Nightfall in the Blackwood: Whispers Before the Storm
The campfire hissed as damp wood fought to burn, casting flickering shadows against the standing stones that encircled their resting place. The Blackwood seemed to tighten around them, the trees beyond the clearing pressing in like silent watchers. Though the scouts and warriors tried to settle, none truly rested. This was not a forest that permitted sleep—it was a place that breathed nightmares.
Alaric sat with his back against a stone, sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes. The metal sang quietly, a soothing counterpoint to the eerie rustle of unseen leaves. His eyes, however, were locked on nothing, watching something distant—some deep thread of thought or fear unraveling just beneath the surface of control.
Caelen passed among the watch posts, checking the perimeter, reinforcing the wards Mira and the dreamwalkers had placed. Runes drawn in ash and wolf's blood circled the camp. They pulsed faintly, as if trying to hold something back.
Mira knelt by a different fire, her hands folded around a silver talisman. Her thoughts were inward, her mind drifting between the waking world and the dream. She had seen the Temple in flashes during sleep: a cavern of red crystal, shrines carved from bone, a voice that hummed like a mother's lullaby but sang of ruin.
Alaric joined her. He knelt beside her fire, letting its heat bite at the cold creeping in through the trees. "You've seen her," he said.
Mira didn't look up. "I see her even when I close my eyes. Her face shifts. Sometimes it's mine."
"She's trying to divide you. To make you doubt."
"She's not failing." Mira looked up, eyes glinting. "But I'm not breaking either."
A sudden cry shattered the stillness. One of the dreamwalkers collapsed, screaming, clutching at her face. Alaric and Mira rushed to her side. The woman's eyes were wide open, but she wasn't seeing them. She was trapped in a vision—a forced one.
"She reached through the wards," Mira hissed. "She touched her mind directly."
Mira placed her palm on the woman's forehead, weaving her own essence into the dream realm. Her breath slowed. Her body tensed. Then, with a gasp, she pulled back, trembling.
"She was inside a hall of mirrors," Mira whispered. "Each mirror showed a twisted version of ourselves. And the woman… she stood at the center, laughing. She's feeding on our self-doubt."
The air grew colder. One by one, other dreamwalkers reported dreams of betrayal, of loved ones turning, of war lost and fires consuming Ridgefall. The forest was speaking now—not with words, but with emotion, memory, fear.
Alaric stood. "No more dreams tonight. We rotate watches. No one sleeps alone. Keep your minds clear. This is the last night before we face her. She wants to break us here, in the dark."
Caelen stepped close. "And what if she succeeds?"
"Then we fight anyway," Alaric said. "Even broken."
As the moon climbed and the fire burned low, the warriors huddled close, some whispering prayers, others clutching relics of home. Mira kept watch beside Alaric, their silence a mutual armor. The night pressed hard, but the circle held. Just barely.
When dawn touched the edge of the world, the Blackwood sighed.
The Temple of Howls waited below.
And Alaric knew—this would be the place of reckoning.