ã€ŠChild of Oakã€‹


 Chapter 1-The Boy

    The morning mist was thick and twisted as the boy came stumbling out of the forest into the village of Falderfell. He dragged his bruised and bloodied feet across the damp soil of the pathways, his shirt and trousers all in tatters. His hair was uneven and raggedly cut and fell about in mats, stuck to him by sweat and dirt. His breaths came out sharp and fast as if he had been running for a great distance through the great ocean of trees that surrounded the village. He hobbled, panting and shaking into the village square, where he collapsed against the stones of the well, laying so still that only the rise and fall of his breathing was indicative of life. The townsfolk gathered around him, murmuring and shaking their heads. They were not surprised at the boy¡¯s coming. Unknown children were far from the strangest thing that tended to wander from the trees. The most peculiar thing about the whole affair was that the boy clutched in his hands a massive sword.

    The mayor was able to pry the thing from the boy with considerable effort. The boy clutched to the sword as if releasing it would stop his heart, and his young muscles were wiry and strong even through malnutrition. The sword was of fine make, finer than any of the blades carried even by Captain Gareth. The handle was of twisted black iron, turning up into a small cross guard that just covered the first finger. The blade was long and made of steel that shone in the soft morning light, the single edge curving slightly to a wicked point. Etched into the blade were a multitude of runes that no one, not even the town librarian Ruthe, could make any sense of. It was deceptively light but strong enough to crack one of Ranger¡¯s smaller short swords when tested.

    Raya watched the affair play out as she and her mother carried baskets of grain and flour through the village. It was time for harvest, the air was beginning to grow crisp with the beginnings of autumn, and her mother insisted they had no time to gawk at strange boys in the town square. Her mother was the town baker, as her mother had been, and Raya would be before long. As they carried the baskets from the wagon into the bakery¡¯s storage shed, Raya couldn¡¯t help but watch as the mayor and the ranger discussed what to do with the boy, but more importantly the swords. The ranger, the one currently stationed in the village was a lean, rat-faced fellow named Jeorge, was insisting that the sword needed to be brought to the old fort.

    ¡°We¡¯ve barely got enough steel as is. The Captain needs every bit he can use.¡±

    The mayor scrunched his face and massaged his forehead with his fingers. ¡°Don¡¯t you think we should at least try to understand what it is before we just ship it off to hack at gods know what?¡±

    Jeorge shrugged, crossing his arms. ¡°Not much to understand. A blade¡¯s a blade. If it can kill a rot walker, it should be at the fort.¡±

    The boy had been given a blanket by one of the Mothers and lay against the stone of the well, staring blankly forward. Mother Reila had brought him a bowl of soup and he tore into with the ferocity of a child who had not eaten in untold days. A few of the Mothers stood to the side, watching the boy and speaking amongst themselves, their arms crossed in front of them. Raya¡¯s mother noticed her staring and grabbed her arm.

    ¡°Come now, Raya. The Mothers will sort it out, and it¡¯s no business of yours.¡± Raya¡¯s mother was in line to join the matriarchs within a few years. Her father had had no interest in running the town. He was likely in the bakery already, covered in flour as he kneaded the dough for the day. Raya caught one last look at the boy as she entered the bakery with the last basket of grain. Mother Elin was guiding him by the hand into the town hall, the mayor still arguing with Ranger Jeorge. His eyes were green and wild, darting to every corner and every rooftop, his bony arms covered in scratches and bruises. Raya thought she caught a glimpse of something in between neck, just barely covered by his shirt. The skin looked scarred and blistered, but too precise to be the result of an accident. Was the boy branded? Raya¡¯s mother called out from inside, her tone hinting that she was not going to ask another time. Raya darted inside, her skirt fluttering behind her as she joined her mother and father in the bakery that had kept their family housed and fed for untold years

    After a few hours of deliberation, a decision was made about the boy and his strange sword. The blade would be brought to the old fort as a personal gift to Captain Gareth for his years of service as captain of the Rangers. The boy would be cared for by Jaret and Fey Ferrew, the town blacksmiths. They had lost their oldest boy to a particularly territorial oak shade and needed the help and companionship in their forge. Within a few days, things were normal, and the boy was a member of the village. He had no memory of where he was from, why he was in the forest, or even his name. When the Mothers would mention the strange brand on his back, the boy would grow deadly silent and start to shake uncontrollably. The village decided it was best to leave the matter and named the boy Tefta. It was not the strangest thing Falderfell had seen, nor would it be their last curiosity.

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    The stars were hidden, but if Seren craned his neck at just the right angle, he could see the moon through the dark blanket of clouds covering the night sky. The wind was cold and howled faintly as it made its way through trees. It wasn¡¯t a biting cold like the winter months brought when the cold seeped through layers of clothing into the skin and bones. It was cold enough to be a nuisance without a fire, so stealth be damned, the Rangers had built a fire. Seren sipped a cup of hot tea, his short sword and bow resting on his lap. The two other rangers assigned to Camp Baelon sat near him in a circle, Fyrn whittling a piece of wood with his hunting knife and Trissa lying on her back staring at the canopy above.

    ¡°Boring night,¡± Fyrn said absently as he carved away at the scrap of wood. He had an annoying habit of not letting silence be. Always had to say something.

    ¡°Dreary is more like it,¡± Trissa tossed a stone into the air and caught it before tossing it up again.

    Calling Camp Baelon an actual camp was a vast overstatement. The Ranger¡¯s southern outpost was a single canvas tent to house the three Rangers and a wooden shack that the word rickety could not begin to describe. The shack held the supplies that would keep the Rangers fed for the next few months until winter drove them back to the old fort.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    ¡°Have you ever wondered why this place is called Camp Baelon, while the old fort is just¡­well the old fort?¡± Fyrn held the scrap of wood up, turning it in his hand. His hood was thrown back, and his brown-black hair tied in a tail behind his head. ¡°Seems like it should have more of an official name.¡± The wind howled again, making the embers of the fire flare up in its wake. Seren spotted a pair of eyes flickering in the darkness behind Trissa. Probably a wind nymph, better to leave it alone. Few things in the forest were a good idea to acknowledge.

    ¡°It¡¯s called Camp Baelon because some much more talented and experienced Ranger named it such,¡± Trissa said as she sat up, tossing the rock from hand to hand. If Fyrn couldn¡¯t shut up, Trissa couldn¡¯t sit still. Her black cloak was pulled around her to ward of the chilly air and her amber hair spilled around her shoulders. ¡°And the old fort is called the old fort because it¡¯s a damned old fort.¡± Trissa suddenly threw the rock. It whistled past Seren¡¯s face making him jump. He turned, grabbing his sword. A grass-green roxie lay next to a spilt bag of dried acorns by the shed, dazed and leaking green blood from its pointed ears. It must have snuck in while they were distracted.

    Trissa stood up and grabbed the tiny imp by its foot and tossed it into the darkness. Seren heard a wet thump as it crashed into a tree. ¡°Damned things. The winter needs to come so we have a few months without the bother.¡± Seren felt a twinge of pity for the poor creature, but remembering the two daggers that had gone ¡°missing¡± last spring quickly extinguished that feeling.

    ¡°The winter needs to come so we can leave this blasted place,¡± Seren grumbled. They had been stationed here three weeks ago at the beginning of autumn and instructed not to leave unless a dire emergency needed to be reported. The last few weeks of uneventful patrols and nonexistent game was painting a picture for the next few months, Seren feared. He never thought he would miss the hard cots of the old fort, but at least you got to fight an oak shade or a rot walker now and again.

    Fyrn snorted. ¡°Got a long time until then. The glorious life of a Ranger not suiting you?¡±

    ¡°Shut up. I just wish we could at least see a deer or two.¡±

    Trissa stepped around him, wiping the roxie blood off on the back of his cloak. ¡°Don¡¯t be so sullen all the time. It¡¯s not good for you.¡±

    ¡°You know, you could¡¯ve hit me with that rock.¡±

    ¡°But I didn¡¯t, did I?¡± Trissa smirked. She was quite pretty when she wasn¡¯t lobbing rocks at him. She had joined with Seren, gone through training with him, hunted with him, and was now stationed in a barren camp too close to wight country with him.

    The fire crackled as Seren placed another log on the embers. The trees surrounded the three Rangers, ever-present and watching in their eternal vigil. Occasional cracks from the underbrush and rustles gave Seren the feeling of being surrounded. In truth, he knew that Camp Baelon was in a marginally safer location than the old fort. The deep woods beyond Ela¡¯s Weeping were an ominous sight for even an experienced Ranger. At least the old fort had a wall and the safety of numbers. And they were so close to wight country. Seren imagined the circle stones waiting in the maze of trees, harbingers of the mist-choked and wight-infested ruins that lay beyond.

    ¡°Movement in the brush,¡± Trissa said, breaking Seren out of his daydream. He grabbed his bow, Fyrn sheathing his knife and laying his wood scrap down gingerly. Fyrn was the senior of the three and was serving as the patrol leader for the deployment. Trissa had already slung her quiver over her shoulder and had an arrow in hand, crouched by the fire, her face hidden under her hood. Seren reached for an arrow, but Fyrn¡¯s gesture stayed his hand. Don¡¯t be jumpy, Captain Gareth had told them before they left. Jumpy will get you killed.

    Fyrn crouched down. Leaves and brush were rustling from in the darkness, too heavy to be normal wildlife. He kept his hand out, beckoning for the younger Rangers to stay still. They waited there, Seren¡¯s heart slowing as he waited for the inevitable disappointment. It would turn out to be nothing in the end, just like that moon deer he thought he had seen. His muscles were beginning to ease up and his hand loosening on the arrow when an electric blue glow began to shine through the forest, casting long shadows in the dark.

    ¡°Cover the fire!¡± Fyrn hissed. Seren pulled his cloak from his shoulder and threw it over the fire, feeling exposed and bare as the world plunged back into darkness. The fire was mostly embers, and the Ranger cloaks were thick for this purpose, designed not to burn. He knocked an arrow, holding it to the string but not pulling back, as the captain had taught. Don¡¯t pull the string back until you¡¯re ready to shoot. Your arm will tire, and you¡¯ll miss and then you¡¯ll die. Fyrn had his sword in hand, still in the sheath, Trissa still motionless in the shadows.

    The glow moved through the oaks, making shapes across the Ranger¡¯s faces. Hopefully, it was a moon deer or just a lone wight. They weren¡¯t dangerous unless you ran into a group of them. But they were so close to the circles. Seren eyes focused to the sudden darkness. He could make out a group of figures making their way through the forest, aglow with that electric blue light, their skin a mass of uneven shapes and ridges. They carried spears of wood and stone, wisps of lichen and moss hanging from the handles. They chittered in a clicking, shrill tongue as they lumbered through the brush.

    Fyrn stood up, pushing back his hood. ¡°Put your arrows away,¡± he said aloud. ¡°It¡¯s just a squad of toadstools.¡±Seren¡¯s body relaxed as he put the arrow back in its quiver. He pulled the bowstring from its place and let the bow go slack. ¡°I didn¡¯t think they came this far south.¡± The Mycellians walked past in a single row. They were all composed of countless interlocking series of mushrooms, toadstools, and lichens. Their faces were uneven and made of the same petrified fungus. Some of them, who knew if there even were males, had beards and long manes of moss around their faces. Their eyes were black beads placed into depressions in their fungal skulls. Some carried spears, others carried mossy swords of black obsidian. Their bodies pulsed with that glowing blue light. He pulled his cloak from over the fire, the embers still glowing faintly. He slung it back over his shoulders, the cloak wasn¡¯t even warm.

    ¡°Do you think they notice us?¡± Trissa asked, her bow still in hand as she walked up between Fyrn and Seren.

    ¡°Oh, they do,¡± Fyrn said, plopping back down on his log and unsheathing his knife. ¡°They just don¡¯t care.¡± He threw another log onto the embers and grabbed his wood chunk. ¡°The only ones that care to notice are the rot walkers, and I could do without one of those bastards raging about.¡±

    The rest of the night proved uneventful, as Seren feared. Trissa went to bed not long after the Mycellians passed through, and Fyrn followed, letting Seren take the first watch, as usual. He sat by the fire, running a whetstone along the edge of his short sword, the rasping sound cutting through the silence of the night. The night had grown cold, and the fire small and weak, so he wrapped himself in his cloak.

    He couldn¡¯t help but think of his fear when he saw that glow in the dark. Things that glowed like that in the forest weren¡¯t afraid to show themselves. Things that wanted to announce their presence. Even a peaceful moon deer could be deadly, with its glowing horns and iron hooves. As Seren sat underneath a cloudy sky, by a dying fire in a cold forest, he was profoundly aware of the fact that he gave off no light of his own and blended into the shadows.

 Chapter 2-The Captain

    Captain Gareth rested his hand on the new sword that hung from his hip as he walked through the training field of the old fort. When it had been brought from Falderfell, its strange make and weight had tempted him to send it back, but Jeorge had insisted he try before riding back. The blade had cut half a foot into an iron-reinforced shield, and Gareth decided to accept the strange gift for what it was. Weird things often made their way out of the forest. As for the boy, Gareth had more pressing things to attend to. He would leave Falderfell¡¯s inner workings to the mayor and the Mother¡¯s council.

    A pair of trainees marched past, saluting him as they marched towards the armory. Two Rangers together, as was the way. The trainees would be stationed together for five years, only separating upon their promotion to seniority. His partner had been a short, mean-tempered fellow named Marco. He had been trampled by a startled moon deer two months before Gareth was voted Captain. He had evened out Gareth¡¯s mellow nature with his sharp tongue at the time. He was a good friend.

    Gareth walked past the stable and up the winding stairs to the observation tower. The rest of the fort grew smaller and smaller as he ascended the creaking wooden stairs. The old fort was a collection of six log buildings surrounded by a stone wall bristled with wooden stakes. In the center, the observation tower shot higher than even the most adventurous trees would dare to climb. When one reached the top, they felt like a god, towering over creation and watching the world from dizzying heights. Gareth didn¡¯t feel like a god today as he ran his hands along the moss stones of the tower side. Today, he felt like another dust speck in an infinite forest of green.

    Today¡¯s watcher, a senior named Gret, saluted as Gareth''s boots rapped against the ancient bricks of the tower. Gareth nodded at him, slapping his shoulder as he leaned against the wooden rails. ¡°Anything of note, brother?¡±

    Gret spat over the edge and shook his head. ¡°Saw a couple of oak shades about three miles out, but other than that, all seems quiet.¡±

    Gareth scratched his beard and nodded. ¡°Take an hour to yourself, Gret. I''ll take watch until you return.¡±

    ¡°Are you sure, Captain? I can- ¡°

    Gareth waved his hand dismissively. ¡°Go, Ranger. Learn to take a break when offered.¡±

    Gret nodded and saluted. He turned and began down the steps, his black and green cloak whipping around him in a sudden wind.

    All around Gareth lay the endless expanse of trees. They rustled and sang a gentle song in the wind. Many songs could be heard from the forest if one simply waited for a while. The creaking gentle song of a quiet day, the crashing roaring song of a thunderstorm. On other days, the forest was silent, with no music to be heard no matter how prying the listener. Those days unnerved Gareth more than any other. The forest was old, and many old and strange things lay in its embrace.

