The door to the underground chamber closed with a whisper like breath drawn through old stone. Dust lingered in the air, drifting like spores waiting to root, they traversed the long tunnel and reached outside.

  Kett was already in the town square, arms crossed, his broad frame outlined against the morning gloom, he was picking soldiers and giving them orders. Brann saw the flicker of recognition pass between him and Torvil when they approached, no surprise between them, only a truth long known but left unspoken.

  But Torvil still had to play his part for the others:

  “I'm coming too,” Torvil announced with a grunt, brushing dirt from his apron. “I knew Oakrin better than any of you.”

  Kett’s men shifted behind him, murmuring, half laughs, half snorts. The cook? In the forest?

  Kett raised an eyebrow, voice cool. “No, you are not. We have no need of chefs in the forest.”

  Torvil puffed out his chest like an ox not yet ready for the yoke. “Well then, you can say goodbye to my stew pots for at least three moons, and the bread, and the pies.”

  Kett remained still, unmoved.

  Torvil squinted, leaning in with a sly smile. “And no ale.”

  Kett exhaled through his nose like a man accepting rain. “Fine,” he said at last. “If you want to join that badly, just don’t get in our way.”

  “I’ll stay behind you,” Torvil said with mock solemnity. “Far behind, but I’m coming.”

  They readied themselves in silence. Brann’s own armor, Mara’s work, was not yet done. He wore instead a suit of hardened boiled leather from the militia stores, unremarkable but serviceable. But the sword…The sword was finished.

  She had shaped it like she knew what he needed, strong, balanced, its blade etched with runes that whispered faint cold through his palm. The markings weren’t decorative, they pulsed faintly, almost like veins directing his powers. He ran his thumb across the spine of the blade and thought, I will not fail again.

  At the bridge, the wind shifted, and it carried the scent of rot, wildflowers, and rain on stone, a scent like memory.

  Twenty-two men stood at the threshold of Duskmire. Brann glanced at them, some with faces hard as bark, others blinking too often. The youngest of them, hardly older than Lysa, kept glancing toward the treeline as if expecting it to blink back.

  Kett raised his arm. “Harl, Venn. You stay here with the horns. Every hour, one call, no matter what. If something crosses the tree line, both horns together. Don’t wait. Don’t watch. Just blow.”

  They nodded and Harl’s hand tightened on the yew horn as if it might vanish.

  Brann looked forward.

  The forest loomed, not a place, but a presence, the trees rose tall and silent, their bark slick with something darker than moss. The first branches arched above like ribs in a giant beast's cage. No sound emerged from within and even the wind died at the edge.

  Still, the path waited, narrow, earthen, half-swallowed by vines but unmistakably a way in.

  Torvil stepped up beside Brann, his usual grin absent. “We should walk with silence, and watch for roots that grow in places they shouldn’t.”

  Brann said nothing. The sword was cold again in his grip.

  Behind him, one of the younger guards whispered, “Feels like it’s looking at us.”

  Kett answered only by moving forward.

  And so they crossed into the woods, one by one…Into the mouth of a myth that hadn’t finished dreaming.

  At first, all was quiet save the crunch of boots on old leaves and the soft groan of leather. The path wound between trees like it had waited for them untouched, undisturbed. They found no claw marks, no snapped branches, even Torvil, walking with his hand splayed to the bark like a man listening through wood, gave a quiet shake of his head.

  “Nothing,” he muttered. “No pull. No presence. As if we walk through a dream already spent.”

  The first horn call came, a long, low note from behind them. One hour has passed as planned. It echoed strangely in the trees, drawn thin, as though the sound had to stretch too far to reach them.

  They kept walking.

  Then they came upon a clearing, abrupt and round, an unnatural perfection, the trees stopped all at once, their trunks circling the space like spectators frozen mid-breath, in the center stood the dial, weathered but untouched by lichen or rot as though the forest refused to claim it.

