Flint peered through his spectacles at the dense forest growth. He’d only visited Melvin the wizard once before, years ago, and he was certain they weren’t headed in the right direction. However, Woods hadn’t given Flint the map. He’d given it to Rock. And Flint was fairly certain Rock had forgotten it back at the farm.

  “Rock, are you sure this is the right way?” Flint asked, his voice tinged with skepticism.

  “Rock.” Rock sounded confident, but Flint wasn’t so sure. They’d been traveling for a whole day, and Flint remembered that the last time he journeyed to the shores, the landscape had looked quite a bit different. He also remembered that the forest teemed with creatures—odd ones that Flint had never seen before. He had been with Reed, Woods, and Matt back then, but now it was just him and Rock.

  Flint wrung his hands nervously, hoping they wouldn’t encounter anything dangerous.

  After another hour of travel, Flint was convinced they were off course. “Rock, I feel like we’re heading away from the shores. Are you sure we’re going East?”

  Rock shrugged and kept walking.

  Flint felt a surge of irritation and stopped in his tracks. “Rock, this doesn’t seem right.”

  Rock must’ve finally noticed the annoyance in Flint’s voice. He paused and turned to him. “Rock?”

  “No, I’m not scared. Just a little nervous. Last time I traveled to the shores, I saw something Matt called a Sasquatch.”

  Rock raised his eyebrows, intrigued. “Rock?”

  “It was huge. Bigger than your animal form, bigger than even Woods’ animal form.”

  Rock scrunched up his nose and turned back to the path. “Rock.”

  Flint’s mouth fell open in surprise. How could Rock doubt him? “Rock, I’m telling the truth! It was real, we all saw it.”

  Rock shrugged again, making an incredible amount of noise as he trudged through the forest. Twigs snapped under his boots, and Flint looked around nervously.

  “Rock, be quiet!” Flint warned.

  Rock sighed heavily and shot Flint an exasperated look. “Rock,” he said dismissively, waving a hand as he continued.

  Flint’s worry shifted to anger. Despite what Rock said, Flint knew he wasn’t the biggest, scariest thing in this forest.

  He cast a wary glance around the woodland, an uneasy feeling washing over him. The forest felt... wrong. Not just alive, but aware—its towering trees stretching too high, their branches shifting like unseen figures whispering among themselves. The undergrowth was thick and tangled, as if the plants were competing for room, blanketing the forest floor in a plush carpet. It felt sentient in a way, almost predatory. Anything could be watching them from the shadows, hidden within the wild, unchecked brush. After a few seconds of studying the forest, Flint shuddered and turned to follow Rock.

  Reluctantly, he stomped after his travel companion, unaware of the noise he was making himself. The sprites continued their journey, Flint still uncertain if they were heading toward the shores or wandering further into the forest’s depths.

  Rock stopped abruptly. Flint, lost in his own thoughts and not paying attention, collided with him and toppled to the forest floor. “What’d you do that for?” Flint asked incredulously.

  “Rock,” Rock hissed, silencing Flint.

  Something was moving toward them, the telltale snap of branches giving away its approach. The forest had turned ominously still, amplifying every crack and rustle. Flint noticed that the birds had stopped chirping, and the gentle hum of bees had been silenced. Flint’s heart pounded as he scrambled to his feet. “What is it?” he whispered.

  Rock held up a hand, signaling for Flint to be quiet. The forest around them seemed to hold its breath. Then, through the dense undergrowth, a figure emerged—a huge, shadowy shape with eyes that caught the rays of sunlight filtering through the leaves above. It was the sasquatch, just as Flint had described. It towered over them with fur matted and leaves tangled in its hair. The sasquatch looked down at the sprites with an expression that seemed more curious than menacing. Flint’s breath caught in his throat as he recognized the creature.

  “That’s the thing I saw before,” Flint whispered urgently to Rock, “I told you it was massive!”