    Many of the people of Falderfell believed the forest to be infinite, that the world was covered with endless trees. Gareth knew that to be false because books in the town library spoke of oceans, mountains, and deserts. The river of Ela¡¯s Weeping flowed in a fury to the west of the camp. Surely, it must empty somewhere. Yet no matter how many expeditions he sent out, they reported nothing but trees and more oddities the deeper they delved into the wood.

    The latest expedition would be back in a week. They had sent a raven stating they had found statues in the deep woods to the northwest, men and women frozen in standstill, holding buckets and tools as if attending to their daily tasks. The note said that the place evoked such a feeling of dread that the men collectively decided to turn back immediately. Gareth did not blame the men or punish them for returning early. The deep woods were full of things such as that, things that only had horrible explanations. Many expeditions ended that way, discovering some new strangeness that threatened to break the minds of the mortals who stumbled on it. At least they were coming back. Last year, eight Rangers had gone into the deep woods and never returned. The previous raven they sent had said that some of the Rangers heard crying from the underbrush.

    Gareth had imagined when he joined that he would be the Ranger to find the end of the forest. When he had been voted Captain, he imagined that he would send out the expeditions that would lead them out of these cursed trees. Now, the certainty that he would die under these leaves was weighing upon him like the heavy clouds before a storm broke.

    There were no clouds in the sky that day, and the sun shone brightly, warming his black and gold cloak. He could see Falderfell from the tower, the ancient stone buildings, a small oasis in the surrounding trees. Jeorge will surely be back in town by now. The few horses the Rangers had were fast and knew the dirt paths of the safewood better than some of the men. To the west, he could hear the river rushing and babbling. Ela¡¯s Weeping always grew stronger in the autumn months. Soon, the leaves would turn golden brown, the oak shades would retreat until the spring, and hopefully, no rot walkers would surface.

    A mass of leaves and twigs blew past him, forming into the shape of a woman who floated in front of him. The wind nymph¡¯s features shifted and reformed constantly as she studied Gareth, her facial features amused. Even though her face was only half-formed by leaves, Gareth could read her expression plainly as she rippled and twisted through the air before him. She dissipated and reformed next to him, leaning against the rail in a playful imitation of him. Gareth sighed and watched as she tried to grasp the railing with formless hands of leaves and soil. Most Rangers didn¡¯t humor the nymphs; some believed that even acknowledging them was bad luck. Others saw them as nuisances, known for knocking down tools and pushing people into puddles. Gareth considered them a welcome change from the oak shades, their masculine cousins.

    The nymph gave up on trying to grasp the rail and dissipated again, buffeting Gareth with a brief gust of wind as she passed around him before reforming in front of him again. This time, her expression was questioning, the leaves of her face constantly shifting. She reached out with her arm, the sticks and soil forming into an almost complete arm. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the gold bars on Gareth¡¯s cloak, the symbol of his station. Gareth pulled back slightly. Wind nymphs weren¡¯t dangerous but were known to steal Ranger¡¯s cloaks.

    ¡°You are high above the trees.¡± Her voice was like a breeze whistling through branches, breathy and soft. Her face was now strongly formed, all moss and leaves, her hair falling around her in constantly shifting wisps. ¡°Why are you bound to the earth?¡±

    Nymphs spoke occasionally, usually with simple phrases or playful insults. Most Rangers ignored them, heads full of stories of men falling in love with a nymph and being led into a ravine or drowned in the river. They often ascribed power to them beyond what was indeed there. They were simply another part of the forest, something to be respected, something unexplainable. Gareth had never heard one speak so bluntly, however.Stolen novel; please report.

    ¡°I wish I knew,¡± Gareth replied, scratching his beard as he stared beyond the floating nymph at the expanse below him.

    This seemed to satisfy the nymph, her face turning back into a smile as she dissipated for the last time, the mass of brush blowing away in the wind. Gareth was left alone, her words still echoing in his head. Bound to the earth. Her words summed up the feelings Gareth had been trying to push away for the last few months. He would never escape the forest, never see what lay beyond. The rest of his watch was uneventful and quiet. He could hear Rangers training and bustling about below. Gret returned, saluting Gareth as he claimed his spot on the tower. Gareth patted Gret on the shoulder as he turned to walk back down the stairs, back to the ground which held so much claim on him.

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    The leaves and twigs crunched underneath Seren¡¯s boots. Rays of morning sunlight cut through the canopy above in blades of orange and white. A gentle breeze tugged at him as he plodded forward. His black cloak was open around his shoulders and loose around him. The spear he carried served as a walking stick across the uneven ground. Behind him trailed Trissa and Fyrn, who were holding their bows casually at their sides. Fyrn had his hood up; it cast shadows over his smooth face.

    The patrol was silent as they made their way through the thick of the safewood. Regardless of the name, the ring of forest around the village was still ominous soon into the day. The morning was young, and some of the nocturnal residents of the forest hadn¡¯t entirely made their way back to whatever hole they hid in during the daylight hours. There was a faint trail beneath them, less of an actual trail and more of a simple depression in the underbrush that stated Rangers had been here before.

    ¡°We should be coming to Rioth¡¯s farm soon.¡± Fyrn¡¯s voice cut through the silence. ¡°We¡¯ll stop there and make sure everything has been quiet.¡±

    Seren nodded. ¡°The church after that?¡±

    ¡°Then the circle stones, and we¡¯ll return to camp.¡±

    Trissa was quiet today. Seren could see her from the corner of his eye, watching the canopy. Her hair was pulled back, her freckled face unreadable. Seren had known Trissa for as long as they had been Rangers, but reading her emotions remained a mystery. She hid them behind a wall of sarcasm and stone-faced looks. Prodding her only made it worse, so he decided to leave it be.

    They followed the path for a while, marching through the slowly brightening brush in formation, Seren leading with the spear, Fyrn and Trissa tailing with their bows ready. A pod of roxies scurried across the path before them, jabbering in their shrill voices as they rushed past. The forest began filling with the sounds of birds and insects, various calls and responses, and flutters all around them. The blades of light quickly grew more robust and wider as the sun dominated the sky. Seren could see the cloudless blue cut to pieces by the canopy above him.

    The tree line began to thin as they approached the farm. There were countless farms like this within the safewood, subsisting on their crops and trading with Falderfell. The Rangers knew Rioth and his wife Lena well. Their oldest son, a quiet fellow named Matthew, joined two years ago. The forest opened into a clearing, the forest floor giving way to a swaying wheat field. Rioth¡¯s house lay in the center of the clearing, the fields forming a circle around it for a couple hundred yards before the forest took control farther out. The wheat grew up to Seren¡¯s chest, and he had to push through it with the pole of his spear, careful not to trample the plants.

    ¡°You would have thought Rioth would¡¯ve harvested by now,¡± Seren exclaimed as he stepped towards the house. Fyrn nodded silently, his brow furrowing in the shadows of his cloak. Fyrn made a quick signal with his hand towards Trissa.

    ¡°Circle the back. See if you spot anything unusual.¡± Fyrn placed his hand on the hilt of his sword as Trissa nodded and disappeared into the wheat field. Unease was building in Seren¡¯s gut as he plodded out of the wheat onto a dirt path that cut through the field. The farm was silent; no dogs ran about, no sounds of work in the fields, and no sign of the bustle that came with harvest time. Seren¡¯s grip on his spear tightened as he and Fyrn slowly walked along the dirt path.

    As they rounded a final corner in the field, the sight of the farmhouse turned Seren¡¯s sinking feeling of unease into a pit of dread in his stomach. Fyrn¡¯s sword rasped as he pulled it from the sheath. The yard around the log cottage was littered with debris, bushels of wheat scattered, and a wagon lay in pieces. A dog with matted grey fur, no doubt one of the farm¡¯s pets, lay motionless, a streak of red against the side of the house showing where it had been thrown. The west wall of the house was torn open, the logs splintered as if a massive hammer had struck them. Shards of glass crunched underneath Seren¡¯s boots. He raised his hood, covering his exposed neck with thick fabric. He turned into the hole ripped through the house, his spear planted in front of him defensively. Fyrn followed closely behind, sword held at the ready. Rays of sunlight shone from a gash in the roof, giving form to a scattered mess of rubble and blood.

    The wall logs caved inwards, jagged wood chunks scattered across the floor and impaled themselves in the surrounding walls. The massive beam that supported the roof above was splintered and bending like something huge had recklessly crashed into it. A table lay in two pieces, the stained wood caved in by some unknowable strength. Cabinets and shelves, likely family heirlooms as ancient as the house, lay shattered across the floor, pieces of bloodstained glass catching the light. The smell of blood was strong and metallic in the still air. The source of the smell became quickly evident to Seren as he stepped into the middle of the ruined home.

    Rioth lay in a broken heap, his arms splayed about him, all going in the wrong direction. The wall behind him caved in slightly. The man had been thrown with enough force to crack the age-hardened wood. His blood pooled around him, muddying the dirt around him. His eyes were open, staring at the sky blankly, questioning what god brought this misfortune upon him. Seren was silent. There was nothing one could say when seeing a man in such a condition. Fyrn walked beside him, sheathing his sword and inspecting the body of the unfortunate farmer.

    ¡°There¡¯s only one thing that could do this.¡± Seren supposed he was asking a question, but it was really just a statement.

    Fyrn nodded grimly, closing Rioth¡¯s eyes. ¡°We need to leave. Now.¡± He stood up and turned to the exit.

    ¡°They don¡¯t come this far into the safewood. We catch them before they do.¡±

    Fyrn turned towards him. Seren could see the urgency burning in his grey eyes underneath his hood. ¡°Well, they do now.¡± He took Seren firmly by the arm. Fyrn was only a few years Seren¡¯s senior, but his grip was iron as he pulled him out of the house. ¡°This is what is going to happen. I am going to run like the hells are behind me to the Camp and send a raven to Captain Gareth.¡± Fyrn cut off Seren as he began to open his mouth in protest. ¡°You and Trissa are going to continue the patrol. I¡¯ll go quicker and quieter alone. Just because there¡¯s a rot walker about doesn¡¯t mean something else couldn¡¯t have slipped past us. Look for traces of it. You can¡¯t miss the things.¡± He looked towards the shattered home, the hood obscuring his expression. He inhaled sharply through his nose, the kind of gesture a man does when trying to pull himself together for the younger or less experienced. ¡°If you find it, don¡¯t engage with it unless necessary; you two aren¡¯t experienced enough. Track it, stay hidden, wait for reinforcement.¡±

    The wheat fluttered and whispered as Trissa pushed out of it to the west of the house. Her were blank as she stumbled towards them. She noted the hole in the wall of the house with marked indifference and dropped her bow onto the soil. She pointed behind the house to a stone barn in the wheat fields. ¡°Lena,¡± her voice shook, and Seren could see the beginning of tears in her eyes. ¡°The children. Their all¡­in there.¡± She collapsed to her knees and began to vomit.

 Chapter 3-The Church

    It had rained during the night, and Falderfell was shrouded by mist when Raya woke. The air was damp and cool, the promise of more rain apparent with every breath. She could hear the clanging of pots together from below, signaling the start of the day. Her father would be bustling about in the bakery, and her mother would be on her way to fuss at her to get ready and help. Raya sat up in her bed, yawning as she began to rejoin the waking world. When her mother inevitably opened her door, her green dress was functionally fashionable and her hair in a dark brown braid behind her, earning a nod of approval as she turned back downstairs.

    The stones of the bakery had been standing since before anyone could remember. Most of the buildings in Falderfell had the same story. The town was built by farmers who had come together untold hundreds of years ago to ensure safety in numbers in the forest. Raya''s family had lived in these ancient stones for as long as anyone could remember. She walked down the rough-cut steps, the air around her warming with the heat of the great ovens of the bakery, the scent of bread and flour filling her nose.

    Raya''s father was tall and looked like he should be doing anything but the relatively gentle profession of a baker. He had been a tree cutter before meeting her mother, and his arms bulged with cords of muscle underneath his flour-dusted apron. His forearms were scarred from where a shadow wolf had attacked him as a boy. He smiled at his daughter as she rounded the door into the bakery and pulled an apron from the hook on the wall

    "Just you and me today," he said, placing a massive sack of flour beside her with ease. "Ila is meeting with the Mothers Council."

    Raya began measuring out flour and placing it on the stone slab. "Will they make a decision?" Raya''s mother had been vying for the Mother''s Council for almost a year. A year of deliberation, she was trying to convince the matriarchs that if she could organize feeding the Rangers and nearly every farmer in the safewood, then she could run the workings of a village with relative ease.

    Her father shrugged as he returned to kneading the great heap of dough in front of him. "These things take time. Ila''s as good a choice as any, better if you ask me." They set to work: mixing, kneading, resting, baking. The sheer volume of food that the safewood needed allotted very few breaks throughout the day, and the Harvest Festival was in a few days. This was her life and would be her life. Falderfell was a static place, and the villagers were content with that. Delusions of grandeur belonged with the Rangers. Before too long, Captain Gareth would be back in town, recruiting the sons and daughters for whom farming and village life were insufficient.

    Soon enough, the small cistern of water they kept was empty. Raya''s father easily hoisted it and placed it in Raya''s flour-covered hands.

    "You know, this seems like something you would be more suited to," Raya stated dryly as she pushed open the door with her foot.

    "And you''d be well suited to listening to your father," he called out as he pulled a tray of pastries out of one of the stone ovens.

    Carrying the clay pot, Raya made her way to the well. The mist had burned away, and the ominous clouds had cleared, the sun reflecting off the damp rooftops. The town made a circle around the well, with the shops and craftsmen the closest and the smaller houses for the farmers farther back in the circle. Ivy crept up the sides of the stone houses, their green arms a reminder that they could never truly be apart from the forest surrounding them. Around the well, the ground was paved with cracked stones that were still slick from the night''s rain. Raya''s foot slipped on a particularly slippery piece of moss, and she caught herself with a sharp breath.

    As she lowered the pot and began pushing the ancient metal pump that drew the water from the well, she saw the boy who had been called Tefta. He was pushing a wheelbarrow of broken and dented tools into the open space of Jaret Ferrew''s forge. He wore a clean shirt and non-ripped trousers, his hair neatly combed, and his arms were already beginning to look less spindly from work and Fey''s cooking. That strange brand of his was covered by his collar now, and the rest of the town knew better than to question him about it.

    They had only spoken in passing, Raya cheerfully greeting him and Tefta mumbling something in return. Raya had overheard Fey telling her mother that he had barely spoken to them the last week. ''The poor boy doesn''t know who he is, where he''s from, and has a strange brand on his neck,'' her mother had replied. ''I''d be concerned if he talked for a month.''

    Tefta began placing the tools on a bench behind Jaret, whose gloved hands were easily bigger than Raya''s head, and bellow the flames as Jaret threw the tools into the forge to be melted down and reforged. A splash of water cold on her foot startled her. The pot had overflowed and splashed over her skirt. Raya sighed, poured out enough water to lift the cistern, and grabbed the handles, lifting it with considerable effort. She did her best to forget the strange boy with the brand as she rejoined her father in the bakery. Still, as she carried loaves of bread and pastries into the baskets to distribute throughout the village, her mind kept wandering back to that night, listening by the door to her mother and Fey talking.