  They approached in silence, blades drawn even Torvil reached for the old dagger beneath his coat, its antler hilt dulled by time.

  The dial rose waist-high, a squat stone disk carved with four words, simple but brutal in their clarity.

  “River, Burrows, Ashen Ground, Truth.”

  The arrow, carved in a raised ridge, pointed backward toward where they had come.

  “River.”

  “Could this be a trap?” Kett asked, eyeing the dial as if it might move.

  Brann stepped closer, squinting at the carved names. The stone gave no warmth, no magic but it felt, wrong. Not threatening, exactly, but aware. Like the stones themselves had seen too much and remembered it all.

  Then the second horn call sounded.

  Brann jerked upright. “That can’t be an hour. Not yet.”

  “It’s not,” Torvil said quickly. “I would swear on my own blood, it’s been barely twenty minutes.”

  Kett cursed under his breath. “The clearing’s cursed.”

  “Yes,” Torvil said. “This place bends time, or holds it still, the longer we stay, the more it twists, we should act fast”

  They turned again to the dial: River. Burrows. Ashen Ground. Truth.

  Each name pointed to a direction, though no path could be seen through the trees, only the faintest suggestion, like the forest had grown slightly thinner that way, like it had made room for the idea of a road.

  “I think we should head for the Burrows,” Brann said, voice low. “If there are prisoners, if Oakrin’s alive… that name somehow fits.”

  Kett frowned. “Why not Truth? Maybe we can find out what’s behind all this.”

  Brann shook his head. “I’ve a feeling we don’t have time for answers right now.”

  Torvil moved to the edge of the dial, his boots careful not to step too close. “I agree Truth may not be what we think it is, these are more than names. They’re choices, enchanted paths, maybe, or... gates. We could get stuck or worse sent to other places.” His eyes fixed on Brann who was the only one that fully understood his words.

  Kett spat to the side. “We can't stand here debating until night, Burrows it is. Move the dial.”

  Brann reached out slowly, laying his hand on the edge of the wheel, it was smooth, too smooth for weathered granite. He applied pressure, expecting weight, resistance, instead, it moved with a sigh, like the turning of a great lock, slow and deliberate.

  As it clicked into place, Burrows, a wind stirred.

  The trees groaned. The very air shifted. Night fell like a trap.

  One moment, pale daylight filtered through the trees; the next, the sun dropped behind the world as if swallowed whole. The full moon rose in its place, impossibly fast, silver light sliding over bark and bone and blade.

  Then the horns sounded, twelve of them, blown all one after another.

  And directly ahead, the forest bent away, revealing a narrow hollow between roots that hadn't been there a moment before.

  A dark path opened, downward.

  As if something below had just breathed out and welcomed them in.

  The sound of the horns still echoed in every direction, low and discordant. It poured through the forest like a rain of iron arrows, reverberating off unseen heights, until even the roots beneath their feet seemed to hum with it.

  Kett swore. “Twelve blasts... We just lost half a day.”

  He turned to Torvil, his face tight. “We’re blind now. No sunlight. No hour markers. We’re wandering by moonlight, how is this possible?”

  Torvil, for once, didn’t smile. “Amazing,” he said, voice hoarse with something close to awe. “To alter our perception of time like that, the world spun while we stood still, frozen. I feel hunger, thirst, my throat’s dry, my gut’s hollow, twelve hours have passed... but it felt like twelve seconds.”

  Kett’s reply came cold. “When you’re done admiring this abomination, we should vote. Do we press forward or turn back? This path is thick with enchantments and who knows what else. We may already be out of our depth.”

  Brann looked ahead into the darkened hollow where the forest had peeled open like a wound. The moonlight barely touched the path now, silver shadows stretched long and crooked across the roots.

  “What other choice do we have?” he asked. “We came this far. We can’t just run at the first trick of time.”

  Torvil nodded grimly. “We should at least see where it leads.”