  Rock, unfazed, stepped forward and gave the sasquatch a friendly wave. “Rock,” he greeted it cheerfully. The sasquatch was at least twenty times larger than Rock, but Rock wasn’t scared. Flint on the other hand took a step back, his eyes wide and his heart pounding in his ears.

  The sasquatch tilted its head, then, much to Flint’s surprise, sat down cross-legged in front of them, scratching its head in an almost comical manner. It let out a low, rumbling sound that seemed to be its version of a greeting.

  Rock responded with a series of animated gestures as if having a casual conversation with an old friend. Flint watched in bewilderment, his fear slowly ebbing away as the interaction continued.

  “Rock, what are you doing?” Flint whispered.

  Rock didn’t answer, but looked expectantly at the sasquatch as if waiting for him to respond.

  The sasquatch rumbled again, a deep growly sound that sounded strangely friendly. The creature pointed a massive finger toward the direction they had been heading. It then made a sweeping motion with its arm, mimicking the shape of the coastline, or the sway of the sea.

  Flint’s eyes widened in realization. “It’s showing us the way to the shores!”

  Rock nodded enthusiastically and gave the sasquatch a thumbs-up. The creature returned the gesture, its giant thumb nearly the size of the sprites themselves.

  Flint chuckled nervously as he eyed the towering figure before him. Should they really trust a sasquatch? Rock didn’t seem afraid, and if the creature had any intention of harming them, it had already passed up plenty of chances. Flint hesitated, then sighed. “I guess you’re not so scary after all,” he admitted.

  The sasquatch let out a low, rumbling sound that sounded amused. Flint stiffened. Was that… a chuckle?

  As swiftly as it had appeared, the massive, fur-covered creature retreated into the overgrown brush, vanishing with a rustle of leaves. Rock didn’t hesitate—he turned in the direction the sasquatch had indicated, his footsteps filled with confidence.

  Flint lingered for a heartbeat, casting a wary glance at the dense foliage where the creature had disappeared. Just because it hadn't eaten them yet didn't mean it wouldn’t change its mind. Was it wise to follow the directions of a sasquatch? With a resigned sigh, he adjusted his grip on his satchel and trudged after Rock.

  In his satchel was a letter of utter importance. The letter had to reach the wizard of Crimsonshores no matter what. Woods had made that clear. He’d written the message in a rush before shoving it into Flint’s hands that morning. No explanations. No time for questions. Just a sharp look and a single command: “Deliver this to Melvin. Don’t mess it up.”

  “Rock,” Rock said with a grin, sounding relieved.

  Flint started. “You forgot the map at home? I knew it!”

  “Rock,” he shot back with a smirk,

  “Yeah, I guess,” Flint replied, smiling despite himself. “We were pretty lucky that sasquatch knew the way.”

  ***

  The air grew thick with humidity as they neared the shores. Flint inhaled deeply, tasting the briny sea air on the breeze. They were close. He began to recognize more and more of the landscape, and he took the lead in guiding Rock to the old lighthouse where Melvin lived. The familiar sight of the weathered structure, with its peeling paint and cracked windows, filled Flint with a mix of relief and trepidation.

  As they approached, a plume of smoke billowed from a chimney at the top of the lighthouse. Flint wrinkled his nose at the unmistakable scent of Melvin’s cooking—an odd mixture of burnt herbs and something that smelled suspiciously like overcooked fish.

  He pulled the letter from his satchel, its edges crinkled from being haphazardly shoved in this morning. He was supposed to take it straight to the wizard—but instead, he hesitated, turning it over in his hands. Should he read it first?

  He knew Woods and Matt were keeping things from him. Keeping things from all of the younger sprites, really. He cast a sideways glance at Rock, who was preoccupied with adjusting his pack, oblivious to the letter. Did Rock know more than he did?

  The temptation gnawed at him. It would be easy. A quick peek. Just enough to know what was so urgent that Woods had practically thrown it at him that morning. It wasn’t even sealed; all he had to do was unfold it. He could say he’d accidentally seen what was written inside.