    ''The poor boy, it breaks my heart what he must have been through, Ila. The forest was cruel to him. Just like it was to our Artur. That brand, Jaret says, couldn''t have happened more than a few weeks ago. It still hasn''t healed fully. Of course, I can''t bring it up. It puts the poor boy in hysterics. He woke us up screaming last night. Me and Jaret rushed in, thought someone was strangling the boy from the way he was screaming. I had to hold him for over an hour to calm him down. He was screaming about kings in the shadows. I told him there was nothing there and that he was safe, but he kept going on and on about a ruined throne and hands of mist. The poor boy.''

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    The chirping of insects was signaling the beginning of the sun''s descent when Raya''s father waved her out of the bakery. He would be finishing up early for the day to meet her mother at the village hall to see what had come of her still ongoing meeting with the Mothers.

    "Find your friends; it''s good for you to have some fun." The village was close-knit enough to leave their children and know they would be supervised by someone who cared. Raya walked across the stones of the village square. She swore that she had cleaned all the flour from her hair, but she dusted away bits of white as she found her way through the village.

    Elin and Josef were where she expected to find them, sitting on a fence in the outer circle of houses just before the village gave way to fields of corn and potatoes. Elin was absent-mindedly drawing on a paper pad while her twin brother sharpened a stick with his knife. Elin smiled at Raya as she approached. Their father was a tree cutter who had known Raya''s father since they were boys, and Raya had grown up playing with the twins since she could remember. Being twins, they looked like different aspects of each other; their blonde hair and oval faces looked similar in every way other than their respective genders.

    "Your father finally let you out?" Josef remarked as he cut away at the stick. His boots were covered in mud from working in the safewood with his father.

    "Mother is in the village hall. Baking bread takes a burning long time, and we have to have enough for the Festival. Especially with how much you eat," Raya said snidely.

    "Don''t mind him," Elin said as she closed her pad and flipped back her braid. "He''s just mad because Father told him he''d have to be late to the Festival."

    "Well, you''d be mad too if you had to miss half of the festival to cut more firewood," Josef waved his stick dramatically in the air. "As if we''re not surrounded by damned firewood in this village."

    "Anyway," Elin tucked her pad into her satchel and swung it over her shoulder. "That boy from the woods, Tefta?"

    Raya nodded, sitting on the fence beside her. "Did you ever get him to talk to you? He ignores me."

    Josef jumped from the fence, swatting at the ground with his pointed stick. "Even better. I convinced him to come to the Church with us."

    Raya frowned. "Are you sure that''s a good idea? It''s getting dark and- "

    Josef waved dismissively. "He''ll be fine. The Church isn''t that far away, and he made it here from farther away. I told him to meet us whenever Mr. Ferrew let him leave."

    Tefta came plodding along from behind one of the houses as if summoned. Noticing the three of them, he waved shyly and came to stand next to Josef. Josef grinned and slapped him on the back. "You ready?" Tefta nodded and looked where the two girls were sitting on the fence, smiling faintly. "There''s Raya and my sister Elin," Raya waved and jumped down.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    "Hello." Tefta''s voice was soft as he waved at the two girls.

    "Let''s go," Elin said as she jumped from the fence beside Raya. "Father will have us strung up by the ankles if we''re out too late." And so, following Elin, they marched on through the field, the rows of corn rising above their heads and casting long shadows in the evening light. Elin and Josef led the group, with Raya behind them and Tefta trailing in the back.

    "Are the Ferrews treating you well?" Raya asked, knowing the answer immediately. Fey Ferrew was a respected and generous village member; she simply wanted to start a conversation.

    Tefta nodded. "Her and Jaret are kind to me. I like working the forge."

    "They aren''t making you call them mum and dad, are they?" Josef called back. Tefta shook his head.

    "No. They don''t make me do that."

    Josef turned, walking backward as he talked, his stick held over his shoulder. "You don''t talk a lot. Did you forget how to do that, too?"

    "Stop it, Josef!" Raya snapped. "You''re being mean."

    "Maybe he''s a wisp wight," Josef continued, grinning. "Maybe he''s here to steal us away to the circle stones and trap our souls. Maybe-"

    Jaret foot caught a rock that had been forgotten in the pathway, and he tumbled backward, landing on his back with a yell. Elin stopped and looked down at him, the corners of her mouth turning up. "You deserved that. Stop being mean before you bring a tree down on yourself." Josef scrambled to his feet, his face red with embarrassment, and stormed into the trees that marked the end of Falderfell and the beginning of the safewood.

    As the trees rose around him and the canopy blocked out the already waning light, Raya slowed, walking beside Tefta along the dirt trail, her hands clasped in front of her. "Don''t listen to Josef. He shouldn''t be giving any advice about how much people talk."

    Tefta smiled softly and shrugged. "I wish I had more to talk about, believe me."

    "You''d tell me if you were a wisp wight, wouldn''t you?"

    Tefta''s face twisted in confusion, and he pushed a strand of red hair away from his face. "What''s a wisp wight?"

    Josef snorted disbelievingly from ahead. "See? Can''t remember a thing." This prompted a firm punch to the shoulder from his sister.

    The trees loomed over the children as they walked along the dirt path. Around them chirped insects and birds. Raya could hear rustling in the brush beside them, squirrels or rabbits or curious roxies. The path led to a small bridge, just a wood plank, over a small creek. The creek swelled with water in the spring, rushing by with force. Sometimes, Raya would even see water nymphs jumping and playing in the current. The creek was small and slow today, barely more than a babbling trickle across the dirt and stone. Small bursts of orange flashed around them, fire moths releasing their rippling pulses of liquid light.

    As they went further into the safewood, Josef and Elin arguing and Tefta silently walking next to Raya, she couldn''t help but feel uneasy as the sky darkened. The safewood, especially so close to the village, was relatively harmless, but the village''s adults still didn''t allow their children to wander about it alone, path or not. Her father would worry if she came home too late after dark and if he discovered she had been in the forest¡­Raya pushed the thought of impending punishment out of her mind and focused on the forest around her. It could be beautiful at night.

    The Church was a rotted wooden structure about a mile out from the village that collapsed more every time Raya saw it. It lay in the center of a clearing and was surrounded by cracked stone obelisks. Some had runes still visible carved into them that none of the children in the days past or present had been able to make sense of. The building was tall, the roof low to the ground at the doorway and angled until it reached almost the top of the trees. The door had rotted away some time ago, and Raya could see through holes left by time or storms into the building.

    "Who built it?" Tefta asked softly, staring in the doorway.

    Josef shrugged. "No one knows. All we know is that it''s here, it''s old, and my uncle found a suit of armor buried behind it once."

    "No, he didn''t," Raya retorted to the boast.

    "Yes, he did!" Josef exclaimed, looking at Elin to back him up. She shrugged, uninterested in the argument, and walked into the doorway, the shadows enveloping her. Josef grabbed Tefta by the arm, pulling him with him. "Come on. I''ll show you where he found it." They disappeared behind the Church, Josef yammering on in his usual way, leaving Raya alone.

    She began to walk towards the doorway to follow Elin but yelped in surprise as something gave way beneath her foot, almost causing her to twist her ankle. She looked down, lifting her skirts as she crouched to examine what she had stepped on. Underneath here was a rotted box of wood, cracked by her weight. She had been here countless times with her friends but had never seen it. It must have been buried, and the rain finally washed enough soil away for exposure. There was something inside the ancient wood. She reached inside, grabbing something round and cold. Pulling it up, she dusted away the rotted wood and soil to reveal a smooth stone, perfectly round, with a twisting, jagged rune carved into the middle. She turned the stone in her fingers, examining it.

    "Raya!" Elin called out. She was standing in the doorway, playing with the end of her long braid. "Are you okay? I heard you yell."

    Raya nodded. "I''m fine. I just tripped, is all." She brushed the dirt off her skirt. Her mother would have a fit with her.

    "What''s that?" Elin motioned towards the stone in her hand."

    Raya shrugged. "I don''t know. I just found it he-- "A pulsating sound that shook the inside of Raya''s chest and hurt her ears cut her off. She froze; Elin''s face was a mask of terror. That sound. It came again, stronger, pulsing faster.

    "Get inside!" Elin whispered sharply, her eyes tearing up with sudden panic. She motioned for Raya, and they both darted inside the Church. The interior was a jumble of rotted pews and forest detritus. What was left of the daylight shone through the holes in the roof. She and Elin huddled into a corner in what she hoped was a hidden shadow.

    The sound came again, pulsating faster and faster, its deepness buzzing Raya''s skull. Elin whimpered beside her, holding onto her arm as they curled deeper into the shadows. Where were Josef and Tefta? Had they hidden in time?

    The Church shook as the oak shade darted in through one of the holes in the roof. Its body was a constantly shifting pattern of bark that formed the shape of a massive, muscled man. When it moved, the bark became a formless cloud that moved at blinding speed before reforming. It stood in the middle of the Church, pulsating and thrumming.

    Raya and Elin were frozen, staring at the shade as it darted around the interior of the Church, forming and reforming. She would die here. She was certain. They would be found and torn limb from limb by the vengeful spirit. Then Josef and Tefta would die, too. Please leave. She hadn''t realized she still held the stone clasped in both hands. Elin was shaking, tears rolling down the girl''s face as she held onto Raya.

    Leaveusaloneleaveusaloneleaveusalone, Raya''s heart pounded so fast she thought it would rip out of her chest and onto the floor. Leaveusaloneleaveusaloneleaveusalone, her grip tightened around the stone in her hand, her knuckles pained from the strain. Leaveusaloneleaveusaloneleaveusalone, something shifted. Something was different.

    LEAVE US ALONE

    The words rang in Raya''s head, pushing out like a ripple on a pond. The oak shade froze, its head cocked sideways as if confused. The pulsing stopped for a moment. There was one last terrible thrum that reverberated throughout Raya''s entire body. Then the shade dissolved and darted back through the roof, leaving the two girls huddled in the corner, covered in dirt and tears.

    Raya''s head pounded. She was motionless for a while. The shade was coming back. This was a cruel joke, and if she or Elin moved, it would return to enact its wrath upon them. Elin huddled against her, sobbing quietly. A familiar and gruff voice called out from outside, relief washing over her as she heard it.

    "Raya, Elin! Are you in there?" George called as he ducked through the short doorway. The Ranger had his hood drawn over his face and his bow in hand. He scanned the inside of the ruined Church, his face softening in relief as he saw the two girls. "You''re safe, the shade''s gone. I''m taking you back to the village."

    Elin scrambled to her feet beside Raya, wiping tears from her face as she ran toward the Ranger. Raya realized that her hands were still clenched together painfully. She softened her grip, looking for the strange stone. Dust spilled out from between her fingers, falling upon the soft dirt of the floor. She stared at the scattered pile, her mind too frazzled from the terror of the encounter to process what was happening.

    "Josef¡­" Elin demanded, her voice quiet and shaking.

    "He and the new boy are safe, " the Ranger reassured her. I hid them in the bushes when they appeared." He motioned for Raya. Come now; I''ve got to get you back to the village."

    Raya stood up, wiping the dust from her hands on her skirt as she followed the Ranger out of the Church. Josef and Tefta stood waiting outside, wide-eyed and staring at the dirt. George pulled back his hood and slung his bow across his back, beckoning the children to follow him back into the trees. The last of the evening light was falling below the trees, and they hurried as they followed the Ranger along the steadily darkening trails.

    "How did you know to find us?" Josef finally spoke up.

    "What kind of Ranger would I be if I let you lot run into the forest at night without proper supervision?" Jeorge replied dryly.

    "Are you going to tell our parents?" Elin asked hopefully.

    Jeorge snorted. "Well, I wasn''t planning on it until you attracted a burning oak shade, but now I have a moral obligation to do so." Josef groaned at this.

    Raya''s mind drifted back to the strange stone as the children followed the Ranger out of the forest. Had she really crushed it to dust? The way the shade reacted seemed more than just coincidence. When Jeorge returned her to her father, the scolding and punishment of being confined to her room for two weeks almost put the idea out of her mind. Almost.

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    When the boy called Tefta returned home, Jaret gave him a stern discussion about the dangers of the forest but was not familiar enough yet to give him any real punishment. He was told to go to his room and not to see the twins until Jaret and Fey had had a long discussion with their father. He lay in bed for a while, staring at the stone roof, thinking about the deep thrumming noise that the oak shade had made. He tried to see if that sound brought back any memories before he stumbled into camp, but he failed the same as countless other times.

    Rubbing the raised skin on the back of his neck, it itched horribly sometimes; the boy curled into the blankets of his bed. Sleep didn''t come easily. When he did drift into unconsciousness, he dreamt of that horrible, jagged throne and burning hands in the mist.

 Chapter 4-The Circle

    A wind nymph followed Seren and Trissa as they slunk through the trees. Seren could see it darting behind the massive trunks, a swirl of leaves and sticks one moment, a woman the next. He and Trissa ignored it, their feet silent, and their cloaks pulled up. Trissa had slung her bow over her shoulder, her grip tight around the handle of her sword. She had barely spoken a word since Rioth¡¯s farm. They marched as shadows among the trees, their green cloaks pulled around them.

    Seren walked alongside Trissa, spear in his right hand. The nymph reappeared beside him, floating alongside him and reaching for his hood. He waved her off with the spear, and she flitted away. ¡°Damned thing.¡± It was midday, and the sun made rippling shapes on the forest floor. Squirrels chittered in the trees. A few deer watched as the two Rangers made their way. Everything was picturesque, hardly what could be expected when a rot walker raved through the safewood. Seren expected things to be glummer, with the threat of a horrible death looming and all.

    He nudged Trissa with his elbow as they walked. ¡°You okay?¡± Her face was hidden in her hood, only a few strands of red hair wisping out. She didn¡¯t respond and kept walking, carefully placing her feet to avoid snapping twigs or rustling the underbrush. ¡°You¡¯ve barely said a word all day,¡± Seren continued. ¡°I¡¯m beginning to think you¡¯re plotting to kill me.¡±

    Trissa sighed, stopping in front of a small creek that trickled along in front of the Rangers. ¡°Seren, I would greatly appreciate it if you would just stop.¡± As Seren began to open his mouth to continue, she turned to him. Her blue eyes were sharp enough to cut stone. ¡°Just stop,¡± she said, holding a hand to silence him. He obliged. ¡°It¡¯s not your job to fix anything or console me or anything else you¡¯re thinking about. I saw something incredibly upsetting in the barn, and that¡¯s the end of it. So please, stop trying to fix everything.¡± She stared at him, her red bangs falling at either side of her face.

    Seren blinked and nodded slowly, ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±

    ¡°And don¡¯t call me ma¡¯am, or I¡¯ll beat you with that spear.¡±

    Seren grinned, ¡°See? I knew you were trying to kill me.¡±

    Trissa snorted and turned, her boots splashing in the creek as she continued along the path. ¡°If I wanted to kill you, you¡¯d be in a ditch somewhere in the deepwood by now.¡±

    Seren walked quickly to catch up with her. ¡°So, you admit you like me after all these years?¡±

    ¡°Over the years, I¡¯ve grown to tolerate you.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t fool yourself; your mind is preoccupied with how much of a handsome, skillful Ranger I am,¡± Seren said as he climbed over a rotten log that had fallen over the trail.

