—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
The forest was half-awake.
Mist still clung to the bark, animals silent, the air carrying that thin, brittle calm that came before dawn.
Arion sat by the window, steam curling from his leaf-cup of hot water.
The pages of his journal fanned open across the desk, each one smudged with field notes and burn marks that refused to come out. He read the same paragraph twice without realising, lips moving soundlessly.
If I time it right, it should only be a day trip, he muttered, knowing perfectly well that he was most likely going to be ruin squatting.
He drank the last mouthful, set the cup aside, and began his quiet ritual of departure.
He folded the journal; slipped it into the inner robe pocket. Wrapped the dried fish in leaves, slid the parcel beside it. Checked that the waterskin at his hip was full and warm before tightening the strap around his waist.
"Right. Supplies, notes, snacks — that's survival covered."
…
Pat. Patter. Pat. Pat
When he stepped outside, the sky answered with a sudden wall of rain.
He stood there for a heartbeat, staring into the downpour.
"Typical."
Expression flat, he turned back inside, rummaged for a moment, then re-emerged holding a broad green leaf by its tail-stem — a makeshift umbrella.
"I could just freeze you, you know," he told the rain. "But that'd make it my loss."
The rain ignored him, drumming steadily against the leaf.
He climbed down the rope ladder, boots sinking into wet soil. The scent of scorched earth and damp moss drifted through the clearing — his handiwork.
Before him stretched the black-glass crater left by his last experiment. The soil was vitrified, fused into a mirror of obsidian and ash. At the centre of the black mirror stood the ice-crystal tree, a frozen pillar of translucent growth, glittering even under the grey light. At its base, a circular tear still shimmered faintly, the surface of reality thin as soap film. A dog flap for nightmares, the hole the abomination had crawled through before being mostly obliterated.
Beyond it, a diagonal scar cut through the ground where the collapsing fusion disc had sheared through the landscape.
He exhaled, shoulders tightening under the rain. The remnants of the abomination lay half-buried near the treeline, skeletal geometry half-melted into the dirt. Nothing moved, but the shape still made his stomach turn.
"Whelp—better head off."
He said it out loud, because silence in this place had started to sound personal.
Adjusting the leaf-umbrella, he gave the ruin one last look.
Part guilt, part quiet pride — and turned toward the river. The rain thickened, the forest swallowed him, and the world settled into its usual rhythm of dripping leaves and distant thunder.
Behind him, the scarred clearing steamed faintly, as if remembering.
—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
The rain thinned to a soft hiss as he followed the river east.
The forest still glistened from the downpour, leaves heavy with droplets, soil dark and breathing steam.
He unfolded the journal while walking, thumbing through the warped pages until he found the marked passage. Ink had bled in places, words bruised by moisture but still legible.
'First, follow the river for an hour. Keep east until the water splits. If you see blue moss before then, you've gone too far.'
He read it twice, mouth moving with the words.
"Short cut, my arse," he muttered, sliding the book back into his robe. "If this turns into another two-day hike, I'm haunting whoever wrote this."
He kept one hand tucked beneath the leaf-umbrella, the other raised slightly as he walked, fingers curling and uncurling like a conductor testing the air.
If that girl could throw me ten feet with one swing, he thought, then I should at least manage a breeze without concussion.
He coaxed Vitalis through his arms, feeling the faint hum beneath the skin—pressure without weight. The surrounding air responded in tiny flutters, strands of mist bending and straightening around him.
A gust formed, stumbled, then broke apart with a sigh.
"Too quick," he murmured. "Stability before speed."
He steadied his breathing until the pulse of Vitalis matched the rhythm. Each exhale stabilised the field; each step measured its feedback.
The forest seemed to move with him. Leaves rustled when his rhythm faltered, steadied when it held. A twig snapped beneath his boot, the vibration curling through his senses — every detail registered, instinct translated into data.
He flicked his wrist sideways.
A clean slip of wind brushed past his ear and stirred his hair.
Not strong—barely enough to scatter dust. But for once, it obeyed.
Arion grinned under the leaf. "Progress."
Also, still upright. That's new
He jotted mental notes as he walked: Air density stable. Directional control viable. Need to map resistance curve.
His boots crunched softly against the damp path; the scent of wet bark and earth filled the air. Somewhere nearby, a ripple of birds rose into the canopy, disturbed by his testing.
Then curiosity crept in—the dangerous kind.
If air can carry itself, why not me?
He looked down the empty stretch of path, glanced at the river, and decided common sense could wait.
A deeper hum built in his chest as he pushed Vitalis outward, shaping the currents around his legs and spine. Air swirled, hesitated, then caught. The ground softened beneath his boots.
For an instant he hovered a handspan above the mud—coat lifting, hair tugged upward by invisible fingers. Rain streamed around him in spirals.
His eyes widened.
"Okay… that's actually—"
The air bucked.
A single unstable pulse tore through the pattern, and the mild lift turned catastrophic.
VRWUSHH!
"Ah-" Was all he got out before he shot out of frame like a fired bolt.
The next thing he saw was the forest floor vanishing beneath him.
The umbrella ripped from his hand and spun away into the grey sky.
"—Shit! My umbrella!—"
Arion lost control, blasting through the forest to his right. Branches whipped past in blurs of green and brown.
He twisted, trying to redirect flow, over-corrected, and spun backward back into the rivers clearing, through the rain in an impressive series of unplanned manoeuvres.
Stabilise pitch—reduce thrust
He caught a glimpse of the ground rushing back to meet him and did the only thing that made sense: flared Vitalis cold through his palm.
