The last of the Kors slipped into the tree line just as Alkandor’s banners crested the ridge behind them.

  Smoke curled upward from the abandoned garrison—black threads unraveling against the pale sky. Behind them, the ruin they’d made smoldered quietly, its ash carried eastward on a fast wind. Ahead, only forest. Endless. Green. Wet. Watching.

  Gorrak One-Eye led them at a steady, brutal pace—his axe gripped in one hand, his other curled into a fist at his side. The Kors followed in silence now, all swagger burned out of them by the retreat. They moved in two staggered lines, heavy packs and light armor, their boots sinking into damp mulch, breath fogging in the humid air.

  “We do not stop,” Gorrak barked. “We do not scatter.”

  Somewhere behind, a bird let out a shrill cry—and went silent too quickly.

  Gorrak slowed only for a moment, nostrils flaring. He turned slightly, eye scanning the branches, the moss-slick trunks. The air felt wrong here. Too thick. Too still.

  “It’s breathing again,” he muttered to himself.

  “What, War-Leader?” asked the scarred fighter behind him.

  Gorrak shook his head and pushed forward, voice louder now.

  “This forest isn’t dead,” he growled. “It breathes. Like the Velari woodlands before they burned.”

  He turned to his warriors, expression hard.

  “Keep sharp. If you see the others—shout. If you hear anything else… keep walking.”

  They obeyed without answer. Some tightened their grips on notched blades. Others chewed blackroot nervously, their eyes scanning the trees. The forest here was deeper than they’d remembered, its light dimmer, its paths folding in strange ways. Already the garrison behind them felt like a dream. Or a trap they’d escaped by accident.

  High above, a hawk cried once—and didn’t cry again.

  —

  Elsewhere, deeper in the forest’s gut, another Kors party moved in cautious silence.

  Twenty of them, the scouting party Gorrak had ordered just a day before. They had not yet heard the horn. They did not know the garrison was lost. All they knew was the green, and the silence, and the growing strangeness between the trees.

  They’d found no bodies. No footprints. No blood.

  Only roots, thick as a man’s chest, and trees that bent slightly toward the path as if listening.

  The leader of the scout party, a broad-shouldered veteran named Kazek, raised a closed fist. The party halted.

  He glanced behind him. One of the younger warriors was breathing hard, eyes flicking to the canopy above.

  “We’ve seen nothing, Kazek,” The warrior whispered, voice tight. “Not a track. Not a broken branch. No sign of the war-party that came before. I’m telling you—something’s following us.”

  Kazek gave him a look, stern and unblinking. His face was cragged, his beard stained with travel and sweat.

  “We’re not leaving empty-handed,” he said. “We return with word, or we don’t return.”

  The young Kors warrior looked around the trees.

  “What if it doesn’t let us return?”

  Kazek grunted. “Then it bleeds first.”

  The party pressed on, their path threading between gnarled roots and low-hanging limbs slick with dew. They moved slower now, blades half-drawn, eyes tracking each flicker of light in the brush.

  None of them noticed the shapes above them in the branches—still as carved wood, faces painted in ash and lichen, watching.

  Kaelen’s scouts had arrived.

  They said nothing.

  They moved only when the wind moved.

  And Kazek’s party never heard a thing.

  High above the forest floor, where twisted limbs wove like ancient braids and the air was thick with sap and silence, Kaelen crouched in the cradle of a wide-armed branch.

  Below him, the Kors war-party moved like a slow infection—grunting, sweating, forcing their way between trunks too proud to part for them. Gorrak led them still, massive and thunderous, a beast trying to outrun fire. His men followed, hunched and watchful, their blades drawn though nothing had struck.

  Rhen balanced silently across a narrow limb beside Kaelen. His breath was still. His eyes flicked toward the rear of the Kors line.

  “They’re not near,” Rhen whispered.

  Kaelen’s eyes were sharper, focused not on the men below—but on the paths between their feet. The shape of the forest.

  “No,” he said softly. “This party will pass.”

  He didn’t sound relieved.

  Rhen glanced at him. “Then what’s the worry?”