    ¡°You realize you are picking the worst possible time to flirt with me?¡± Trissa called over her shoulder.

    Seren looked at the canopy above them, looking for the sun. If they hurried, they could make it to the circle stones and back to Camp not too long before nightfall. Since leaving the farm, they hadn¡¯t caught any glimpses of the rot walker. The behemoths were surprisingly hard to track. It seemed that they only left a mess when dealing with people. They had passed the Church an hour ago, the eerie building still standing even though half of it was rotted away.

    They continued through the forest, footsteps silent and careful. One of the first things Ranger recruits learned was to be completely quiet. Only after a pair could pass unseen around a patrol of senior Rangers would they be taught how to fight. The green of their cloaks blended with their surroundings as they slunk through the trees. The wind nymph gave up eventually, no doubt bored by the lack of attention, and scattered into the trees to bother some more irritable Rangers.

    The sun was beginning to descend into the evening when they neared the circle stones. The trees started to thin, the oaks giving way as they came upon stone obelisks covered in scratched and weathered runes like the ones that ringed the Church. They dotted the spaces between the trees, forming a series of lines that circled the larger stones towards the center. The pillars reached Seren¡¯s chin and a few inches over Trissa¡¯s head. He had pointed this out once. The comment had led to her tripping him into a puddle, which had dissuaded further observations.

    The trees retreated behind them as they came upon the stones that marked the beginning of the wight country. The circle stones were massive pillars of ancient stone, ivy creeping up their mass and working its way into the many cracks and holes pocked into the surface of the stone. They formed a ring around an empty patch of grass lusher and greener than the grass after spring rains, let alone the beginnings of autumn. They towered over the two Rangers as they walked between the rows of smaller obelisks surrounding the structure.

    The stones marked the boundary between the safewood and wight country. Seren scanned the clearing. A few hundred yards beyond their side of the stones, the trees began again, the thicket denser and more foreboding than the gentle oaks of the safewood. ¡°No wights,¡± he said quietly. He had seen the circle stones enough that it shouldn¡¯t intimidate him anymore, but the circle demanded respect. The weathered stones whispered of something older and stranger than the Rangers and Falderfell.Stolen novel; please report.

    Trissa nodded and sat down, her back against one of the mammoth stones. She pulled out a waterskin and took a long gulp. She pushed back her hood and handed the waterskin to Seren. He accepted it and drank deeply. They hadn¡¯t stopped moving since the farm, and his knees were aching. He sat down next to her. The stone was rough, and bits of ivy and moss prickled against the back of his neck.

    ¡°So, how do you think it got past the scouts from the fort?¡± Seren asked as he passed the waterskin back to Trissa. ¡°They never come this far without getting spotted.¡±

    Trissa shrugged, pulling the strands of hair that had fallen loose back and tying them into a tight and uniform tail. ¡°Mycellians also never come this far south, and we saw a patrol of them the other night.¡± She rested her head against the stone, staring up at the sky. ¡°I reckon it could have split off from that group.¡±

    Seren sighed. The last day had been a departure from the boredom of the previous few weeks, but now that boredom was replaced with a gnawing feeling of unease. His mind drifted back to his father¡¯s farm, not far west from the fort. He had been repressing the image of the fate of Rioth¡¯s farm happening in his family home with moderate success as they had patrolled the safewood, but now, as he and Trissa sat among ancient stones, the dread of the situation set in.

    A rot walker was loose in the southern forest, it had already slaughtered a family, and they had no idea where the damned thing was. ¡°What are we going to do if we find it?¡± The breeze blew through the stones, howling softly as it ruffled Trissa¡¯s hair.

    Trissa closed her eyes as she rested her head against the rock. ¡°Track it. Make sure it doesn¡¯t make for the village.¡±

    ¡°And if it does?¡±

    Trissa was silent momentarily, then sat up, hugging her knees to her chest. Her gaze was hard and stony as she stared at the ground. She wasn¡¯t any older than Seren, but her expression was as weathered as any of the obelisks surrounding her. ¡°My father lives in the village.¡±

    Seren nodded. Trissa rarely talked about her home in Falderfell. The subject constantly changed one way or the other. He was beginning to realize how little he knew about the woman he had trained with for almost two years.

    ¡°Have you talked to him lately?¡±

    Trissa shook her head, her face still strained and weary. ¡°We didn¡¯t talk much even before I left. I haven¡¯t seen him since I joined.¡±

    ¡°My parents didn¡¯t like me joining either. My mum said I was being selfish, and my da said I was going to get myself killed like a damnfool.¡±

    Trissa grinned weakly. ¡°My father told me, ¡®If you go and get yourself killed, girl, you¡¯ve only got yourself to blame.¡¯¡±

    Seren tore at the grass with his fingers, staining his hands as he pulled bits of green from the soil. ¡°You were talking about me having bad timing. Of all the times you talk to me about this, you choose now?¡±

    Trissa stared at the ground, her head still resting on her knees. ¡°We¡¯ve never been alone this long.¡± Her hands were playing with something as she spoke. The light reflected off it as she spun it over and over. It was a coin, tarnished from years of weather, the markings undistinguishable. ¡°Always had Fyrn or some other officer around. I¡¯m hardly going to bare my soul to them.¡±

    Seren motioned towards the coin. ¡°What¡¯s that? Find it on the trail?¡±

    Trissa closed her hand around the coin, her face returning to being unreadable. ¡°It¡¯s nothing.¡±

    Seren nudged her playfully, ¡°Back to being stoic again?¡±

    ¡°Shut up.¡±

    He raised his hands defensively. ¡°Can¡¯t blame a man fo- ¡°

    ¡°No. Shut up!¡± Trissa hissed. She was frozen in place, her knuckles white as she clasped her hands around the coin like a priceless piece. ¡°Listen.¡±

    Seren froze. Behind them, the grass rustled, and the earth shook as something massive moved through the stones. The world was frozen, the birds singing falling silent, and the insects too afraid to call out as horror moved unseen within the sacred stones. Trissa touched his hand, the thudding becoming louder. He turned to see her slowly sinking down the stone until she lay flat on the dirt.

    Seren did the same, slowly edging down until the blades of grass poked above his head. He pulled his cloak slowly from underneath him, unbuckled it from his neck, and threw it over him and Trissa. The world faded into a faint green hue as the cloak covered the two Rangers.

    Seren¡¯s heart pounded in his chest; the pounding from the rot walker¡¯s steps echoed the sound. The thudding was coming from all around, from his chest, ears, the soil. There wasn¡¯t enough air. He couldn¡¯t breathe. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he felt the cloak pressing down on him. Outside was certain death, and inside was suffocation. He would die. He was sure of it.

    A faint touch on his face broke Seren from his spiral. He turned. Trissa had turned ever so slightly so that he could see her face. Her forehead almost touched his as they lay underneath the cloak, her hand resting softly on his jaw. Her blue eyes were soft yet alight with determination. She moved her hand from his face and rested it on his rapidly moving chest. She mouthed a word silently, the grass covering half of her face. Breathe.

    Seren breathed deeply and shakily through his nose. Trissa nodded and breathed out faintly, nodding for him to follow. Her hand rose and fell, beckoning for his heart to slow. Seren closed his eyes, his forehead touching hers as he breathed in and out. In and out. The thudding was growing softer, and the sounds of rustling grass and snapping underbrush grew fainter as the Rangers lay, masked by the green of the cloak, breathing in sync.

    The thudding footsteps had disappeared for what seemed like ages before the birds began back their songs. Trissa slowly pushed her way up, her hand still on Seren¡¯s chest. Seren pushed back the cloak, revealing the stones. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, now feeling incredibly embarrassed. Some Ranger you are.

    ¡°Thanks for that,¡± Seren whispered as he pulled the cloak back around himself.

    Trissa shook her head dismissively and pulled a twig out of her hair. ¡°My sister used to have moments like that.¡±

    Seren stood and grabbed his spear, ¡°I didn¡¯t know you had a sister.¡±

    Trissa didn¡¯t respond as she stood, walking into the center of the stones. She crouched down, pointing at the depressions made in the lush grass. ¡°It¡¯s big. Bigger than any rot walker I¡¯ve heard of.¡±

    Seren jogged to her and examined the tracks. The footprints in the grass were practically the size of his head. ¡°Tracking it might be a bit easier then. It must have come from wight country.¡± He looked towards the line of jagged trees that lay beyond their side of the stones, the gnarled branches a wall of wood and thorns.

    ¡°Seren,¡± Trissa¡¯s voice was soft as she pointed toward the tracks leading into the forest. The tracks made their way west, directly towards the village.

 Chapter 5-The Deepwood

    Gareth¡¯s patrol marched silently behind him in a fanned-out formation as they weaved between the trees of the deepwood. He walked at the front of the formation, his black and golden cloak rippling behind him as he led the patrol, spear in hand. The senior Rangers had insisted that he didn¡¯t need to come on patrol, an unnecessary risk, according to Sylen, but a reminder of his rank and no small degree of hardened stares had put that to rest. Weeks of reading through inventories and yelling at dull-headed trainees left him longing for open spaces.

    The song of the deepwood was much different than the trees surrounding the village. The gentle whisper of the wind through the leaves, the creaking of swaying trunks, the chattering of the underbrush was older, more solemn, and brooding than the cheeriness of the safewood. The trees were closer together here and were prone to forming thickets that required no small effort to weave one¡¯s way through.

    Behind him trailed Sylen and Ira, bows in hand and cloaks drawn over their faces. Two pairs of trainees followed them, no doubt given a firm threat about what would happen if they embarrassed the seniors with the captain on patrol. Gareth could practically smell the nerves pulsing from them.

    This close to the river, the deepwood was relatively tame; shadow wolves rarely roamed into the patrolled areas, and the oak shades were easy enough to hide from if you kept your wits about you. Gods, but it felt good to be out of the fort. Gareth breathed in the crisp air, smelling the wild scent of the forest, the trees singing their song around him. The too-light sword hung at his belt, poking out of the front of his cloak.

    The trail darted and turned southward through the deepwood, following Ela¡¯s Weeping along the more civilized and less strange forest parts. The underbrush cleared away, and the dirt was hardened from decades of marching boots. Ahead of Gareth, the trail forked off, a branch extending to the east, deeper into the woods. He held up a hand, the patrol stopping with a uniform thump of boots. Always eager to impress the captain.

    ¡°Ira,¡± He called, motioning sharply with his hand as they walked.

    The senior Ranger stepped beside him. Her angular jaw was scarred up to her right eye from when she had killed a shadow wolf with a hunting dagger as a trainee. Gareth could see the hard muscles of her shoulders even from underneath her green and black cloak.

    ¡°How far are we from Hela¡¯s tree?¡±

    ¡°About an hour if we turn now.¡±

    Gareth nodded and began down the eastern fork, the patrol falling in line behind him as they continued into the shadows of the trees. ¡°Those cloaks are looking a little too green, Sylen.¡±

    Sylen spat onto the dirt, ¡°You¡¯re telling me. I¡¯ve been thinking of dumping this lot somewhere in wight country and seeing if they make their way back.¡±

    Gareth could hear the awkward whispers of the trainees behind them and didn¡¯t have to turn to see their bulging eyes and nervous looks. A hollow threat, but the trainees needn¡¯t know. ¡°How far have you been out into the deepwood?¡±

    There was an awkward silence, the trainees no doubt trying to decide who he was talking to. Sylen¡¯s sharp voice cracked through it like a hammer. ¡°The captain asked you lot a question!¡±

    ¡°Sorry, sir,¡± one of the trainees stammered, his voice raspy and breathy from days of shouting YES SIRs back to even louder officers. ¡°This is our second patrol into the wood, captain¡­sir.¡±

    Gareth nodded. He could remember his first patrol into the deepwood. Peeking over every corner, jumping at every shadow. The stories of the horrors of the deepwood still rang strong in the hearts of the farmers and villagers. Stories of people beyond the forest. Of grand cities and vast oceans.

    The patrol continued down the eastern trail. The trail was thinner here, and the forest wilder the farther they marched. The branches curled over the tops of the Rangers'' heads as great hands reached to pluck them into the shadows. The pathway darkened as the canopy thickened overhead, and the shadows deepened in the surrounding brush. The song here was deep, the trees swishing and swaying at their passing, bird cries shrill and screeching, the sound of a man calling out.

    Gareth held up his hand again, the patrol stopping less assuredly this time. Keeping his hand up, he scanned the surrounding thicket for the source of the sound. The trail was barely more than a thin line of dirt that led deeper into the trees. The sound came again.

    ¡°Thera! Io! Is anyone there?¡± The man¡¯s voice was shaky and breathless as it echoed through the trees.

    Sylen and Ira had arrows knocked and ready. The trainees stood in pairs, hands on swords, waiting for orders. Gareth stood, resting his hand on the pommel of his blade, listening to the sounds of the forest when, through the surrounding thicket, a man stumbled through the brush.

    He was clad in a rusty breastplate, his shirt and trousers underneath dirty and tattered. A webwork of scars ran across his dirt-smudged cheeks, and his hair was wild and matted. A rotting wooden shield dangled from his back, and he carried a rusted sword broken halfway up the blade, forming a jagged point. ¡°Corporal!¡± He called as he stumbled through the trees.

    Ira pulled back her bowstring, but a hand from Gareth stopped her. He signaled, and a trainee silently ran to his side. He looked at the recruit, a girl with black hair pulled tightly back and pointed at her bow. She started as if surprised and pulled it from her shoulders, nocking an arrow.

    ¡°What¡¯s your name, Ranger?¡± Gareth whispered to her, crouching down. She followed suit. The armored man hadn¡¯t noticed the patrol and was leaning against a tree about fifty yards out into the trees, breathing heavily and cursing.

    ¡°Lia, Captain.¡±

    ¡°You ever seen one of the Lost, Lia?¡±

    Lia shook her head, her eyes wide as she stared at the armored man.

    Gareth pointed with his spear. ¡°Aim for the head. Don¡¯t miss. Don¡¯t hesitate.¡±

    Lia nodded shakily and pulled back the string to her cheek. The man was sobbing, his rusted armor clinking and scraping as he screamed to the sky. ¡°THE FIRES OF YERAL WILL FALL UPON YOU! THE GOD KING WILL SMITE YOU; I SWEAR IT!¡± His voice was raw, and bits of spittle flew from his mouth as he screamed, still leaning against the tree. Tears turned to mud against his cheeks as he shook in his rage.

    Gareth placed his hands on the girl¡¯s shoulder, reassuring her as she aimed. ¡°Breathe.¡± The rest of the patrol crouched behind them, hands on their swords in anticipation.

    Lia breathed in deeply and let loose the string. The arrow zipped through the air and sank deep into the soldier¡¯s temple with a wet thud. His screaming stopped with a gurgle as he fell to the ground limply. Gareth patted Lia¡¯s shoulder and stood, pushing himself up with the aid of the spear. Sylen and Ira grunted as they stood, dusting off their trousers and slinging their bows back over their shoulders.

