The days passed with a strange steadiness, one that Brann was not accustomed to.

  In the mornings, he worked beside Torvil, chopping roots, skinning meat, learning when to speak and when to stay out of the cook’s way. The man ran the kitchen like a battlefield, sharp and efficient, but not unkind. Brann found comfort in the rhythm, sweat, fire, knives, the hiss of hot pans. Each day grounded him a little more, and Lysa’s sharp tongue became a familiar blade that no longer cut.

  In the afternoons, when Torvil needed less help, Brann sometimes walked the town with Kett. The old guard had taken a quiet liking to him, though he rarely said so outright. It was Kett who introduced him to the smiths.

  “You want steel?” the man had said one evening, scratching at his gray stubble. “Then you need someone who knows how to bend it properly, and not just the metal.”

  There were a half-dozen forges scattered along the river's edge, but Kett brought Brann to one in particular, a low workshop of black stone and red iron where the sound of hammering rang deeper than in any other.

  Mara.

  Brann had expected a broad man with calloused hands and a crooked nose, what he found was a woman with soot on her face, sleeves rolled high, and arms like braided rope. She eyed him like she might throw a horseshoe at his head.

  Then she smirked.

  “If you can pay, and if you don’t faint at the bellows, I’ll make you something that’ll bite.”

  Brann agreed, though the price was more work than coin, now he had two jobs, and sleepless nights came as part of the bargain. Still, it was worth it, even if Kett got jealous now and again of him spending so much time around Mara. The two had a history, that much was clear, but it wasn’t Brann’s place to untangle it.

  On his last day, Oakrin came around the side of the inn, where Brann was splitting logs beneath the long shadow of evening.

  The sun had just begun to sink, bleeding gold through the trees, and a soft breeze stole the sweat from Brann’s brow.

  Oakrin didn’t speak at first, just watched the rhythm of axe and wood, hands clasped behind his back like a man considering time.

  Finally, he said,

  “Come on, boy, Torvil won’t mind. It’s my last night here.”

  Brann paused, set the axe aside, and joined him. They walked together down the alleys and lanes of Westmere’s Tip, the hush of twilight draped over the rooftops.

  Oakrin spoke in that half-muttering way of his, voice worn smooth by time and ale.

  “Be careful, Brann, not everyone here is what they seem. This town draws folks like a gutter draws rainwater, some are thieves hiding behind clean shirts, some are mercenaries gone soft. Some are worse. They behave because they’ve nowhere else to go. Push them too far, and they’ll remember who they used to be.”

  Brann nodded but said nothing as they walked along the gravel path ahead, the mist-capped rooftops of Westmere’s Tip leaned under the weight of dusk.

  “It makes no sense to me…” Brann muttered at last, eyes narrowing. He paused. “People here think they can hide, I did too, but after meeting Kett and seeing the way things move here, I’m sure of it this place isn’t free, it’s controlled.”

  Oakrin exhaled slowly, his face growing grim but Brann pressed on.

  “There’s no reason the king would allow a town on the border to run unchecked. You told me yourself, towns near the forest are vital. They act as sentries, meant to sound the alarm before the green oversteps its bounds, so tell me, old man, what’s the real reason for this place?”

  Oakrin halted near a split in the path, resting his back against the low stone wall of a crumbled fence. He scratched his beard, eyes shadowed: “You’ve got a suspicious mind, lad. I like that. But be careful, it draws attention.”

  Brann didn’t look away.

  “You’re not wrong,” Oakrin said finally. “Towns this close to the border are surveyed. Quietly. Carefully. The crown has watchers here… maybe more than one. Maybe they watch each other. That’s why I told you to tread lightly, ask too many questions and you might find yourself buried beneath with the secrets.”

  “I see,” Brann said, though he didn’t, not fully.

  They walked on in silence for some time, past the smithy where the forge still glowed dimly, past shuttered shops and crooked wooden porches. The wind was shifting, carrying the faint smell of burnt cedar and soil.

  Finally, Brann broke the quiet. “When will you be back?”

  Oakrin slowed, his face turned thoughtful, and he rubbed at his chin with one hand, a habit Brann noticed.

  “Truth be told, I may not.”

  “I love the roads, the wind, the change. I love seeing the kingdom shift, or not shift, in the case of this town.” He gave a wheezing chuckle “But my bones ache more than they used to, the cold bites deeper. I think this might be my last haul.”

  “I’ve saved enough over the years. Not rich, but I won’t starve.”

  Brann tilted his head.

  “So where will you go?”

  Oakrin gave him a look, not scolding, just amused.

  “Didn’t I tell you? Velisar.”