  Kaelen raised his hand and gestured toward the north slope, where the trees thickened into shadow.

  “They’re far from Veleth,” he said. “Too far. But the others—the twenty—they’re not.”

  Rhen followed his gaze. Understanding dawned in his silence.

  “That party hasn’t turned back,” Kaelen added. “The others gave up once they saw nothing. But this group… they press forward.”

  He watched the trees in the distance—not where the war party marched, but where the leaves held still despite the breeze. Where the birds had gone quiet.

  “They don’t know they’re close,” Kaelen said. “But if we wait, they’ll find us. We have to cut them off before they reach the hollow path.”

  Rhen nodded once.

  Kaelen raised a hand—swift, decisive.

  Four of his warriors moved instantly at the signal, shadowing him as he shifted into motion, gliding from limb to limb. To the others still crouched in the green above Gorrak’s force, he gave a different sign—palm down, fingers splayed: Stay. Watch.

  He didn’t look back.

  The jungle swallowed him and his hunters like mist into vines.

  —

  Elsewhere, deeper and darker, the forest was changing.

  The light had thinned to green shadows. The sun no longer broke through the canopy above. Leaves hung heavy overhead, woven so thick that even the occasional breeze failed to stir them.

  Kazek struck the torch flint again, harder this time. Sparks danced. At last, the oily rag caught.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The flame hissed to life.

  Its glow revealed a dozen uneasy faces, all gathered in a tight wedge near the forest’s seam. The Kors scouts stood close now—closer than Kazek liked. Men who once laughed at death now clutched torches like lifelines.

  Around them, the trees loomed larger. Gnarled bark curled like knuckles. Moss crept in patterns across the ground like veins.

  The path had narrowed. And they hadn’t seen a trail in hours.

  Kazek turned slowly, holding his torch high. Its flicker danced across empty space—no trail behind, no path ahead. Just trees, layered in shadow.

  He’d lost the wind.

  That worried him most of all.

  “We light more,” he said.

  Bren frowned. “We’ll draw attention.”

  “We have no direction,” Kazek snapped. “So we make one.”

  Another torch flared behind him. Then another. Orange light pushed back the green gloom, but only slightly.

  A warrior coughed beside him. “Feels like the air’s thicker here. Can’t breathe right.”

  “It’s the damp,” Kazek muttered. But he didn’t believe it.

  He raised his blade, using its edge to catch the firelight.

  The steel didn’t shine.

  It swallowed the glow.

  “Keep tight,” Kazek said. “No noise. No light behind us. If something follows, we see it first.”

  He didn’t say what he feared. But even he couldn’t ignore the shapes in the mist.

  High above, unseen by them all, Kaelen’s scouts watched in utter silence.

  They moved like smoke through the trees—ash-painted, barefoot, unreadable.

  Kazek’s party didn’t know it yet.

  But they were already surrounded.

  The forest had gone utterly still.

  Kaelen moved through the high branches like breath through reeds, each step light, deliberate, silent. Rhen followed behind him, eyes always scanning, one hand on his shortbow, the other trailing the bark for balance. When they reached the overlook, Kaelen gave a subtle wave with two fingers.

  From the trees above the Kors scouting party, ten Ederon warriors crouched motionless—blended into the canopy, bows already drawn, fletchings resting softly against their cheeks.

  They’d been watching Kazek’s party for some time now.

  The Kors had drawn too close. Too stubborn. Too dangerous.

  Kaelen crouched, peering through a curtain of hanging moss. Below, Kazek’s warriors clustered tight in a crude defensive ring. They moved cautiously now, torches raised, blades drawn, watching the shadows—but not the branches.

  They had no idea how surrounded they truly were.

  Rhen leaned in beside Kaelen, whispering low.

  “They're nearly at the edge of the hollow path. Another hour and they’ll be in sight of Veleth.”

  Kaelen didn’t look at him.

  “They won’t make it that far.”

  Rhen’s voice dropped further. “We should strike now—before they double back. Or worse, rejoin Gorrak.”