  Then he exhaled sharply and shoved the letter back into his satchel. Woods had trusted him. That wasn’t something Flint was willing to break—not yet, at least. Just in case, he buried it beneath his other belongings—a spool of copper wire, his favorite book, and a tin can that still had some life left in it, something he could refashion into something useful. He pushed the letter deep into his satchel, wedging it beside another envelope—one he’d written for Fern but never sent, tucked away where no one but him would ever see it.

  He cinched the satchel shut with a firm tug. It would be safe there. At least, that was what he told himself. If it was out of sight, out of reach, then maybe—maybe—he wouldn’t give in.

  “Rock, are you ready for this?” Flint asked, glancing back at his companion.

  “Rock,” Rock replied with a confident nod.

  They reached the door, and Flint hesitated for a moment before knocking. Almost immediately the door swung open, revealing Melvin in his usual disheveled state. His robes were stained with various substances, and his hair stuck out in all directions. He wore a wide grin as he greeted them.

  “Ah, Flint! Rock! Come in, come in! I’ve just finished preparing a little something special, and I’m always in need of taste testers,” Melvin waved them inside with a flourish.

  Flint exchanged a worried glance with Rock as they stepped into the cluttered interior of the lighthouse. The small kitchen area looked like it had a tornado recently pass through. It was a mess of glass jars, scattered scrolls, and half-finished experiments vying for space on every available surface. Shelves bowed under the weight of mismatched bottles, their contents swirling with eerie luminescence. Some shimmered like liquid gold, while others swirled ominously, their hues shifting like storm clouds. Bundles of dried herbs dangled from the rafters, some familiar—rosemary, thyme—while others were stranger, their leaves an unnatural shade of blue or their stems writhing slightly as if still alive.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  The wooden table in the center of the room was cluttered with parchment stained with ink and odd substances, stacks of dusty tomes left open, and an assortment of flasks filled with bubbling concoctions. One particularly unsettling jar held what appeared to be a floating eyeball, lazily rolling to “watch” Flint as he moved past it. Flint paused, meeting the eye with his own before shuddering and making it a point to look away.

  The large cauldron on the stove burbled ominously, releasing thick greenish vapor that wafted through the air. Strange metallic instruments—some resembling forks, others more like surgical tools—were haphazardly strewn about. Tiny vials of stardust, ground bones, and unidentifiable shimmering powders littered the countertops, interspersed with half-melted candles, their wax pooling onto enchanted coasters that shimmered faintly as they absorbed the drips.

  Flint and Rock exchanged sidelong glances.

  “What brings you two here?” Melvin asked, stirring the contents of the cauldron with a wooden spoon. As he lifted the spoon out of it, the portion of the spoon that was inside the liquid was gone, clearly melted off in the concoction. Melvin didn’t seem to notice as he turned to grab some other ingredients from a crowded shelf behind him.

  As Melvin moved, Flint’s eyes drifted down to the wizard’s feet. There, peeking out from beneath his robe, were shoes so peculiar that they demanded attention. They were some kind of strange footwear—made from a spongy material that looked both flimsy and indestructible at the same time. The shoes were a faded green, covered in holes, with little trinkets stuck into the front. One charm looked like a miniature mushroom, another like a tiny lightning bolt.

  Flint blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Are those... shoes?” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

  The wizard shifted his feet, the shoes squeaking against the stone floor. “Ah, you like them?” Melvin asked with a grin, noticing Flint’s stare. “They’re called Crocs, a design from Matt’s home world. His grandfather, Bartholomew, was the first to tell me about them. You’d be amazed at the utility. Perfect for wandering the shores and brewing potions!”

  Rock raised an eyebrow, but Flint couldn’t help himself. “Shoes with holes?” he murmured. “Is that safe around all this...” his gaze drifted to the bubbling concoction on the stove, “…uh, cooking?”