    Lia was shaking as she stood, though her face was alight with pride at her shot. Ira patted her back as she rejoined her peers. ¡°Good shot.¡± The senior¡¯s praise elicited excited whispering from the other trainees.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    ¡°You¡¯ll encounter the Lost more the longer you¡¯re out here,¡± Gareth said, turning towards the trainees. ¡°You can¡¯t reason with them, can¡¯t offer them safety. Believe me, better Rangers than you have tried.¡± He walked into the trees where the soldier lay, blood pooling around his skull. His eyes were bloodshot and wide as he lay motionless. He grabbed the arrow from where it sprouted and pulled. There was a ripping sound, and the arrow pulled loose with a splatter of black blood. He walked back to the group, shaking the gore from the arrow. The head was surprisingly intact, with only a tiny chip in the metal.

    ¡°The best thing you can do is offer them a swift end to their misery. Otherwise, they¡¯ll try and gut you.¡± He dropped the arrow back into Lia¡¯s quiver. ¡°Believe me, they¡¯re faster than they look.¡±

    ¡°Where do they come from?¡± One of the recruits, a tall, lanky lad, asked.

    ¡°Do I look like I know the answer to that?¡± Gareth responded dryly as he turned back to the front of the patrol. I don¡¯t know the answer to most of the damned things that happen.

    ¡°Thank the gods you finally shut him up,¡± a voice called from above. ¡°I was beginning to think of offing him myself.¡±

    Gareth sighed, looking up to see a slender woman sitting on a tree limb above the patrols. She was wrapped in a dark green dress, cut low to reveal a twisting pattern of tattoos that resembled black strands of ivy that sprouted from her breastbone, fanning out to her shoulders and running down the skin of her arms. She was turning a pinecone absently in her gloved hands as she watched the Rangers, her green eyes glinting in the light. Her hair was an ocean of black, tight braids that fell around her shoulders.

    ¡°Hela,¡± Gareth grunted.

    ¡°Don¡¯t act so annoyed, Gareth.¡± Hela chided. ¡°Pretending you didn¡¯t bring your Rangers here to see me.¡± She hopped from the fork in the tree where she sat, landing nimbly on her bare feet in front of Gareth, her dress trailing in the grass as she walked, examining the patrol with her hands clasped behind her back. The trainees stared at her at her wide-eyed. ¡°I see they still tell stories about me in the village.¡±

    Sylen grunted, ¡°You¡¯re a right celebrity this time of year.¡±

    Hela laughed at that, staring at one of the trainees, a wiry, dark-skinned boy who stared at the ground awkwardly.  ¡°I guess a woman can¡¯t live alone in the deepwood without a slight risk of being called a witch.¡± She was beautiful in the way a wisp-wight was beautiful. She seemed part of the forest itself, not as nebulous as a nymph, but there was something about the way she walked and flitted about that reminded Gareth of the way the morning mist ebbed and waned.

    ¡°Hela, what did I say about scaring my recruits?¡± Gareth leaned on the spear, the ache in his knees reminding him of his nigh forty years in the Rangers.

    Hela smiled, brushing a leaf from the boy¡¯s shoulder as she faced Gareth. ¡°Something like ¡®don¡¯t do that, Hela,¡¯¡± she said in a mocking baritone. ¡°Now, considering you just silenced that nuisance disturbing my beautiful forest, I would normally invite you in for tea. But considering the fact that one of your own is looking for you, and I have other things to attend to, I really ought to be on my way.¡±

    Gareth straightened, ¡°Who is looking for us?¡±

    Hela walked past him, softly running a hand along his arm as she passed. ¡°That¡¯s for you to find out.¡± Gareth turned, opening his mouth to question her, but found only the forest in her place, leaves falling through the rays of light. A bird chirped loudly and fluttered by Gareth, its wings rustling his cloak.

    ¡°How often have you said you¡¯re tired of her tricks, sir?¡± Ira asked, picking a piece of dirt from underneath her fingernail.

    Gareth sighed and pulled his hood back, the light warming the back of his neck. He turned to the recruits, still looking sheepish at meeting a figure from local folklore. ¡°That¡¯s Hela; you¡¯ll get used-¡°A thudding sound, crashing through the trees cut him off. He tightened his hand around the spear, Ira and Sylen pulling their bows from their backs and positioning in front of the recruits. The thumping of hooves against dirt grew louder from the direction where the patrol came from.

    A small horse erupted from the path behind the patrol, snorting and puffing in frustration from its flight. A Ranger in a green and black cloak sat atop it, his hood pushed back. ¡°Captain Gareth,¡± he said breathlessly, saluting as relief washed over his grizzled face. ¡°You¡¯re needed back at the fort.¡±

    Gareth walked to the horse, annoyance filling him with the intrusion of what was supposed to be a break from the monotony of administration. ¡°And why is it something Helrir can¡¯t handle, Ranger?¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s been a raven, sir. From Camp Baelon.¡±

    <hr>

    Raya slept dreamlessly. Her parents had responded as expected to her foray into the woods. Her mother fussed, threatened, and lectured for almost an hour while Raya dejectedly sat on a stool. Her father had been silent, his eyes icy stone as he pulled shut the doors of the ovens. His silence had cut deeper than any of her mother¡¯s words; the disappointed glances made her want to crawl into one of the cracks in the wall.

    Her mother eventually calmed down, and she and her father went upstairs to decide her fate. They left her awkwardly sitting on her stool, picking bits of leaves and scraps of rotten wood from her braid. When the silence was enough to make her want to scream, her father turned the corner, looking at her with those horrible, disappointed eyes. He pulled up a stool, facing her as he sat. His hands were still covered in flour, and he had bits of it in his beard.

    ¡°You¡¯ll go to your room,¡± he broke the silence, his words soft and slow as if he was putting great effort into what he was saying. You won¡¯t see the twins or the boy for a long while.¡± He raised his hand when she began to open her mouth in protest. ¡°You won¡¯t leave unless I or your mother are with you.¡± Raya stared at her feet, nodding silently.

    Her father was silent again for a few more horrible moments and then sighed, standing up. ¡°Come here,¡± he beckoned as he wrapped her in a gentle embrace. She held to him tightly, her eyes burning with the memory of the afternoon¡¯s terror. She shook as she sobbed silently into her father¡¯s arms, the panic and fright pouring out of her, the weight lifted by the massive arms of her father.

    He held her firmly for a moment more, then let go, smiling as he knelt at her level. ¡°Go to your room. I might still convince your mother to let you go to Festival.¡± Raya nodded, wiping the tears from her eyes and walking up the stairs.

    It had taken her a long time to get to sleep, and when her eyes snapped open, her room was still shrouded in darkness. She sat up, her mind sharp and alert inexplicably, and silently walked to her window. The smooth stone floor was cold against her bare feet, and a gentle draft brushed from underneath her door.

    Outside was black, the stars countless pinpricks swarming over the village. The night was still young, and the sun hid deep below the horizon. A faint light flickered from the watchtower that rose from the eastern ring of the village, a single torch ready to be cast into the heap of oil-soaked branches that summoned the garrison from the old fort. Everything was silent. The night hung over the village like a great beast, waiting to snuff out any who dared break its monotony.

    Raya¡¯s throat was dry, and a faint heat made her worry she was getting a cold. Her nightdress fell around her gently, and she silently opened the wooden door and walked down the stairs, hugging herself against the chill. Shadows fell along the bakery from the embers that glowed softly within the ovens. At least it was warmer here. She found the cistern in the center of the room, still full of water from the previous day. She grabbed a clay cup from a shelf and lowered it into the cool water when a loud crash made her entire body jolt in shock, yelping softly in surprise. The cistern tipped over, water splashing over the bottom of her dress.

    A low, guttural voice chanted from outside, the words alien and rhythmic. The stones beneath her feet shook faintly as something massive moved on the village square. Raya huddled into the corner of the room, her heart pounding as she scrambled underneath one of the tables. The chanting grew louder and the thumping stronger. Raya heard a man begin to yell from the square.

    ¡°Rot walker! Get the- ¡°There was a sound of swishing through the air, and the man¡¯s voice was replaced by a gurgling gasp as something wet and horrible spilled onto the stones. A woman began to scream. Raya¡¯s father ran down the stairs. He held an axe in his hands, and his eyes were wild and panicked. He relaxed as he saw Raya cowering in the corner and pointed upstairs sharply.

    ¡°Go upstairs with your mother.¡± He ordered the warmth of his voice replaced by steely determination. Raya began to scramble to her feet when the far wall exploded, her father yelling in surprise as he was slammed into a row of flour sacks. She screamed, curling up deeper into the corner as dust filled the room and bits of rock pelted her arms painfully.

    Her father pulled himself up with considerable effort, fighting to regain his breath. The monstrosity that towered over him was covered entirely in what looked like petrified fungus, toadstools sticking out of its back in razor-sharp ridges. Its legs were the size of tree trunks, and the ground shook when it stepped into the bakery. Hands larger than her father¡¯s head clutched a jagged sword made of dark glass that blended with the night. Bits of moss and lichen hung from a misshapen head that had no mouth but chanted endlessly in words that hurt Raya¡¯s ears. Its eyes were two balls of blue fire that burned within the fungus of its skull. Raya¡¯s father lifted the axe as the rot walker turned towards him.

    Raya could barely hear her father¡¯s cries for her to run over the chanting of the monster. The world around her was frozen as the rot walker threw her father with all the effort of brushing away a fly. The screams grew louder, hers joining them as her father slammed into the stone with a horrible crunch and a splatter of blood. She couldn¡¯t hear the screams. All she could hear was that horrible chanting, only three words discernable in its profane voice.

    ¡°CHILD. OF. MIST.¡±

 Chapter 6-The Rot Walker

    The boy who was called Tefta woke to screams and fire within his skull. He pressed his palms against his temple, curling up into a ball in the woolen blankets of the bed. A fire burned within his head, molten and furious as his pulse pounded underneath his hands. He screamed, the pain shooting down his neck in jagged lines of white-hot agony. He heard more screams joining his own as he twisted and spasmed in the bed.

    Arms like twisted iron grabbed him as his body contracted and shook, volition stripped from him by the pain. His head pounded as a piece of leather was forced into his mouth. He bit down, his teeth and jaw aching. He thrashed and twisted, his screams muffled by the leather bit in his mouth. Fire. Fire was all that he was. The arms held him still as someone shouted frantically above him. A crashing sound cut through the molten anguish that had become the boy¡¯s existence, the pain retreating away as words manifested in his skull. There was no sound, but Tefta cringed into Jaret¡¯s arm as the words imprinted themselves in his mind.

    CHILD. OF. MIST.

    <hr>

    Seren could smell blood and smoke as he and Trissa sprinted through the trees towards the village. They dashed between trees, jumping over underbrush as they rushed silently toward the sounds of the village being massacred. He looked up, trying to find the bright burning of the beacon that would call the garrison from the fort, but found only the darkness of the night. Seren and Trissa stopped as the trees opened into the ring of fields and pulled their bows from the backs as they surveyed the village.

    A building in the village square was burning, the flames flickering above the rooftops and casting dark shadows across the rest of the village. Hopefully the Rangers at the old fort would see it and send someone. Anyone would do. Screaming echoed off the old stones, mixing with that dark, thundering chanting.

    Trissa led, moving quickly with an arrow nocked, her head low as they darted across the fields. Seren trailed behind her. They entered the first circle of stone buildings. Fortunately, most of the buildings in the village were made of stone, so the fire would die out soon. Unfortunately, that meant fighting the rot walker in the dark. They didn¡¯t glow like their Mycellian brethren.

    The bricks of the village street shook as the Rangers ran along the alleyways. A few villagers peeked their heads out of windows at the Rangers, their eyes wild with terror before they ducked back into their houses. The chanting grew louder as the pair entered the village square, the chaos coming into view in the light of the burning village hall.

    The rot walker chanted as it thundered through the square, its ebony blade dripping blood. The light glinted from it as it swung at a lithe man in a green and black cloak dashing around its massive legs. The plates of fungus covering its body shifted and scraped together as it moved, rumbling in its horrid tongue. Its sword, easily the size of a grown man, made great whooshing sounds as it swung in wide arcs.

    The coppery smell of blood filled Seren¡¯s nostrils. The dead lay in small oceans around the square. A man lying limp against a wall, his bowels ripped open and spilling on the bricks. Another hung from the splintered remains of the library, a broken beam sprouting from his chest.

    The men shouted, dashing forward with spears in hand. They stabbed at the beast, the spear tips clinking off plates of fungus as hard as stone while the Ranger dodged and weaved, slashing at its joints. Seren¡¯s heart pounded in sync with his footsteps as he sprinted along the road, kneeling as he nocked an arrow. He breathed, the taste of smoke and copper filling his mouth as he pulled the bowstring back. The beast bellowed as the arrow found its mark behind its knee.

    Seren could feel his pulse in his ears as he pulled back another arrow, the feeling of assured destruction clawing at his mind, clutching at his heart. He breathed in deeply. The world was now a black tunnel that ended solely with the raving creature of decay that thundered in front of him. He heard someone screaming his name. God¡¯s, but his heart was pounding. The abomination was moving. He aimed for a chink in the fungus, right where its neck connected to its misshapen shoulders.

    Something crashed into him, and Seren was sure that he was dead. His arrow flew off its mark as he tumbled to the side, closing his eyes as a warm mass collided with him, his head smacking into a stack of firewood. White hot light shot through his skull, and he grunted as he opened his eyes, surprisingly not dead. Trissa was on top of him, pulling at him to get up, yelling obscenities that were lost to the pounding in his ears. Where he had been standing lay a crumpled heap of blood that had once been a man, thrown with all the effort of skipping a stone.

    <hr>

    Raya was covered in flour and her father¡¯s blood. The bakery, the place her family had called home for generations past, lay shattered around her. Flour covered everything from where the monster, the rot walker, had desecrated the place while Raya hid crying in the corner. Her mother had come downstairs after hearing her father yell. Her screams still rang in Raya¡¯s ears. The rot walker was roaring as the men fought it with spears, Jeorge yelling for someone to light the beacon. Something was on fire. The smoke was making its way through the shattered wall of the bakery.

    Flour was suspended in the air, covering her tongue as she breathed it in. Everything was white and red. Her father was motionless below her, his eyes bloodshot and glassy as he stared at the sky through the broken roof. Her mother was behind her, buried under the rubble and the flour. Tears rolled down her face, making streaks across her powder-covered face as she screamed, pushing at her father¡¯s cold body, willing him to get up somehow. To save her from that horrible creature. His blood was hot on her hands and stark against the cloth of her nightdress.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    She sucked in a desperate breath and choked on the filthy air, falling back against the cold, broken stone as she cried and retched, her body spasming as she tried to draw in a breath through the thick fog of horror that surrounded her. The ground shook as the monster walked outside, each step filling the air with more dust and flour as Raya curled into a ball, sobbing on the broken floor of her home.

    <hr>

    Jaret was outside, fighting the monster with the spears taken from the Ranger¡¯s outpost. Tefta could hear the men yelling as the rot walker bellowed guttural words in a tongue man wasn¡¯t meant to witness. The pain had subsided to a dull throbbing in his temples, and so the boy watched the darkness of the room dance and beckon as Fey wept beside him, her hands clasped before her in desperate prayer.