  Kaelen’s eyes stayed fixed on the men below, tracking Kazek’s movements. The veteran Kors captain moved like someone who expected danger—but not the kind that could descend like rain.

  “The main army won’t stay in the forest,” Kaelen said. “They’re too heavy. Too loud. Gorrak’s just buying time while Alkandor reclaims the garrison.”

  Rhen frowned. “Then what do we do?”

  Kaelen raised his hand in answer—palm flat, two fingers extended.

  Rhen understood.

  “We make sure Gorrak never finds them.”

  Kaelen’s hand shifted again.

  Archers shifted with it—bowstrings creaked under tension.

  Each warrior selected a target. Each target walked unsuspecting into death.

  Then, Kaelen’s fingers dropped.

  The forest exhaled arrows.

  The first wave struck with terrifying precision—throats, eyes, temples. Seven Kors dropped before they even understood they were under attack.

  The survivors shouted, blades rising, torches swinging wildly. A few, seasoned and fast, managed to duck or deflect—but even they were bleeding by the second volley.

  “Regroup!” Kazek roared, dragging two wounded fighters toward a knot of twisted roots.

  Only six remained.

  Another hiss of bowstrings—one fell instantly, a shaft buried deep in his neck.

  Then came the shadows.

  From the underbrush below the line of torches, something moved.

  A loop of vine snared a Kors by the ankle and yanked him screaming into the dark, his blade skittering across stone. He was gone before Kazek could even turn.

  The firelight flickered, caught only by blood and fear.

  Kazek raised his torch high. His hand shook.

  “Form up!” he barked. “Eyes open! Face outward!”

  The four surviving warriors drew close, backs pressed, breathing fast.

  Then they heard it.

  Steps.

  Not the crashing of beasts—but calm, measured footsteps on soil and stone. Dozens of them.

  Ten shapes emerged from the dark.

  Lean. Hooded. Painted with earth and ash.

  Ederon.

  They moved like old myths—young, but honed. Silent, but deadly.

  At the front stood Kaelen, bow in one hand, knife sheathed at his side. Rhen beside him. And Jorin, taller now, eyes burning beneath his hood.

  Kazek took one look and felt something tighten in his chest.

  These weren’t soldiers.

  These were ghosts.

  He raised his voice. “Who are you?” he shouted. “What are you?”

  Kaelen stepped forward, slow and calm, eyes half-lidded.

  “You should have never disturbed the forest,” he said quietly. “You brought your war here.”

  Kazek’s voice snapped like a whip. “Answer me!”

  Kaelen turned his back.

  “Why should I speak to someone already dead?”

  He raised his hand again.

  The bows drew back.

  Kazek snarled and pointed. “Kill him! Kill the brat!”

  The remaining Kors surged forward—but the arrows flew first.

  It was not a battle.

  It was execution.

  Each shaft landed with cruel finality. One warrior dropped mid-swing. Another clutched his chest, stumbled, collapsed. The third reached Kaelen’s feet before an arrow split his spine. The last fell with a scream that echoed far too long.

  Only Kazek remained—kneeling, breathing in ragged pulls, seven arrows in his chest and legs, one hand clutching a broken torch.

  Blood soaked into the soil around him.

  His eye locked on Kaelen.

  “You… think this ends something,” he rasped. “But this—this is only the beginning.”

  Kaelen said nothing.

  Kazek laughed, coughing blood.

  “You can’t hide forever. Krothmaar will find you. If not them… others will. This world doesn’t keep peace, boy. It only eats it.”

  Kaelen knelt in front of him, eyes steady.

  “What do you think I’ve been doing all this time?” he asked.

  Kazek opened his mouth to answer.

  He never got the chance.

  Kaelen’s knife flashed, fast and clean.

  The head dropped to the roots.

  And the forest, now fed, said nothing at all.

  The last of Kazek’s blood pooled dark beneath the moss-covered roots, steam rising from the warm body as Kaelen stood above it, silent.