  Kett exhaled through his teeth. “Forward then, but quietly, formations of two. Be ready for anything men”

  They moved as one, a slow crawl down the narrow passage carved through tangled roots and earth. The moon followed them from above, slanting between twisted branches, always watching. The trees here grew in shapes that felt deliberate, arched like ribcages, bark cracked like mouths sealed shut.

  Brann kept to the rear, scanning the edges. At one point he thought he saw movement just between two blackened trunks, far off but staring straight back.

  A stag, it stood with still grazing, white-antlered…Proud.

  Brann blinked and turned away.

  And in that moment, caught it again, just in the corner of his eye, standing taller than any man should, with arms, not forelegs, hanging long and still at its sides.

  Brann spun, sword half-raised.

  Nothing, only trees, it was gone.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but Torvil’s voice cut the silence first.

  “There are enchantments here,” the druid said in a hush, walking close beside Kett so the others wouldn’t hear.

  “What kind?” Kett asked, his tone laced with tension.

  “Hiding enchantments, growth enchantments and defense runes along the path, enough to confuse animals…or intruders. This way was meant to be walked by invitation only, I suspect that’s what the wheel was for…We’re getting close to something.”

  Brann strained to hear them as he moved closer. The trees whispered in the wind, leaves brushing one another like old parchment.

  Then suddenly the voices began, faint at first, just beyond the range of clarity.

  A chorus of cries muffled screams the sound of agony. Human, twisted, drawn thin by distance, or time, or both. Some wept in steady rhythm, others rasped like dying men.

  Brann froze.

  So did the rest of the group.

  The path had narrowed again, the soil beneath their boots moist and black, the moonlight barely touched the ground here, just enough to show that the trees had begun to change.

  Their trunks were marked, not by age but by runes.

  Runes carved into bark, they pulsed faintly, like they breathed.

  And still the voices cried, low, endless.

  Torvil placed his hand on a tree and shivered. “They used blood mixed into the carvings to mark these,” he said softly. “This isn’t usual druid-craft, this is... something else, something more, born of suffering.”

  The path dipped without warning, sloping into a narrow, fern-choked hollow veiled in damp moonlight. Kett was the first to reach its edge. He halted so abruptly his boot skidded on loose earth, and he turned, hand clamped to his mouth, eyes wide with a revulsion that clung to him like mist. He took a breath, ragged and drawn through his teeth, then, steadying himself, he murmured hoarsely, “Everyone stop.”

  He beckoned Brann and Torvil forward with a stiffness that spoke of dread held tightly in the bones. When they joined him, he leaned in close, his whisper laced with disbelief: “It’s bad. Worse than anything I’ve words for.”

  Torvil stepped cautiously to the brink, brushing aside a fan of twisted leaves. Brann moved behind him, heart hammering in strange rhythms. The hollow below lay hushed and impossible, like a memory dreamt by the forest itself. Trees, if they could still be called that, rose from the valley floor, their bark warped into a smooth, tarnished sheen, more like oxidized metal than wood. Their trunks gleamed faintly with embedded runes, pulsing red like coals beneath ash.

  And impaled on them, suspended in poses of eternal torment, were men. Skinned, their mouths cruelly sewn shut, they hung, bleeding onto the roots below. The earth drank eagerly, and the roots moved, coiling, feeding. The air vibrated faintly, as though the valley itself breathed through the agony of its captives.

  But they were not dead, even from above Brann could see the subtle twitch of a limb, the tremor of breath forced through ruined lungs. The runes glowed with renewed hunger each time blood touched bark. The trees were not merely hosts, they were becoming. The victims were becoming.

  “How long?” Brann breathed, fists clenched. “How long have they suffered?”

  “We have no way of knowing, not with the way time slips here…” Torvil responded.

  Brann eyes darkened with fury. “We must end this. Now!”