  Melvin waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, they’re charmed, of course! Not to mention stylish and comfortable. I could walk to the next realm in these beauties.” He tapped the toe of his croc-clad foot against the stone, the sound of soft rubber oddly out of place in the arcane setting.

  Flint shook his head, deciding it was better not to ask any further questions about the footwear. Instead, he cleared his throat as Melvin turned his attention back to the cauldron.

  “We need your help, Melvin,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “There’s a problem with the balance of magic in Sagewood...”

  Flint rummaged into his bag, his hand finding the letter Woods had given him. He extended the letter, but Melvin didn’t reach for it. He was too engrossed in his concoction, stirring it methodically.

  “Ah, the balance of magic, yes. Tricky business, that,” Melvin said, nodding sagely. “There always seems to be something off about it. It’s been that way for centuries now, always overcorrecting itself and causing more problems than it solves.”

  He took a handful of some purple herbs and tossed them in, making the brew sizzle unpleasantly. Rock and Flint both took a step back, distancing themselves from the wizard’s creation.

  Melvin turned to Flint and Rock, an excited gleam in his eye. “I’ll help, but first, you must try my latest recipe. It’s a stew made from rare coastal herbs and sea creatures. Quite nutritious!”

  Flint’s stomach churned at the thought. He remembered the last time he had tried Melvin’s cooking and the unpleasant aftermath. “Um, maybe later, Melvin. We’re really in a bit of a hurry.”

  “Nonsense!” Melvin insisted, ladling out a portion of the greenish stew into two bowls and offering them to Flint and Rock. “The magic can wait for us to have a nice, warm meal. You both must be starving from the long journey here.”

  Rock took another cautious step back, his nose wrinkling at the pungent aroma. Flint, however, stuffed the letter in his pocket and took the bowls with a forced smile. Offending a wizard—especially a powerful one like Melvin—was never a good idea, even if his culinary skills were more dangerous than his spells. Melvin was harmless—Flint knew that much. The only real threat the eccentric wizard posed was to a good meal or a normal recipe. But still, there was always that lingering caution when it came to wizards. If you weren’t careful, they could easily turn you into a frog, or worse.

  “Thank you, Melvin,” Flint said, as the wizard turned back to his stew. Flint glanced at Rock and silently mouthed, “Help me.”

  Rock, picking up on Flint’s distress, quickly intervened. “Rock,” he said, shaking his head and pointing to his stomach, mimicking a pained expression.

  “Oh, stomach troubles, eh?” Melvin said, eyeing Rock sympathetically. “Well, more for you then, Flint!”

  Flint shot Rock a glare before he turned back to the wizard. He sighed, setting the bowls down on a nearby table. It was hard to find an open spot, due to all the clutter, so the bowls sat precariously on the edge.

  “Melvin, we were sent here with strict orders to deliver this letter, I’m sure it’s of the utmost importance. I don’t want to be rude, but Woods made it clear I needed to get this to you as soon as possible,” Flint fished the letter from his pocket, holding it up to the wizard. “Hopefully it explains a little more about what’s going on.”

  Melvin brushed his hands on his apron and took the letter from Flint. He adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat as he unfolded the letter. Flint watched, hands clasped tightly behind his back, trying not to fidget. The wizard’s eyes scanned the page, his expression shifting from curiosity to something… different. His brows climbed higher with each line he read. Flint wondered what Woods had written. He wished he would’ve read it beforehand. Based on Melvin’s reaction, he’d missed a grand opportunity for classified information.

  Melvin cleared his throat again, more forcefully this time. “Ah. Are you sure this letter is meant for me?” He shot Flint a puzzled glance, holding the paper at arm’s length as if greater distance might make the words make more sense. “Did you say Woods wrote this?”

  Flint blinked, stomach sinking. “Uh… yeah?”

  Melvin looked back down at the letter, frowning. “Because this says, ‘Your eyes are like the sun coming through the trees in the morning—bright, warm, and impossible to ignore.’”

  Flint’s heart stopped.