  “The wine’s good, and the company’s better. If I’m going to rot, I’d rather do it drunk and smiling.”

  There was a spark in the old man’s eye that hadn’t been there moments ago.

  Brann smiled faintly.

  “You never give up, do you? You could settle down, make a life. Be an honest husband.”

  Oakrin laughed, a full, hearty sound.

  “If there’s a woman out there fool enough to put up with me, I’ve yet to meet her. And if I have met her, she was smart enough to keep walking.”

  They wandered without direction, but Brann realized too late that their path had taken them toward the bridge. The white stone shimmered faintly in the evening light, and the Duskmire stood silent and still beyond it, blacker than the sky above.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  The guard at the post nodded as they passed. His eyes lingered on the bridge, then the forest beyond. The wind rustled, and the faintest scent of moss and shadow crept down from the trees.

  He had come here almost every night, and every night he turned back before stepping over.

  Not from fear.

  Not exactly.

  But the forest... didn’t feel ready.

  Or perhaps he wasn’t.

  Oakrin followed his gaze.

  “Any memories come back?”

  Brann didn’t speak right away. The silence between them stretched, broken only by the whisper of water beneath the stone.

  Finally, he said,

  “No, not memories, but this place... there’s something about it, like a whisper you can almost hear, or a dream you keep forgetting when you wake.”

  Oakrin studied him, than looked out toward the trees.

  “Don’t go chasing dreams in the woods, Brann. They tend to bite.”

  Brann didn’t answer, he just stood there, watching the forest, wondering if it was true, or if the forest had been waiting for him all along.

  Then in just a split second the moment of peace was broken.

  It happened all at once, too fast to think, too fast to breathe. A blur of motion streaked past them, a small figure darting forward like a spark leaping from a fire.

  “Light and ashes,” Oakrin muttered.

  Riven.

  The boy stood now at the center of the bridge, small hands on his hips, light silvering his tousled hair. He stuck out his tongue at Brann and called in a loud, careless voice, “Brann, you’re such a coward! I saw you standing on this exact spot every night, never taking a step forward. There’s nothing to be afraid of, I’ll show you!”

  Brann blinked, mouth parting, but Oakrin stepped forward first.

  “Don’t get yourself hurt, boy! Come here now!”

  But Riven was already moving, darting across the far span of the bridge with the wild glee of a child who believed himself invincible, hopping from foot to foot like a jester on a stage. “See, Brann? Not so hard!”

  The guard roused from his slouching post at last, face twisting with annoyance. He began crossing, muttering darkly, likely intending to give the boy a cuff on the ear and a sharp word for good measure. Brann felt the first thread of unease knot in his gut. A moment passed, then another. Nothing changed, yet the world felt… quieter, as if holding its breath.

  The sun slipped below the horizon in a final sliver of light.

  That was when the wind changed.

  Cold.

  Not the cold of weather, but the bite of something deeper, older, an echo of winter that did not belong. Brann’s right hand burned cold, the same hand that had once gripped the black stone in the jungle. The pain surged through his fingers like frost laced with memory.

  He didn’t think, he just started running, guided only by motion.

  Oakrin cursed behind him and followed, boots pounding stone.

  The guard had just reached the far bank and was now chasing after Riven, who danced away in wild zigzags, laughing. But then the world shattered.

  The guard halted mid-stride, he did not fall, he simply… stopped, as if time itself had forgotten him.

  And then, his head dropped from his shoulders.

  Blood sprayed the air like a painted arc, his body collapsing without grace.

  Brann’s breath caught, Oakrin came to a skidding halt, half-whispering, “What in the Creator’s name…”

  Brann did not stop.

  He kept running.

  There had been no arrow, no sound of steel…no sign of what had struck the man down.

  Until it appeared. It did not step from the trees. It did not descend from the sky. It simply unfolded from the earth, like a nightmare blooming in the dirt.

  A figure, roughly man-shaped but wrong, twisted, its legs were stubby and too thin, but its arms were long and sinewy, thorns jutting out from wooden sinew like spears. One thorn dripped crimson.

  It had no skin, no hair…just bark-like flesh that pulsed like living wood.

  Its eyes were black as the Abyss, not the darkness of night, but the darkness of forgetting.

  No nose, only a mouth, wide and grinning, full of jagged teeth carved like splinters.

  The thing’s gaze snapped to Riven.

  One clawed limb pressed to the earth.

  Roots burst from the ground like serpents.

  The boy screamed as one coiled around his leg, yanking him to the ground, his laughter died in a breath, his tears came next.

  The creature crouched, ready to pounce.

  Brann reached him just in time.