  He moved as if to descend, but Kett seized his shoulder. “Hold,” he said sharply. “You don’t know what’s waiting for us down there. None of us do.”

  Torvil nodded grimly. “This is no craft of the druids I know. We bend wood, bone, yes. But this… this is something else, I’ve never seen metal growing from trees, never seen suffering used like this. If these were mere sacrifices, they'd be long dead. Their pain... it’s part of the working.”

  Kett straightened, face grim. “We should turn back and bring the army. This, this is beyond us.”

  Brann turned sharply. “And abandon Oakrin? You think I’ll leave him here?”

  Torvil looked down, voice low and filled with reluctant dread. “Don’t you understand? Gods forgive me, but Oakrin could be one of them. One of the souls nailed to those cursed trees, we have no way of telling.”

  The silence between them thickened.

  “I hate it, but the safest way is to return. If we go down there blind and desperate, we might trigger something terrible, something we can’t escape”

  But Brann had stopped listening. The moment Torvil had spoken Oakrin’s name, the blood in his veins had turned to fire. Logic and fear dissolved, consumed by a single, roaring thought: What if he's there, suffering? Gods he needed to put an end to this.

  He ran, blind to the voices that followed, blind to the warnings, to reason,down into the hollow, into the hunger of the valley, into the waiting dark. And then everything dissolved into chaos.

  Kett was the first to give chase, his boots hammering the mossy incline, the world around him unraveling with each heartbeat. Others followed, the young soldiers, brave or foolish, no longer mattered. The rest, higher on the ridge, dropped to one knee, drawing breath and bows, eyes narrowing as if their arrows could pierce the unknown.

  Torvil, no longer the gruff innkeeper but something older, something green and rooted, threw aside all pretense, he started to whisper a chant, a ward to veil the mind from forest-born madness. His voice coiled into the air, the words a lattice against the shadows pressing in.

  Brann reached the first of the cursed trees, breath ragged, sword already drawn. The figure impaled there, a flayed husk with its mouth sewn shut, was too tall, too broad, not Oakrin, but still, a man suffering.

  “Your torment is over” Brann whispered, a vow or a mercy or both. He drove the blade through the exposed chest.

  But instead of dying, the figure twitched and it’s eyes opened.

  Not with relief but with horror.

  A low sound like grinding stone split the valley, and the bark split too. Silvery metal poured like molten thought from the trunk, slithering across the body’s shoulder and onto its hand, the man’s fingers clenched around the blade with unnatural strength, holding Brann fast.

  Then the earth cracked.

  From the soil, figures clawed upward, twisted mockeries of life, shaped like the one Brann had faced by the river’s edge. First one. Then two. Then four. Eight in total, their forms stitched from ash and bark, vine and sinew, their breath black and wrong.

  Kett reached Brann and shouted over the rising din, “Let go of the sword, boy! We need to move!”

  But Brann’s hand would not obey, ice had spread over the hilt, creeping like a memory he could not shed. Around them, soldiers formed a ring, shields up, blades out, the old discipline taking hold even here, in this cursed grove.

  Above them, fire flew, arrows whistled down from the ridge, flame-tipped and true. They struck the risen things, but it only slowed them as the fire spread too slowly.

  Then came the scream.

  The ice finally reached the heart of the impaled man, and something inside him tore loose. The sewn mouth ripped open, not by force, but from within, and a cry like a death knell for gods shrieked into the sky. The man melted into the tree, or the tree drank him whole Brann did not know but his blade came free.

  The tree however…changed.

  The bark split and turned, bending in ways no wood should. Branches snapped and curved into arms made of dull, blood-greased steel, the roots twisted into legs, dragging the great trunk upright. Leaves coiled, braided, and crowned it with a horned helm and its eyes, deep in the grain, burned with fury unspoken.

  Torvil, sweat beading down his brow finished the chant and slammed his palm to the soil.

  Roots responded.