    The walls whispered to him, their breaths icy as he curled against Fey. Child of Mist. The great kings await you. He could feel hands grasping at him as his head throbbed, closing around his arms and legs before dissolving back into nothingness. Your throne. Claim your throne. You will sit amongst lords. Gods.

    Fey prayed beside him, beseeching Fyrun for his mercy. The darkness shifted and moved in front of Tefta, the hissing whispers becoming louder as a tiny dot of light appeared in front of Tefta, casting shadows across furniture. The light grew, more voices joining the whispers until the sound filled the room. The mote twisted and undulated, growing into a ball of misty fire that illuminated the room. It danced and swayed, reforming and dissipating before the boy. It was beautiful like the moon itself had shed a bit of its light before him. Come with us. The whispers echoed through the room, the voices feminine and masculine simultaneously. We¡¯ll show you what was stolen from you.

    Memories of screaming and someone telling him to run filled his head as he reached towards the light, his hand washed white in the glow.

    ¡°Tefta!¡± Fey screamed, grabbing his arm and pulling him into her. The world went dark as he struggled against her, trying to reach the light. The whispering grew to screams as Fey held him in an iron grip, his face pressed into her shoulder. ¡°Don¡¯t look at it!¡±

    Child of Mist. Child of Mist. Childofmistchildofmistchildofmistchildomis-

    <hr>

    The rot walker bellowed, the deep sound making Seren¡¯s ears ring as he loosed another arrow. It clattered off its armored face. A few arrows stuck from its shoulders and legs where the Rangers had gotten lucky. The men had surrounded it, jabbing at the weak points in the joints, the town Ranger barking orders as he dodged its blade. So far, they seemed to have only made it angry.

    Trissa stood beside Seren, her hood pulled back as she loosed arrow after arrow. His heart was still racing, but the certainty of death was just low enough to keep from passing out. He could still taste blood from biting his tongue. He loosed another arrow; it found its mark in its hand, the roar bringing a hint of satisfaction as he reached for another behind his back.

    His hands grasped empty air. He dropped his bow, his sword rasping as he drew it from his side. The rot walker boomed out its chant, the ground shaking as it stomped and slashed with its sword, catching one of the spearmen with its black edge. He screamed and fell to the ground, his arm sheared off in a bleeding stump at his shoulder. Jeorge yelled and slashed, his sword catching the rot walker on the hip.

    Seren began to run, nausea building in his throat as the creature grew larger with every step. Gods, the thing was huge. Movement caught his eye as he sprinted. From the ruins of a shattered stone home on the edge of the town square crawled a girl in a bloodstained nightdress. Her face was covered in dirt and blood and white powder as she crawled sobbing out of the wreckage, her brown hair a wild mess around her. She stumbled onto the blood-slick stones of the square, holding herself as she shook with louds.

    Seren yelled, running towards her, his voice drowned out by the chaos of the fray. He yelled for her to run, to get inside, but the booming of the rot walker¡¯s profane voice overtook his own as the girl stumbled directly towards the monster.

    <hr>

    The town square was cold and smelled like blood. No matter where she went, Raya couldn¡¯t escape the smell of blood. The fire in the town hall had died down, leaving only glowing embers to give light. Men with spears rushed at the rot walker, yelling. Jeorge was there somewhere; he was always so fast. Maybe he would save them.

    Tears made rivulets through the filth that covered her cheeks as she slipped and pattered along the stones, her bare feet freezing. There was something in her chest, some horrible grip that grabbed her heart with impossible force and refused to let her go. Her father was dead. Her mother was dead. She would likely be dead soon. And that awful chant kept on.

    She wanted it to stop. She wanted anything but those awful, blasphemous words. The rot walker was in front of her, its eyes flaming blue in the night. Stop it. She stumbled, her foot slipping on a pool of blood as she got closer to the fighting. Stop it. She would accept anything, even that wicked black blade, if it stopped the chanting. Stop it. Her tears were hot against her face as she neared the ring of men, holding herself as she shook uncontrollably.

    ¡°Stop it,¡± she whispered, but something was different. Something in her mind rippled out, the air around her pulsing with her command. The rot walker froze, the chanting stopping as it straightened, its blade gleaming in the dying firelight. The men stopped their assault, their spears shaking in their nervous hands. Jeorge stood in front, holding out his hand in a steadying gesture.

    The rot walker turned its head, its burning eyes stopping on Raya. Its voice boomed out, the words shaking her body and making her head throb. ¡°DECIEVER. YOU ARE NOT FIRSTBORN.¡±  It sounded almost contemptuous. Its fungus-covered hands tightened around its blade, and it charged, the ground shaking with every step. The men charged back but broke against the stony armor of its massive legs.

    Raya stumbled back and slipped, her head hitting the ground painfully. Someone in a green cloak was yelling outside of her vision. The monster bellowed as it raised its blade, the ebony edge blending in with the black sky. Raya raised her hands and screamed. ¡°STOP IT!¡±

    The air pulsed again, and stones underneath the rot walker exploded. Men screamed as soil shot into the air. Roots like great arms erupted from the ground, ripping through the monster¡¯s arms and legs like paper as they wrapped themselves around its massive body. It bellowed and swung its blade, the roots winding themselves tighter around its arm with every swing. The roots whipped around its body, pulling its arms to its side with a grinding of the plates of fungus. Its sword fell from its grip, sinking into the dirt.

    The rot walker struggled against the roots as they curled around its body in complex patterns, its armor shattering underneath their grip. Its roars went silent as a root shot through the bottom of its gnarled chin like a spear, sprouting from the top of its head. The blue fire of its eyes winked out, leaving only empty hollows as the rot walker lay still.

    The chanting had stopped, replaced by the silence of stunned men who stared at the twisted maze of roots that encircled the abomination. Someone fell to their knees, praying in thanks for Fyrun¡¯s mercy. Raya shook as the horror and shock of the night descended upon her, her breath quickening as the corners of her vision darkened. Someone was shouting again. She didn¡¯t feel the impact as her head hit the ground.

 Chapter 7-The Songs of Mourning

    Gareth¡¯s back ached as he lifted the wooden beam from where it lay in the rubble. His arms burned with the aftermath of the day''s exertion, even with the three other Rangers assisting him as they worked to clear what had once been a home. The stone underneath them was cracked from where the rot walker had stomped furiously, and the coppery smell of blood wafted around them as they heaved the log, throwing it away from the heap of ruined stone and wood.

    He knelt, pulling chunks of shattered rock away, his hands covered in dirt and dried blood from the cuts that scored his knuckles. This had been the house of a farmer. His name had been Reoul, husband of Ysla and father of Henri and Lyle. This house had stood for over a hundred years, new by village standards. From where he stood, he could imagine that the view of the sunrise, light washing over the town square in waves of orange, would have been enough to drive away whatever sorrows could befall him. Now, Reoul and his family lay buried under cold and shattered stones, and the sunrise provided no comfort as it crept red and clouded over the trees.

    Gareth grunted as he pulled a large chunk of stone, heaving with his legs and throwing it behind him with a thud. Around him, people wept. Women wept for their husbands, whose blood his men washed from the streets with buckets of well water. Men wept for brothers and friends, who they carried into the outpost to be prepared for burial. Some wept for children, and others simply wept for the horror of it all.

    A rot walker, loose in the safewood, crept past the Rangers to wreak fury and destruction upon the village. Things like this didn¡¯t happen. The Rangers caught the rot walkers before they got this far. The Rangers died so that Falderfell could rest. Yet, the village square lay in heaps of rubble and blood, a gruesome shrine to how they had failed. How he had failed.

    Gareth pushed the thought away, the self-loathing pressing into a corner of his mind to be unpacked later. There was no time to ruminate on his failures as a leader. He pulled more stone from the wreckage, his knees aching as he crouched. The air was cold and wet, the promise of rain looming in the dark clouds that overlooked the village. Something to wash the blood away, at least.

    ¡°Captain!¡±

    Gareth stood, turning to see Helrir approaching. The lieutenant''s dark, scarred face was strained and furrowed as he walked. Like Gareth, he wore no cloak, only a tan undershirt. The bulky fabric tended to get in the way of manual labor. Helrir wearily brought a fist to shoulder in a sloppy salute.

    ¡°We¡¯ve run a count, as you ordered.¡±

    Gareth nodded, bracing himself for what would come next. ¡°How many?¡±

    ¡°Twelve dead, five dying, eight injured.¡±

    Gareth cursed under his breath, his body feeling heavier with the gravity of the dead. We could have stopped this. He pushed the thought away, standing tall despite the weight. Someone needed to stand with it all. Someone needed to hold firm. ¡°News from the scouts?¡±

    Helrir wiped the sweat from his brow, smearing dirt across his forehead. ¡°The safewood seems clear. The pair from Camp Baelon tracked it from the circle stones and didn¡¯t spot any traces. We¡¯ve yet to find the senior stationed with them.¡±

    Gareth nodded. ¡°Fyrn. He sent the raven.¡± Even with the warning, they had been too late. By the time they spotted the fires and mounted a response, too many were dead. His shoulders ached, reminding him of his lost youth. A house nestled within a hollow. A fire. The smell of bread.

    ¡°Gareth,¡± Helrir whispered as his old friend took him by the forearm, pulling him close. ¡°I¡¯ve fought more rot walkers than I can hardly count.¡± His eyes were pained, barely restrained panic hidden within their depths for only Gareth to see. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen one that big. Jeorge said that if it wasn¡¯t for that girl¡­whatever that was¡­¡±

    ¡°Hold your tongue, Helrir!¡± Gareth hissed. ¡°You think I don¡¯t know how big the damned thing was? The villagers are strained enough.¡± He looked around as people picked through the ruins of the town square. Smoke curled up from the rubble of the town hall. The acrid taste coated his tongue and burned the inside of his nostrils. ¡°The last thing we need is a mass panic.¡±

    Helrir nodded, inhaling slowly. ¡°Sorry, sir. I¡¯ve just¡­seen too many dead.¡±

    Gareth squeezed his shoulder. ¡°As have I, brother.¡±

    Helrir straightened, his eyes darting uncomfortably. ¡°About the girl. The Mothers forbid us from speaking to her.¡±

    Gareth closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead. ¡°I figured as much.¡±

    ¡°They want to speak with you, sir.¡±

    Gareth sighed, dusting off his hands. Best get this over with. He stood tall as he prepared himself for what was to come. Already, he could feel the accusing stares of the villagers, the rage in their eyes as they cradled their dead, the betrayal as they picked through their homes. You promised them safety from the deepwood. You failed them.

    The stares followed him, weighing down his steps as he walked to the squat stone building of the Rangers outpost where the Mothers tended to the wounded. The beacon towered over it, the tower casting a long shadow in the morning light. The door was open, and the smell of blood and decay overtook him as he walked into the outpost.

    The windows were open to let in light and to let out some of the smell. The men lay in cots, and the Mothers, with the help they had recruited, rushed clean rags and water to them. Many were bare-chested on their cots with black veins that shot up from wounds that had festered overnight. Anyone who had been so much as nicked by the rot walker¡¯s ebony blade would be dead within a few days.

    Mother Reila stood in the corner, a rag over her mouth as she watched the women care for the doomed men. Her hair was pulled into a black bun streaked with grey, and her skirts were stained brown with blood. She met his gaze with weary eyes and wove her way through the cots of wounded, resting her hand on the shoulder of a blonde woman choking back tears as she tended to who Gareth could only assume was her husband. She brushed past Gareth silently, walking into the open alleyway.

    She removed the rag from her face and breathed deeply, back turned to Gareth as he turned out of the outpost. ¡°So many dead.¡± Her voice was soft as she stared at the sky. ¡°So many dying. We¡¯ll hardly have enough men to rebuild.¡±

    Gareth took his place beside her. He had known Reila since childhood, growing up with her and even courting her before joining the Rangers. ¡°My Rangers will help rebuild. We¡¯ll double the guard. Station more Rangers in the town, patrol the safewood more extensively.¡±

    Reila turned to Gareth, her face ashen and eyes tearful. She had shed the mask that Gareth had held desperately to since seeing the fires rising through the trees. The mask that he was holding things together. The mask that he was in control. ¡°What then, Gareth?¡± Her voice was shaky. ¡°You¡¯ve never seen one that big. And don¡¯t lie to me like you have everyone else and say you can protect us from that.¡± She leaned against the stone of a wall, sliding down until she sat on the ground.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    Gareth grunted as he sat beside her, pulling a waterskin from his belt and handing it to her. She opened it and drank deeply from it before handing it back. He took a long gulp, the cool water washing away the taste of smoke and dirt.

    ¡°Are you just going to sit there stoically?¡± Reila demanded, wiping bloodstained fingers on the grass. ¡°I know you, Gareth. Better than anyone in the village. Some of them blame you. Blame the Rangers for not spotting it.¡±

    ¡°Do you?¡± Gareth poured water onto his hands and tried to wipe the dirt from his face. He wished he could be like Reila, taking off the mask in a familiar presence and washing it off with cool water. No. He knew that if he took it off and stopped carrying it for a moment, he would fall to the floor and never get up.

    A cold hand wrapped in ivy.

    ¡°No. I saw it when it attacked. Even if you had caught it, what could you have done? Ioleth¡¯s mercy was the only thing that saved us. The thing tore through houses like paper.¡±

    Gareth turned toward her. She had wiped away the tears, still refusing to cry in front of him, mask or not. She had always been beautiful, from when she danced in Festival as a girl to even now as they sat old, covered in dirt and blood. She was a calm, steady beauty like an oak. Nights spent running through the safewood, fire moths pulsing around them like stars as they laughed.

    ¡°We¡¯ll find a way, Rei. We always do. The Rangers, we¡¯ll protect the village.¡± He stared at the sky, which bled shades of red as the sun lifted itself above the horizon, witnessing the night''s bloodshed.

    Reila¡¯s hand closed around his, the simple touch threatening to shatter the mask. She squeezed tightly, closing her eyes as she rested her head against the stone wall. They sat there for a moment, hands clasped together. She traced her fingers around his scarred knuckles, the sounds of the dying calling out from the makeshift hospital. ¡°Those men. They¡¯re going to die. Aren¡¯t they?¡±

    Gareth nodded. ¡°Takes a few days. It would be kinder to end it now.¡±

    Reila¡¯s released her grip. ¡°You know they won¡¯t do that, Gareth. The people.¡± She pulled down her bun, letting her hair fall in a grey-black sheet. Pushing her hair back underneath a star-speckled sky. Gareth pushed the thought away. The time for thoughts such as that had long passed. ¡°Too many have died already. Doomed or not, they¡¯ve known these men their entire lives.¡±

    The mask was falling. Gareth sighed, his chest feeling heavy as he drank from the waterskin. ¡°How do I it, Rei?¡±

    ¡°Do what?¡±

    ¡°How do I face them? I can see their faces.¡± Gareth clenched his fists tightly, his knuckles going white.  ¡°You said it yourself. They blame me. They blame the Rangers. We failed them. We let that thing slip past us. We¡¯re the reason their husbands, fathers, and friends are dead.¡±

    Reila paused, ripping a piece of grass from the ground. ¡°We¡¯re supposed to be leaders,¡± her voice was quiet as she spoke. As they sat together, she was no longer Mother Reila, head matriarch of the Mother¡¯s Council. She was simply Rei, the girl Gareth had chased with sticks as a child. Though youth was long behind her, that same warm light shone in her eyes. It was faded by the day''s tragedy, but still the glimmer that had entranced him as a boy.

