up to an arched doorway, its edges lined with fractured mirror shards that caught what little light there was, creating distorted, fragmented reflections. The party left Twikken as they drew closer, noticing the reflections not quite matching reality— their faces slightly off, as if mimicking emotions just under the surface. Some flickered with faint smirks, others with narrowed eyes, staring back at in silent judgment.

  Above the doorway, Ashen read an inscription in a forgotten script carved into the stone aloud. Though it was foreign to the others, the meaning seeped into their minds unbidden.

  “Only the true may pass. What you see will cut deeper than the sharpest blade.”