  He dropped to his knees, fingers scrambling against the knot of wood trapping the boy’s leg. No weapon. No blade, only bare hands and desperation.

  The creature leapt.

  Brann threw himself sideways, Riven clutched in his arms. They landed hard as the beast’s claws struck only earth.

  It shrieked, an unearthly sound, like rusted hinges screaming on a tomb.

  Brann’s options were few, it stood between them and the bridge. The river was close, but with the boy in tow, he doubted he could outrun the thing.

  And then, in the chaos, he heard the twang of a bowstring from the direction of the woods beyond the shoreline, deep within the dark boughs of Duskmire.

  Brann ducked on instinct, the arrow whistled past him, clean and sharp, but the creature barely flinched. It was already lunging again.

  No time to think, Brann lunged forward and grabbed the thing by its stunted leg, hoping to throw it off balance.

  And then the frost came.

  The same cold from the jungle, the same burning chill from the black stone, spread from his fingers into the creature’s body.

  It screamed, and for a split second it paused.

  But it wasn’t enough to stop it.

  Just as everything seemed to unravel a short sword plunged into the creature’s shoulder from behind, jerking its motion aside. The beast hissed and turned its head, fully, spinning 180 degrees to look directly into Oakrin’s eyes.

  Roots erupted from the monster’s back, piercing Oakrin like spears.

  The old man grunted, but he did not scream.

  With Oakrin skewered upon it, the creature looked in the direction of the arrow and fled, crashing into the trees like a whirlwind of branches and blood.

  “No!” Brann roared.

  He rose, sprinting after them, Riven forgotten on the shoreline.

  The moment he crossed into Duskmire, the world changed again.

  Whispers.

  Soft at first, then louder, like hundreds of voices all speaking at once, none intelligible. They crawled into his ears, into his skull. He stumbled, feet tangling in roots. He hit the ground hard face first, knocking him out cold.

  Darkness took him.

  When Brann opened his eyes, he was no longer in the forest. He did not recognize any of his surroundings as he stood in a vast cavern veiled in shadow. The air was cold and dry, ancient.

  Before him stood seven great doors, at least that’s what he thought they were.

  Monolithic, each towered at least three stories tall, carved of dark stone laced with veins of iron, or something older than iron. Metal that hummed faintly, alive with silent power.

  Each door bore a different pattern of runes, etched deep, humming softly, glowing faintly with pale light.

  He moved slowly.

  Fear wrapped itself around his chest like iron bands, he had no time for this Oakrin needed him. His boots scraped dust that hadn’t been disturbed in centuries as he approached the first door on the left.

  He laid his hand upon it, stone cold and unmoving.

  Then he heard something a hum, more of a feeling, deep in the marrow.

  He turned towards the origin of the sound…The third door.

  He stepped toward it.

  Each footfall seemed to echo forever.

  The sound grew louder, a pulse, a throb, like the heartbeat of the earth.

  He touched the third door and was struck by pain and cold.

  His hand locked to the stone.

  Frost burst from his palm, spiderwebbing across the door.

  His arm shook. His body trembled.

  The pain became a scream inside his mind.

  He could not hear himself cry.

  The roar of the hum drowned everything.

  Then somewhere beyond the pain…a voice.

  Soft.

  Calm.

  “Wake up, Brann…. Brann”

  He gasped awake.

  A ceiling sat above him, wooden beams and firelight.

  Torvil stood there, hands on his shoulders.

  “Easy now, you’re safe. Settle down, boy it’s just a nightmare.”

  Brann blinked, Lysa and Riven stood behind Torvil, eyes wide.

  “Where am I?” he rasped. “Oakrin, where’s Oakrin?”

  Torvil’s mouth tightened. “We don’t know. You’ve been out for three days. Riven told us what he could. We found you near the edge of the forest, alone.”

  Brann sat up, pain flaring in his head.

  “The bridge, the creature, we have to close it, seal it.”

  Torvil shook his head. “The bridge is guarded, boy. Kett’s best men are on it now. No one’s crossing without us knowing.”

  Brann stood, swaying. “Then I’m going after him. I have to find Oakrin.”

  Tears blurred his vision.

  “You’ll get yourself killed,” Torvil said. “You’re in no condition to do anything… Oakrin’s sacrifice will mean nothing if you rush in headlong.”

  Brann sank to his knees.

  Fists clenched, tears dripping onto the wood.

  His voice cracked. “This is the second time. The second time I’ve been powerless… and I don’t even know what I’m fighting.”

  Torvil crouched beside him, those deep green eyes narrowing like a hawk’s. “Then get strong. Rest. Eat. Heal. When you're ready, we’ll talk. And we’ll make a plan.”