Into the Blackwood: The Forest That Remembers
The wind shifted as they reached the threshold of the Blackwood, that ancient expanse of twisted trees and whispering shadows. Legends said the forest could remember every footstep taken upon its soil—that those who entered with lies in their hearts would never return. The old magic here was thick, clinging to the skin, seeping into the bones. This was no ordinary woodland. It was a living memory of an age when gods still bled and monsters whispered their truths to the moon.
Alaric stood at the edge, the warriors and seers behind him silent, uncertain. The moonlight barely pierced the dense canopy, casting the forest in perpetual twilight. The trees—tall and gnarled, some with bark like cracked obsidian—leaned inward as if guarding secrets.
Mira stepped beside him. Her presence was calm, but her eyes betrayed what she felt: the weight of every vision, every scream she'd heard in the dreamwalk. "This place knows," she whispered. "It remembers the woman."
Alaric nodded. "Then it knows we're coming."
Their company moved in silence. Caelen, eyes sharp and sword ready, took the lead with a scouting unit of Ironfang's fastest. Mira walked with the dreamwalkers, who attuned themselves to the shifting magic in the air, tracing invisible patterns of enchantment with their fingertips. Alaric remained at the center of the formation, steady as a pillar, his senses reaching outward not just for threats—but for the signs of unraveling reality.
Every step deeper into the forest seemed to alter the air. Birds stopped singing. Even the rustling of wind through leaves had a rhythm to it, like breath. Once, the trees whispered their names, voices barely audible, almost teasing. Mira paused at one particularly massive tree whose roots formed a circle like a gate. She knelt and placed her palm on the bark. A vision flickered behind her eyes—fire, screams, a ritual under blood-moon light.
"She passed through here," Mira said. "The sorceress. She's left traces."
They pressed on.
At dusk, the forest thickened into a hall of shadow. Time blurred. Some began to see illusions—family members long dead, voices that tempted or begged. Mira and the other seers worked to anchor them, casting wards and counter-charms. Still, a scout wandered off. They found only his pendant and blood smeared across bark too smooth, too human in shape.
"This place feeds off memory and fear," Mira whispered. "She built her temple in a prison of minds."
Alaric led them into a clearing hours later, a space devoid of trees yet circled by unnatural stone pillars. Each stone bore a carving—eyes, mouths, hands reaching from the stone like they once lived. At the center, a staircase led underground.
Caelen knelt, touching the moss-covered threshold. "We're close. The earth here is burned beneath the surface. Blood and fire were used to sanctify this place."
Alaric turned to the group. "We make camp here. But keep the wards strong. At dawn, we go below. And when we do—we confront the architect of our pain."
Night fell heavy over the Blackwood, but the trees did not sleep. They watched. They listened. And they remembered.