    ¡°We¡¯re expected to be faultless, never to let anything horrible happen to those around us.¡± She tore at the grass in her fingers, separating it into smaller and smaller pieces. ¡°But we always will. Leaders will always fail their people.¡±

    Gareth grunted. ¡°So, I¡¯m supposed just to accept it? Just write off the deaths of so many because I was bound to fail at some point?¡±

    Rei shook her head, the shredded grass blowing from her open palm as a gust of wind blew through the village. ¡°You have to hurt. You have to feel for the people you¡¯ve wronged. Otherwise, you weren¡¯t fit to lead to begin with.¡± She turned to Gareth, her eyes glinting in the light like green crystal. ¡°How the people you lead will remember you isn¡¯t by if you failed, but what you did after you failed.¡±

    The wind blew stronger, whipping Rei¡¯s hair as it passed through the alleyway. The sky darkened as clouds began to creep over the village, rumblings of thunder echoing from their depths. Rei took his hand and squeezed it tightly as she stood up. ¡°I know you¡¯ll protect us, Gareth. The people will hurt, but like you said, we¡¯ll survive.¡± She ran her hand along his shoulder as she began to walk back toward the sounds of the dying.

    As Reila left, Gareth sat momentarily, breathing in the wet air before the rain and listening to the song the trees sang as they creaked in the wind. It was slow and solemn, a song of mourning in the face of destruction and chaos. Why are you bound to earth?

    He closed his eyes and rested his head against cool stone. The wind whistled around him as it passed between the buildings, the moaning from the outpost mixing with the mournful crackling of the trees to create a symphony of sorrow in anticipation of cleansing rain. The sound of footsteps and labored breathing opened his eyes.

    Two Rangers were approaching, carrying a third in between them by the arms. Gareth recognized the pair, a girl with flame-red hair and a tall lad with a patchy brown beard, as the trainees from Camp Baelon. Gareth shot to his feet as he saw they carried Jeorge, his face a mask of pain.

    His cloak was discarded and his chest bare. A web of black veins ran from underneath his trousers, where Gareth could see a slash on his upper thigh where a blade had nicked the cloth. The lines of black trailed up his entire chest, protruding like foul snakes that throbbed underneath his skin. Gareth ran to the wounded Ranger, grabbed him from the pair, and lowered him against the wall. A few other Rangers from the party that had arrived with Gareth had followed and were watching with sorrowful faces.

    The lad, Seren, crouched beside Gareth as Jeorge coughed, blood splattering from his mouth. ¡°He collapsed while we were trying to clear the wreckage of the bakery, sir. We didn¡¯t even know he¡¯d been hit.¡± The boy''s voice was flat and lifeless, his panicked eyes darting at every sound.

    Jeorge groaned, his muscles tense and hot as Gareth gripped his shoulder. ¡°It¡­It was just¡­just a scratch.¡± He opened bloodshot eyes, panting. ¡°Thought I¡¯d get lucky or die trying.¡±

    Gareth placed a hand on Ranger¡¯s forehead. His skin was hot enough to cook on. Aelio¡¯s light, the man had likely been in agony for hours but had now collapsed. ¡°Other men would have long fallen to the pain. You¡¯re built from strong roots, brother.¡±

    Jeorge forced a pained smile, spasmed, and fell into a coughing fit. Gareth heard something crack within his chest, and more blood spilled from his nose as he hacked violently. ¡°Sir,¡± his voice was raspy and breathless. ¡°Give me a clean death. A good one. Don¡¯t let me die like this.¡±

    Gareth gripped the back of Jeorge¡¯s neck, resting his forehead against his as he slid a dagger from his boot. So many dead. The Mother¡¯s council would do as they willed their people, but he would not condemn his own, his brothers, to days of agony. The Rangers were stone as they watched. The rest of them had stopped their work to watch,  ` to honor the passing of their brother.

    Jeorge shuddered, his breathing rapid. Gareth could feel his heart pounding underneath his hands.

    ¡°Jeorge.¡± He projected his voice so that the other Rangers could hear him. ¡°You have served your vigil, watched under Fyrun¡¯s night, fought within the guiding light of Aelio, sacrificed upon the soil of Ioleth.¡± He pressed the tip of the dagger to Jeorge¡¯s bare chest, just to the left, above his heart. ¡°Your brothers and sisters watch you now in honor. Say the words, brother.¡±

    Jeorge coughed again, his eyes fluttering as he spoke through gritted teeth, his voice strained as he pushed out the words. ¡°My hands in service. My heart in honor. My life in vigil.¡±

    Gareth looked him in the eyes, one hand on the dagger, one hand on Jeorge¡¯s shoulder. ¡°May your honor guide you beyond darkened skies.¡± He thrust the blade forward. Jeorge jolted as the blade pierced his heart, blood spilling out of his mouth as his eyes glazed over. In a second, it was done. Gareth pulled the dagger from his chest and stood, facing the watching Rangers.

    ¡°A vigil has ended,¡± he called out. The mask returned as he stood tall, the blade in his hand stained with his brother''s blood.

    The Rangers saluted, echoing his cry. ¡°A vigil has ended!¡±

    Gareth ran his fingers along the blade, wiping the blood onto his forehead with a quick motion. ¡°He will be taken to the fort to have a proper burial. I will wear the blood of his sacrifice until then.¡± He sheathed his dagger. ¡°Take his body somewhere safe in the meantime.¡±

    The pair that had carried him nodded, each grabbing an arm as they took his limp body, his blood spilling onto the ground. The other Rangers pressed their hands to the pools of blood on the ground or grazed his broken chest as he passed, wiping the blood onto their foreheads. They would wear it in solidarity to honor him.

    Gareth motioned for Helrir to follow him as he returned to the village square. He had failed; the blood on his forehead proved that to him. Rei¡¯s words echoed in his head with every step as he moved forward. It¡¯s not about if you fail. It''s about what you do after.

 Chapter 8-The Blood of Sacrifice

    Raya sat amongst a great black fog, the choking truth crushing down upon her in a sheet. The bed beneath her creaked as she turned, staring at the ceiling. Mother Reila¡¯s home was quiet outside the village''s central cluster, resting on the edge of a field of waving corn stalks. The bedroom was small and decorated with paintings of trees and waterfalls. Mother Reila had left her alone to rest, going off to help feed the wounded. The fading light shone through the window, the darkness around and within thickening with every breath.

    Outside, two Rangers guarded a dead man. They had wrapped him in a blanket and laid him in a wooden shed. One of them, a pretty girl with red hair, had told her that she wouldn¡¯t be bothered and that if she needed anything, she needed only to ask. Raya could see her reality reflected in the Ranger¡¯s pity-filled eyes.

    Her parents were dead. The fact was simple and accurate beyond doubt. Yet the fact slipped from her every time she tried to grasp it. The idea was so absurd that she was simply incapable of grasping it. Her parents were dead. Killed by a rot walker and killed in front of her.

    The fact pressed around her, shrouding her movement. Every blink brought back the image of her father lying broken in front of her. Every gust of wind carried the sound of her mother¡¯s screams. That truth was everything, yet it seemed so distant. They weren¡¯t dead. They couldn¡¯t be dead. Her parents couldn¡¯t die. If she just closed her eyes and willed herself to wake, this would all just be a horrible nightmare.

    Yet she was still there whenever she opened her eyes, lying on someone else¡¯s bed. Her parents were dead. Raya was beyond tears; her eyes had long dried, and the uncontrollable screaming sobs had left long ago. Nothing remained but a blank emptiness. It hung over her, pressing down in an oppressive fog that left her unable to think of anything except the sound of her father crumpling into the wall and the smell of his blood. She longed to cry, for something to break through the wall of darkness that surrounded her. Nothing came, only the void.

    She pressed a finger to her neck, feeling for the pulse underneath. She didn¡¯t feel alive. She felt as if she was watching herself live, trapped underneath some great net that kept her still empty while others moved around her. The bump, bump, bump of her heartbeat moved under her fingers. She pulled the blanket over herself and closed her eyes, letting the darkness overtake her. She would find solace in sleep if only to wake again to the nightmare.

    She twisted and turned underneath the blanket, trying to get comfortable. Were the gods so cruel that they wouldn¡¯t even allow her this? She pulled the blanket tighter but found nothing but scratchy wool. She curled into a ball, straightened, and returned to the ball again. Still, comfort was lost to her. She sat up, hands pulling at her hair as it hung wildly.

    Her breath quickened, but tears wouldn¡¯t come. She wanted to feel anything except this nothingness. She wanted to hurt. She wanted to scream. She wanted to have anything, any feeling that would pierce through the numbness surrounding her. Something was wrong with her. Her parents were dead, and she couldn¡¯t even cry.

    I¡¯m so, so sorry.

    The words echoed in her mind. She looked around the room, trying to find where it had come from. She was alone, the room dark around her as the sun disappeared.

    You don¡¯t deserve this. Any of this.

    It was only then that tears finally came. Her body shook as she wept, pulling a pillow to her face to stifle the sounds. Her parents were dead. The shaking changed to great wheezing cries and then muffled screams as she gripped the pillow tighter, screaming anguish into a black void.

    <hr>

    Seren was cold. He gripped his spear, his cloak offering comfort against the dark. Jeorge¡¯s blood had long dried on his forehead and had begun to flake off like rust. He and Trissa stood at opposite ends of the shed door, spears at their side. The Captain had told them that they would change shifts and watch over Jeorge at midnight, softly telling them to make sure the girl was not bothered. The haunted, empty expression on the girl''s face made his skin crawl.

    Trissa had been in to check on her periodically. Seren doubted he would be much help in these sorts of situations. She was silent as she leaned against the shed wall, her spear beside her. The safewood whispered behind them, the sounds of creaking wood and shifting leaves overlaying the night. A torch cast yellow light from a mount on the side of the shed.

    Seren¡¯s mind wandered in the dark. The rot walker. He had heard senior Ranger tell tales of the monsters. The stories of raving Mycellians, chanting in a forgotten tongue, with blades that would kill with the slightest touch. He had been taught every way that you could kill one. Aim for the joints, surround it with spears, and eventually hit it enough times to break the fungal armor. And yet he froze, stuck in one of his spells.

    You¡¯re nothing but a coward, boy. You¡¯re not fit to work a field, not fit to swing an axe, not fit to clean boots. You¡¯ll end up dead in a ditch with the Rangers if they can find a use for you that¡¯s not digging a latrine.

    He felt selfish, worrying about himself when a Ranger was dead and a girl had lost her parents. His arms were tired and hung at his side loosely. A night of fighting and a day of clearing rubble left his body feeling thick and slow. He could see Trissa turning something in her fingers beside him, her shadows shifting in the light. The coin caught the light as she turned it around with her fingers.

    ¡°Where¡¯d you find that?¡±

    Trissa¡¯s hand closed around the coin, ¡°none of your business.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re being stoic again.¡±

    Trissa held a fist up sharply. ¡°I can¡¯t right now, Seren. I just¡­can¡¯t talk about it.¡± Her mouth was a tight line underneath her hood.

    Seren sighed, staring up at the sky. The stars scattered themselves in the inky black in an array of white pinpricks. Fyrun glowed white, the half-moon like a beacon amongst the maze of smaller lights. As Fyrun watches in silence, so do we¡ªour hands in service, our hearts in honor, our lives in vigil.

    ¡°I froze.¡±

    Trissa was silent. There was a faint crackling from the torch. A bat fluttered across the sky, darkening the stars as it passed.

    ¡°I froze whenever I saw it. I could fight. I wanted to fight, but I couldn¡¯t move.¡±The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°You did fight it, and you hit it more than I did.¡±

    Seren shook his head, ¡°I just got stuck. I couldn¡¯t think, couldn¡¯t see. If you hadn¡¯t grabbed me, I¡¯d be dead.¡±

    Trissa sighed, tucked the coin beneath her cloak, and rubbed her face. ¡°What do you want me to say, Seren? That you didn¡¯t freeze? That you charged headlong into battle with a sword in hand like Fyrun made flesh? You froze, but you fought. You¡¯re letting yourself get so caught up with the fear of being afraid that you¡¯re throwing aside everything you did and focusing only on your fear. ¡°

    Seren was quiet and scratched at the patches in his beard. The fear of being afraid. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m being stupid.¡±

    Trissa pushed back her hood. The firelight made her pale skin seem luminous in the night. She looked at him, leaning her shoulder against the shed. Her gaze had shifted from its hardened look to a softer expression, her eyes seeming broader and more deeply blue as she stared at him.

    Her voice was quiet as she spoke, ¡°You feel like your heart¡¯s going to burst from your chest. Everything moves too fast, and that makes your heart beat even faster. You feel like everything around you is too loud, hurting your head. You feel like you can¡¯t breathe, like there¡¯s a weight pressing down on you from all sides, and you can''t push it away.¡±

    Seren shivered as a cold wind blew behind them, fanning the torch as the trees groaned. ¡°My father says I¡¯m a coward.¡±

    Trissa''s eyes were vacant, as if she was staring at something behind Seren as she hugged herself. ¡°You¡¯re not a coward, Seren.¡± Her next words were barely a whisper, almost lost to the sounds of the forest. ¡°Lya wasn¡¯t a coward.¡±

    ¡°Who¡¯s Lya?¡±

    Trissa blinked. She clearly didn¡¯t think he heard that. Her soft gaze was replaced by something else, something so like what he saw in Raya when she met his eyes. A horrible heaviness. ¡°My sister.¡±

    Seren turned to face her, leaning with her in the torchlight. ¡°You mentioned her at the circle stones. I never even knew you had siblings.¡±

    Trissa stared through him. He could practically feel her eyes boring through his body, watching something beyond him. ¡°I don¡¯t. Not anymore.¡±

    Seren started to open his mouth to ask that horrible question, but the sound of footsteps broke through the night. He turned to see Mother Reila returning, flanked by two senior Rangers, her dress stained with dirt and blood. She nodded appreciatively at the pair and opened the door to her home, closing it without a word.

    Seren and Trissa saluted the seniors. They saluted back. One walked closer, pushing back her hood to reveal a scarred face. Seren recognized Ira immediately. The weeks of grueling drills and yelling burned her image in his mind.

    ¡°The Captain has called for both of you. We¡¯re to cover the rest of your watch. He¡¯s in the old library.¡±

    Seren looked at Trissa, who shrugged, pulling her hood back over her face. All vulnerability had left her face, replaced only by a stony indifference. The darkness overtook them as they walked back through the fields of corn, the lights from the village serving as a beacon in the night.

    <hr>

    ¡°Reports have come in from Camp Baelon.¡± Gareth felt even older, if that was somehow possible, as he sat at a table in the center of the small library. Books lay behind him on a shelf that took up the back wall, lantern light giving the room an eerie feeling as the trainees sat across from him. Mother Ruthe had brought him tea that had long gone cold. ¡°We found Fyrn. He¡¯s dead.¡±

    Seren¡¯s eyes widened at the shock of it. Trissa''s face was unmoving as she sat staring at him blankly. Gareth couldn¡¯t imagine what it was like for the two of them. Fyrn was a good man, respected by his peers, and one of their best hunters. They had only been stationed there for a little over a month, but deployment at the camp tended to bring Rangers together.