  Melvin continued, voice growing increasingly bewildered. “‘Every time you smile, I forget what I was thinking about. Which is a problem, because I think about you a lot.’”

  Flint’s heart restarted—at twice the speed.

  Melvin’s face had gone fully red now. “And then, uh… ‘If I had to pick between finding the rarest gemstone in the world or getting to talk to you for five minutes, I’d pick you. Every time. Even if the gemstone was really, really cool.’” He coughed, shooting Flint a sharp look. “Are you certain Woods wrote this? It doesn’t really sound like him.”

  Flint didn’t answer. He was too busy frantically rifling through his satchel, searching past a spool of copper wire, a tin can, why did he keep so much junk in here—ah! His fingertips brushed the letter. The real letter.

  Flint snatched the love letter from Melvin’s hands, stuffing it back into his bag as fast as spritely possible. In the same motion, he shoved the actual letter into the wizard’s hands.

  “There! That one! That’s the one from Woods!” His voice came out a little too high, a little too fast.

  Melvin, still looking deeply disturbed, carefully unfolded the new letter. Flint, for his part, could feel every drop of blood in his body simmering beneath his skin. He felt Rock’s eyes on him, but he purposely didn’t look up.

  He could never let Fern know about this. Or the others. He’d make Rock swear up and down to never tell anyone about what he’d heard.

  Melvin skimmed the new letter, then nodded. “Yes, this makes significantly more sense.” He hesitated, then gave Flint a long, considering look. “…Would you like me to pretend this never happened?”

  Flint nodded so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

  Melvin nodded. “Then we’ll never speak of it again. Right, Rock?”

  “Rock,” he agreed, his voice tight with barely suppressed laughter.

  Melvin focused on the correct letter again, rereading it. “Hmm, very interesting.” He muttered. “The forest has been encroaching on Sagewood, you say?” He asked no one in particular as his eyes continued to scan the letter.

  Flint took a steadying breath, willing his pulse to settle. He still couldn’t meet Rock’s gaze—not after that disaster—so instead, he focused on something, anything else. His eyes landed on the two bowls of soup Melvin had given him earlier, still untouched, still reeking of whatever questionable ingredients the wizard had thrown into the cauldron.

  Right. He still had to deal with those.

  He couldn’t just leave them. Melvin would notice. And drinking them? Not an option. The stuff had the consistency of melted wax and smelled like burnt cabbage mixed with… was that sulfur? No, he wasn’t risking it.

  What he needed was a plan. A way to get rid of them without offending the wizard. His mind raced through possibilities. They weren’t that full—if he could just get them outside, somewhere discreet…

  An idea struck him. A slow grin spread across his face.

  Clearing his throat quietly, he caught Rock’s attention and pointed to the bowls. Rock furrowed his brow, clearly confused by Flint’s gestures. Flint opened his bag and motioned towards the bowls again. Rock, still puzzled, approached the table with caution.

  “Hide them in here,” Flint mouthed silently.

  Rock nodded and grabbed the bowls, trying to be stealthy. Both sprites flinched when the bowls scraped against the wooden table, but Melvin didn’t notice. His eyes were wide behind his spectacles as he read the letter with increasing intensity, his hands slightly crinkling the edges. “Oh no, well this is terrible,” he murmured.

  Meanwhile, the sprites continued their covert operation.

  “Just put them in here carefully and I’ll—Rock! No!” Flint watched in horror as Rock dumped the contents of the bowls into his bag. “That’s not what I meant,” Flint whispered dejectedly. They both glanced nervously at Melvin, who remained absorbed in the letter. Rock returned the now-empty bowls to the table and offered an apologetic shrug as Flint put his bag back over his shoulders, an annoyed look on his face. He’d already planned to reorganize his bag, but now it looked like a full clean out was needed.

  Melvin peered over the letter, a concerned look on his face. “Is it really as bad as this letter says?”