  They surged from beneath, ancient and loyal, entwining the metal limbs and halting the creature for a breath, a precious moment in the maelstrom.

  “Retreat! Now!” Torvil roared, beginning another incantation a curse this time. His voice shook the grass and slowed the creatures making them sluggish.

  But the moment didn’t hold.

  The forest-born abominations sensed the druid’s curse, and in retaliation, they unfurled. Their bodies bloomed like nightmares, spitting thorns in a venomous wave. Dozens of needles rained across the valley and the ridge above. One struck Kett deep in the shoulder. Others found archers, silent cries falling from the cliff’s edge like leaves in autumn.

  The metal giant roared, tearing free of the roots. The scream echoed again, older now, deeper.

  They were running for their lives now. The path behind them cracked with firelight and thorns, the wails of the dying and the cursed chasing them like a second shadow, the entire valley was set to a blaze monsters burning their wood cracking. There was no room for hesitation. The wounded had to be left, no time to hoist them, no time for goodbyes, only the relentless rhythm of boots against moss-thick soil and breath burning like fire in the lungs.

  Torvil’s chants echoed behind them, each word a sharp, guttural strike against the unnatural will of the wood. The trees themselves seemed to watch, their bark groaning as if shifting in restless sleep. Kett cursed the gods with every step, voice raw with fury and fear, while Brann ran in silence, his mind split and staggering. He could still feel the cold of the sword hilt locked to his palm, could still hear the shriek that tore from stitched lips as the thing in the tree screamed its soul free.

  And yet they ran, roots clawed at their boots, whispering things in ancient tongues, trying to turn them astray. Some did stray, lost forever, perhaps swallowed whole by the forest or by time itself.

  But the three, Kett, Torvil, Brann, and six bloodied soldiers broke through at last into the clearing with the stone dial. There, under the half-light sky, Torvil turned it. The dial groaned, not like stone but like something older, like the shifting of bone. He aligned it toward the River.

  This time, there was no time-skipping, no lost hours. The path behind them sealed like a wound healing over, and a new one yawned open before them. They didn’t speak. They didn’t wonder. They simply ran.

  The river greeted them in minutes, what had taken hours now collapsed into mere heartbeats. Time bent and twisted like willow branches under the forest’s will. The two horn-blowers by the bridge snapped to attention as the survivors emerged, faces hollow, eyes wide with horror. Torvil waved them across, shouting as he reached into his satchel for salves and wards. Kett’s shoulder bled dark, sap-like poison. Brann stumbled across last, sword still drawn, his breath coming in heaves.

  They crossed the bridge and started to build a barricade, the horns sounded and the village answered.

  Torches lit. Men came with spears and bows. The people of Westmere gathered, grim-faced, uncertain, and formed a wall of flesh and iron. They waited.

  But no attack came.

  There was movement at the forest's edge. Shapes too many to count, shifts of branch and bark, glimpsed from the corner of the eye but they did not emerge. The wood itself pulsed with presence. Then, just before the darkest hour, two great eyes opened in the treetops, burning, watching. Not eyes of flesh, but of molten purpose…The metal giant. Crowned by leaves, its helmet of horned green bronze, it did not move, it simply stared. And the forest stared with it.

  Then, as the first rays of sun came from the horizon, the quiet fell.

  The soldiers did not relax. They held their spears ready, fingers tight on bowstrings, prepared to collapse the bridge if they must. They would not be caught again.

  Kett and Torvil left soon after. They walked with heavy steps to the city hall, already arguing, what message to send to the High Command? What truth could be told? What truths must be buried?

  Brann did not follow. He collapsed on the threshold of the house nearest the bridge, hands still twitching from the frozen grip of his sword. His eyes did not blink. They stared, fixed and full of ghosts, toward the line where green met gray. He mouthed words, broken thoughts, trying to stitch sense from horror, the screams, the metal on trees, the red runes…Oakrin.

  But the forest gave no answers it only shattered hope.