    Trissa was the first to speak. ¡°How did he die?¡±

    Gareth leaned back in his chair. ¡°We found him with his throat cut. His wounds were black with poison.¡±

    Seren spoke between slow, controlled breaths. ¡°So, the rot walker killed him after he sent the message.¡±

    ¡°Or there¡¯s another one out there,¡± Trissa answered for Gareth.

    Gareth nodded slowly. Everything felt heavy. He doubted he would sleep tonight even if he tried. Gods, he wanted to fight something. ¡°The wounds were too fresh for it to have been the same. He died with a sword in his hand. He died with honor. More importantly, his wounds took him before the poison. His body is being taken back to the fort. We¡¯ll honor him with Jeorge.¡±

    Seren nodded, his breathing slowing as the lad took control of himself. ¡°Captain,¡± the boy stared at the floor. ¡°This has never happened before, captain.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ve fought rot walkers since before you were born, Ranger.¡±

    This time, Trissa spoke. ¡°They¡¯ve never been like that, and there¡¯s never been two this far into the safewood. What would you have us do against that?¡± She held his gaze with an ice he would¡¯ve deemed disrespectful under different circumstances. He knew no lie or rousing speech to boost morale would sate them.

    Helrir straightened from where he stood in the corner, his voice sharp as he barked at the trainee. ¡°Mind your tone when you speak to the captain! I¡¯ve a mind- ¡°

    Gareth raised his hand, and Helrir fell silent. He scratched his beard. He wished he had his pipe. No, that wouldn¡¯t do to smoke after people had died. ¡°They fought it, Helrir. They have a right to their concerns.¡± He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. It''s about what you do now that matters. He let the mask slip just the slightest bit. ¡°You¡¯re right. We¡¯ve never fought one like that before. They said it talked about a child of mist. And now I hear the Ferrews saying that a wisp wight appeared in their home, speaking to that boy from the woods.¡±

    Seren shifted uncomfortably in his seat, still staring at his feet. ¡°Sir. What happened with the girl? Raya, I think her name was. We didn¡¯t press because, well¡­gods, we¡¯re not cruel. But it was like she¡­used magic.¡±

    The room grew colder at the implications of his words. The unspoken taboo left a sour taste in the air. Helrir grunted beside Gareth, shaking his head.

    ¡°Magic is lost to us, boy.¡± The lieutenant''s voice was wary as he spoke. The words seemed thick on his tongue. ¡°Speak no more of it.¡±

    Even Trissa, unshakable as she was, looked at Seren awkwardly. These things were not spoken of, not thought of. But Gareth could not blame the lad; thoughts of the same manner had filled his head of late.

    ¡°I saw what happened, sir. I can¡¯t think of anything else to explain it. Maybe somehow that girl-¡°

    Gareth shot a sharp look at the boy, who stammered as he stopped talking. He would not suffer talk of this. Not tonight. Not when he was so tired. ¡°We have no magic. Not anymore. Our Transgression was too great, and the gods stripped it from us. What you saw was Ioleth¡¯s intervention on our behalf. Be thankful that you witnessed this. You can tell your sons how you laid eyes on the earth goddess yourself.¡± The words didn¡¯t feel right as they left his mouth, but he could not have Rangers spouting talk of magic. Not until he knew more.

    The door creaked open slowly, and the sounds of men murmuring and clattering about grew louder as Sylen peeked his head in. ¡°Sorry to disturb captain, but you need to come out here.¡±

    ¡°And why is that, Ranger?¡±

    Sylen paused, standing in the doorway like a specter in the night. ¡°You need to come out here, sir.¡± Gareth stood from his chair, nodding at the two trainees as he passed them. As he stepped through the open door into the cold of the night, what he saw waiting for him left his jaw agape in awe.

    Men, made of interlocking pieces of fungus and alight with a blue glow, swarmed out of the safewood. They bore no weapons in their mishappen hands. Some carried baskets of berries and wild fruits. Others carried deer carcasses slung over their shoulders. Their blue light filled the village as they walked through the streets like many pale suns had come to Earth. Some villagers opened doors, shying away from the light that threatened to blind them. No one moved to musters arms. No one screamed. They aren¡¯t here to hurt us.

    The Mycellians laid food baskets before the bewildered townsfolk, chittering in their strange tongue. Others began to carry off piles of rubble that had been cleared away, working in perfect unison as they hauled away shattered brick and wood with ease.

    ¡°I¡¯ve never seen so many in one place,¡± Sylen muttered, his expression one of awe.

    One of the Mycellians began to approach Gareth. He was taller than the others, and a great beard of lichen hung from his face. Blue pulsed from within him, dimming as he got closer. He carried a jagged blade of black glass in a weathered belt at his hip. Countless mushrooms sprouted from his shoulders and back, and his arms were covered in a layer of moss, like the sleeves of a coat. His voice was guttural as he spoke, his hand on the handle of his blade.

    ¡°You are Gareth. Captain of Rangers. We must speak.¡±

 Chapter 9-The Delegation

    The Mycellians had the ability to be completely motionless in a way that unnerved Gareth. A man would shift from foot to foot, wave a hand through his hair, scratch his neck. The Mycellian sat utterly still on the opposite end of the table, eyes of black stone unblinking in the hollows of its jagged head. He, Gareth supposed it was male from its wispy beard of lichen, had left his sword leaning against the frame of the door of the library. The obsidian blade seemed to absorb the candlelight and blended into the shadows.

    Gareth supposed he should be used to strangeness, given his years in the deepwood patrols. He had seen shadows that moved on their own accord, ruins of towns that defied reason or organization, creatures that lurked in the dark places of the wood that would drive men to madness with a glance. Even Hela, with her strange magics, seemed more explainable than what sat before him, staring at him with night-dark eyes.

    He realized that he had never seen a Mycellian up close in all his years as a Ranger. He had fought more than his share of their brethren when they weren¡¯t as large as a house. The Mycellians, however, never interacted with Rangers or the townsfolk in any way more meaningful than a silent stare before wandering back to the northern safewood.

    There was an unspoken understanding. The rot walkers weren¡¯t the same as the other Mycellians, and the Mycellians would not bother the people provided they weren¡¯t bothered themselves. Even times when people got too close to their thicket, they were redirected away from the territory with pointed fingers and clicks. The only times he ever heard of them attacking the people was when drunken fools or idiotic teenagers provoked them. He had never heard one speak, never gotten close enough to try and speak with one. And now they swarmed the village.

    Gareth supposed he should be thankful for their coming. After all, they were distributing food to the people, clearing away rubble. They had even cut down the rot walker from where it had been suspended in those massive roots and carried it off into the trees. Instead, a sense of unease filled him. His back prickled, looking at the man-shaped walking mass of fungus that sat motionless from across him.

    ¡°You do not understand our purpose here,¡± the Mycellian¡¯s voice broke the silence. Its voice sounded familiar- it sounded like every rot walker Gareth had fought, except devoid of the rage that filled the monsters. It was devoid of any emotion at all. The low guttural sound seemed to vibrate from the center of its chest, where jagged, uneven rows of brown armor protruded. It didn¡¯t have a mouth, only plates of ridged gray that covered its face.

    ¡°I do not.¡± Helrir and Sylen stood on either side of Gareth, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.

    ¡°You were attacked.¡±

    Gareth nodded slowly. ¡°Yes. As we have been many times before. You were nowhere to be seen. I appreciate your people helping us, but why now?¡±

    The Mycellian was silent, candlelight covering its body in many dark crevices and ravines of shadow. For a moment, there was only the sound of clicking and rustling from the Mycellian¡¯s work outside, intersected by the worried murmuring of onlookers. ¡°I know your name. You do not know mine,¡± it stated simply, pausing as if expecting a response.

    ¡°What is your name?¡±

    The Mycellian shifted, its beard rustling softly as it rested its arms on the table with a grinding of fungus plates. ¡°I do not have a name. None of us do.¡±

    Sylen spat to the side, glaring at the creature. ¡°You come to play games with us? Our people are dead, their homes destroyed!¡± Before Gareth could silence him, the Mycellian spoke.

    Its voice was different. Its words were slow, and Gareth sensed something breaking through the emotionless drone. It was mournful. ¡°We wish to have names. We long for it, more than you can know.¡±

    ¡°Do you think that by coming here, we would give you names?¡± Gareth asked. ¡°Do you want a reward?¡±

    The Mycellian stared at Gareth. ¡°You cannot give us names.¡± A flash of blue lit the room from outside the window, leaving a burning afterimage in Gareth¡¯s eyes. He blinked, his eyes watering from the sudden burst of light. ¡°We can only have names when we are free from being One. Now, I fear I will not live to see that day.¡±

    Perfect. Cryptic words from a talking mushroom when people are dead. Gareth pushed down the annoyance and decided to keep prodding. There must be a reason for this visit. ¡°And why won''t you live to see it?¡±

    The Mycellian rumbled softly, a low sound that Gareth felt in his skull. ¡°There is a way of things. When one of us falls to the Madness, they are slain by your people.¡±This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

    Gareth leaned forward, ¡°The Madness. The rot walkers. This afflicts them?¡± A rumble answered in what he could only assume was affirmation. He pushed on. ¡°This Madness. Is there a way to stop it?¡±

    The Mycellian rumbled again, a faint, soft flash pulsing from within its chest. ¡°We are born of the Madness. When one of us falls, there is no turning back. Now, a child of mist is among you. The old kingdom awakens, and more of us fall every day. Soon, there will be none of us left. Soon, we will all be mad.¡± Another flash pulsed. Gareth could hear a thump from within as the light ballooned out gently. And soon, more will attack. The words, though unspoken, hung in the air like fog.

    ¡°Will you fight with us then?¡± Helrir asked, his voice hoarse and cracking. ¡°Will you help us snuff out this Madness?¡±

    The Mycellian was silent, as if contemplating, then rumbled slowly¡ªa grinding harrumph. ¡°No. We are One and could not harm One, even within Madness.¡±

    ¡°So you plan to leave us with nothing? You bring baskets of fruit and clear our village in preparation to go mad and kill us all?¡± Helrir¡¯s hand tightened around the grip of his sword, his leathery face twisting in anger.

    ¡°You could not understand. We are One. You are many. The old ways beckon, and soon we will follow.¡±

    Gareth stood; his chair pushed back with a rasp of wood on wood. The candles flickered as a breeze drifted through an open window, one winking out with a wisp of smoke. ¡°What kingdom do you speak of? What is a child of mist?¡±

    It remained seated as it turned its head to watch him, like a stone shifting in its place. ¡°I will not speak the name of the old kings, lest I fall to Madness and slay you all. The child of mist is one you know. One bearing the mark of the old magics. One bearing a cursed blade.¡±

    The boy. Tefta. Gareth felt for the blade, feeling the cool handle in his grasp from where it was hidden underneath his cloak. ¡°What can you tell me of this?¡± He asked, pushing back his cloak to reveal where it hung at his hip.

    The Mycellian bellowed, the sound reverberating in his chest. It flashed a blinding blue and shot to its feet, the stonelike movement now fluid. Blue light flashed through the window, and a hum echoed through the streets from where the others gathered, many people yelling in fright at the sudden cacophony. Helrir and Sylen drew their blades, pushing back their cloaks as they leveled swords at the now pulsing Mycellian.

    Its gaze was fixed on Gareth as it stood near the door. Gareth backed up, keeping the table between him and the creature as he gripped the hilt. ¡°That blade is wicked!¡± Its voice carried desperation as it rapidly pulsed blue. Gareth raised a hand, gesturing to his lieutenants. The two Rangers lowered the blades reluctantly.

    Gareth covered the blade with his cloak, still holding the hilt. ¡°Tell me,¡± he said as he approached the Mycellian. ¡°What is coming for us? Why have you come?¡±

    ¡°We have come,¡± its voice was slow and monotone. ¡°Because there is no hope for us. The old kings awaken, and soon, we shall all be Mad. What attacked you was only the beginning. We have come to beg favor with you, bearing gifts and service.¡±

    ¡°And what favor can we give you?¡±

    ¡°We ask to bring the Little Ones to you so that you might keep them safe. They will not fall to our Madness.¡±

    ¡°The Little Ones?¡± Gareth asked. He had slowly crept in between the creature and its black blade, offering him some sense of safety. ¡°You wish for us to take in your young?¡±

    A low harrumph answered him. The Mycellian was as tall as Gareth, if not taller. The moss on its arms rustled in the breeze as it stared at him with cold eyes. It still pulsed, though softer, barely a flicker in its chest. Darkness had returned outside, and the hum had gone silent.

    ¡°And what if we ended it here?¡± Sylen asked through gritted teeth. ¡°Took out the lot of you, so we never have to face this Madness of yours?¡±

    ¡°More would take our place.¡± The Mycellian answered. It stepped softly around Gareth, grabbing its sword from where it leaned behind him. Helrir and Sylen stirred, lifting blades, but a look from Gareth stopped them.

    The Mycellian hefted the blade, sliding it into a loop on the belt it wore. Did they understand leatherworking? For every question answered, Gareth had a dozen more. It turned to him.

    ¡°Will you protect them?¡± It asked again. How would he even take care of a walking fungus? The idea of it was absurd, but so was the entire meeting. Gods, the whole of the last few days had been absurd.

    ¡°If you can tell me how to protect my people, then yes. I will protect them.¡±

    A blue pulse. ¡°You will likely be attacked soon. There will be more than one. Protect the child of mist. Protect the Earthsinger. Seek the Firstborn. She will help you. She hates the old kings perhaps more than we do.¡±

    An answer that brought even more questions. ¡°Firstborn?¡± Gareth asked incredulously. ¡°You can¡¯t expect me to know what you¡¯re talking about.¡±

    ¡°You know her as a woman of the woods.¡±

    Sylen looked at Gareth, his face a mass of confusion underpinned with the beginnings of fear. ¡°Hela.¡± Absurdities upon absurdities.

    The Mycellian pushed open the door, revealing the mass of its kin that had gathered outside. They were motionless as stone as they watched the leader exit the library. Gareth followed, the Mycellian turning back toward where he stood in the door. ¡°We leave now. We are grateful for your favor. We will bring the Little Ones to your fort soon. After that, the Madness will take us.¡±

    Villagers watched from their doorsteps, confused and frightened by the strange crowd that filled the village square. They had cleared the rubble, and a fire burned in a distant field from what Gareth assumed to be the rot walker¡¯s pyre.

    The leader became lost amongst the crowd as the Mycellians began their exodus back into the woods. They pulsed, chittered, and rumbled as they passed through the village streets, a slow wave of lichen and mushrooms shambling into the trees. Blue flashed through the trees like lightning within the forest canopy as they marched north through the forest.

    Gareth watched as they left, the village silent in their passing. Some had begun to pick up the baskets of food and deer carcasses, carrying them toward the wreckage of the town hall. The cool night air pressed against him, the gravity of the meeting weighing him down, reminding him of the exhaustion that hung over him in a thick sheet. He had to protect them. The forest was waking with long-forgotten horrors, and he had to fight it.