  Flint nodded, trying to ignore the soup sloshing around in his bag. He still didn’t know what the letter said, but he was sure Woods had told the truth in it.

  “Yes, Melvin, it really is. Matt is trying to level his farm up so he can free the goddess, but if there’s anything you can do in the meantime, it would really help.”

  Melvin nodded, his eyes gleaming with a sudden fervor. “Well, why didn’t you say so sooner?” He tossed the letter aside and grabbed a large leather-bound book from a nearby shelf. “I can at least make sure that Matt and his family are safe from the forest. Come on, let’s see what we can whip up to stabilize things temporarily.”

  Flint and Rock exchanged relieved glances as Melvin flipped through the pages, muttering to himself.

  “We’ll need some Elderwood bark, moonlight essence, and perhaps a pinch of pixie dust. Ah, here it is!” He slammed the book shut and hurried to gather the ingredients. After a short time spent combining various ingredients, Melvin returned with a jar filled with a shimmering powder. “This should do the trick,” he said, handing the jar to Flint. “Sprinkle a bit of this mixture on the four corners of the farm, and it should help hold back the forest for now.”

  “Thank you, Melvin,” Flint said earnestly. “We’ll get this back to Matt right away.”

  Melvin grinned, clapping Flint on the shoulder. “You know what? It’s been a while since I’ve been to Sagewood. I’ll pack a bag and come with you two!”

  Flint forced a smile, trying to hide his apprehension. “Oh, Melvin, that’s really not necessary—”

  “I’ll bring lots of snacks for us as well. I’ve been toying with some new recipes for on-the-go snack bars. They’re very popular on Matt’s world—you two can try all the flavors on the journey.”

  “Rock,” Rock cut in, reminding Melvin about his upset stomach. Flint didn’t bother to hide the glare he shot at Rock now, feeling more than a little annoyed.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Melvin said, snapping his fingers. His magic bag appeared out of thin air, and he began filling it with various items, the selection random yet seemingly calculated. “I forgot you’re not feeling well. Flint and I will just have to eat them.”

  Flint groaned.

  “All right, I’m all ready to go,” Melvin announced, oblivious to the sprites’ sour looks. “Let’s go save Sagewood!”

  ***

  I wiped the sweat from my brow as I finished yet another harvest. We were almost out of spring seeds, and I’d learned through this whole process that my drop box did indeed have a limit to the number of crops I could shove into it at one time. The limit was one thousand, and I’d passed that earlier this morning. There was a pile next to the drop box, where they would wait until I could cram them in like the rest of the crops. I glanced at the forest at the edge of the farm, which was now almost completely cleared. The sprites had become like well-oiled machines, felling trees with an efficiency that would make any logging company jealous. Woods appeared beside me, his expression concerned.

  “It’s something else, isn’t it?” I asked, pulling a shovel out of my bag. I still had to painstakingly clear the plants after each harvest, something that took way more energy than I was accustomed to.

  Woods nodded. “Yep.” He pointed to where we’d started days ago. My jaw dropped. The forest was already reclaiming the land, saplings sprouting where stumps should have been.

  “That’s... impossible,” I muttered.

  “Not anymore,” Woods replied grimly.

  I shook my head, still struggling to process the sight. “So, what do we do? Keep chopping it down until we find a better solution?”

  Woods hesitated, then spoke softly. “It might be easier to just burn it all down.”

  I stiffened, memories of flames engulfing my farmhouse flashing through my mind. I’d already burned the entire farm down once before. “No,” I said firmly. “No fires. I’m not risking losing everything again.”

  “Matt, I didn’t mean—”

  “I know,” I cut him off, softening my tone. “But you remember how long it took to rebuild after the fire. And there’s no guarantee we could control it. What if it spread to the farmhouse? I could lose all my levels if that burned down.”

  Woods nodded, understanding in his eyes. “You’re right. We’ll find another way.”

  I sighed, looking back at the rapidly regenerating forest. “We have to. For Sagewood, for the farm, for all of us.”