  Around him, his warriors moved efficiently—not with malice, but with purpose. Blades scraped softly through brush as they dragged the Kors corpses into the undergrowth. Arrows were retrieved or snapped. Blood was masked with wet earth and trampled leaves. The torches were buried, their flame-snuffed heads doused in a mixture of mud and ash.

  There would be no trail. No tracks. No sign that this clearing had ever held breath or death.

  Kaelen gave one final glance to the tangled glade, ensuring all was as it should be. Then he turned without a word.

  “For now,” he said, “we return to the main trail.”

  The warriors behind him straightened. One stepped forward—older, steady-handed, one of the first to join him in training.

  “Be safe, Captain,” the warrior said quietly.

  Kaelen nodded once, then slipped into the green once more. Rhen and Joren followed without needing to be told.

  They moved quickly, navigating the forest like blood through veins—never breaking branches, never leaving sound behind. Roots rose and fell beneath them like waves. Shafts of mist broke between trunks where light failed to reach. Even birds were absent here.

  Then they stopped—Kaelen’s hand raised sharply, his posture alert.

  From behind a thick fern stepped a small, quick-moving figure—leather-clad, face streaked with forest paint.

  A scout. Young. Barely older than Kaelen. Her name was Tyra.

  She pressed a fist to her chest. “Captain. Report.”

  Kaelen lowered his hand. “Go on.”

  Tyra swallowed hard, but her voice held.

  “The garrison’s fallen. Alkandor has taken it back.”

  Rhen exhaled. “That was fast.”

  “They came prepared,” Tyra said. “Two hundred soldiers. Some mounted. They’ve entered the woods—chasing Gorrak’s retreat. They’re advancing fast.”

  Kaelen’s expression didn’t change. He simply turned his head toward the western tree line, where even now the rumble of distant hooves could almost be felt, if not heard.

  Rhen stepped forward. “Two hundred men in this forest? Do they know what they’re walking into?”

  “They don’t care,” Tyra said. “They want blood.”

  Joren looked to Kaelen, his brows knit. “What do we do?”

  Kaelen’s lips twitched—just a little. A smirk, not of arrogance, but of challenge. Curiosity.

  “This,” he said quietly, “is interesting.”

  Rhen blinked. “Interesting?”

  Kaelen turned toward him.

  “What if we push the Kors east?” he said. “Guide them. Reroute their movement. Stall them in the deeper woods.”

  Rhen’s face tightened. “You want to trap them between our trees and Alkandor’s blades?”

  “No,” Kaelen said. “I want to let the forest trap them. We’ll show the Alkandor army just enough. And when they follow…”

  “You’re baiting a war into our home,” Rhen snapped. “You’re dragging two armies toward Veleth.”

  Kaelen shook his head.

  “I’m dragging them away from it.”

  Rhen stepped close. “This isn’t just clever, Kaelen. It’s dangerous. You’re playing them against each other.”

  “Good,” Kaelen said. “Let them exhaust each other. Let the world burn itself out before it reaches our roots.”

  Joren looked between them. Then sighed. “Fine. We trust you.”

  Kaelen didn’t smile. He just nodded once—and continued.

  —

  They arrived as the last of the sun’s light slipped behind the canopy. The air was thick, cool, motionless.

  One of the watchers crouched high in a treetop, eyes sharp, bow across his knees. He spotted Kaelen and climbed down silently, landing in a crouch.

  “Report,” Kaelen said.

  The warrior tilted his head toward a clearing below.

  “They stopped,” he said. “All at once. No horn, no signal. Just stopped marching. Made no camp. No orders spoken loud.”

  Kaelen stepped forward and peered through the branches.

  Below, Gorrak’s main force sat like a nest of stone wolves. No fires. No food. Just bodies resting in the dirt, blades across their laps, heads lowered.

  Kaelen narrowed his eyes.

  “What are they waiting for?”

  Rhen and Joren stood beside him now, staring at the Kors.

  Joren spoke first.

  “Orders?”

  Rhen shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “They’re listening.”

  Kaelen didn’t move. He simply watched.

  The Kors had come into the woods thinking they were the hunters.

  Now they waited—silent and still—as if they too had begun to understand.

  The forest was watching them back.