"Frost Snap!"
A streak of blue-white light cracked across the mud. Ice flowered outward, forming a slick path just in time for him to crash-slide along it in a freezing spray. He slid down, layer of frost-snow cushioned him to a stop, flat on his back, staring up at the dripping canopy.
Steam curled off the melting slide.
His heart hammered.
His pride exhaled, weakly.
He looked toward the sky. "Maybe… master basic wind control before trying to fly, doofus"
For a moment he just lay there, rain pattering against his face. Then he started laughing—quiet, shaky, half-mad laughter that faded into a sigh.
He pushed himself up, brushed frost from his sleeves, and slightly limped on down the path as if nothing had happened. Behind him, the ice trail melted into the mud, leaving no evidence except a faint scorch of embarrassment.
…
By the time the sun began to push through the thinning clouds, he had learned two things:
First, that wind preferred rhythm over force, and second, that talking to it didn't help.
He exhaled through his teeth. "Alright. We'll call that a success—mostly theoretical, partially fatal."
The path ahead narrowed where the river curved toward the lowlands. He could already smell the faint sourness of the marshes.
Arion tightened the strap on his waterskin, muttering under his breath, and trudged forward. The mist lay low and heavy, curling around his legs like slow water. Every step stirred it into lazy swirls that caught the weak light and vanished again.
Behind him, leaves still turned in the wake of invisible currents—his footprints marked by the faint, orderly chaos of a man teaching air to listen. Or, well trying.
—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
The trees began to change before the ground did. Roots thickened, gnarled and swollen, pushing up through the mud like ribs.
The scent shifted too — from clean rain and moss to something heavier, metallic, and wet.
Arion slowed his pace, the strap of his waterskin thudding softly against his hip, loosening slightly . Mist no longer drifted in sheets; it hung close to the ground, tinted green by the canopy. His boots sank an inch deep with every step.
He flipped open the journal again, thumb marking the next entry.
'Turn east along the bog marshes. Keep an eye on the Drakes. Do not linger by still water.'
"Right," he muttered. "Because moving water's just so inviting."
He followed the narrowing trail until the river finally fanned out into swamp — waterlogged channels, patches of tar, and half-drowned trees wearing crowns of fungus.
The air vibrated faintly, carrying the constant thrumm of unseen marsh life: the wet clicking of reedchirr larvae beneath the surface, the low moan of distant fen toads somewhere under the mire, and the hiss of gases escaping from decay pockets.
It wasn't silent. It, or something, was listening.
Glurp. Bop.
Arion crouched near a shallow pool, studying the surface. Bubbles rose lazily from the tar beneath, breaking in slow, oily bursts. He backed away before curiosity could override common sense.
"Note to self," he murmured, "death traps are easy to identify when they blow bubbles of tar"
Further in, he began spotting the signs of other travellers — shredded rope, half-buried boot prints, the corner of a satchel eaten by rot. A snapped spear haft protruded from the mud, its edge marked with faint scale etchings.
The Drakes.
The thought quickened his pulse. He reached instinctively for Vitalis, tuning it through his palms until faint ripples of air brushed against his legs.
Nothing. The marsh was still.
He moved carefully between the thicker roots, keeping the leaf-umbrella folded and tucked beneath his arm, now that rain had turned to mist. Each step made a quiet glurp in the muck. Occasionally something plopped into the water nearby, a sound like a dropped stone, followed by a faint ripple that spread unnaturally far.
Then came the smell.
Sharp and wrong, like rusted metal soaked in rot.
He turned and saw a carcass, not an animal he recognised. The remains, long-legged and reptilian, its body half-submerged, ribs scraped clean where scaled jaws had torn through it. Its skull faced upward as if in warning.
Arion stared a second longer than he meant to, then forced his gaze away.
'Don't linger.'
Further east, the ground firmed slightly, the trees thinning enough to glimpse a stretch of clearer water ahead.
Bz. Bzzzz.
Wisps of luminance insects floated over the surface, their bellies glowing pale green, tracing lazy circles through the mist.
Plop.
For a moment the scene looked almost peaceful — until he noticed the faint, circular ripples spreading outward with no visible cause.
"Alright," he whispered. "Let's move on."
He stepped back, slow and deliberate, not breaking eye contact with the water. The ripples paused… then faded.
Only when the sound of his own breathing returned did he start walking again, this time faster, every instinct whispering that something had been there, watching, and simply chose not to strike.
He didn't look back.
He just followed the faint trail that rose toward the treeline, where the bog began to harden and the air lost its metallic taste.
Tree Grave next, he thought, pulling the journal back out with damp fingers.
'Keep far from the threads. Don't touch them, no matter how they shine.'
He tucked it away, exhaled slowly, and tightened his grip on the leaf-stem handle.
Behind him, the marsh drained into silence. Pockets of trapped air burst with soft gurgles as the water settled back to level, as if waiting for the next victim to come through.
—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
The air here felt thinner, dry enough to burn his throat.
He stopped just short of the treeline, flipping open the journal. The ink on the next entry had bled slightly, the words warped but still legible.
'Once cleared, carry on until you reach the Tree Grave.'
'A mother Gaunturala claims this place. Keep far away from her.'
'DONT touch the threads. They are gorgeous, saturated with Luminary.'
'That is the trap.'
He read it twice. Then slowly lifted his head.
The forest ahead was grey — utterly colourless. Trees stood tall and skeletal, their bark black as coal, their leaves dead and brittle. The soil was the shade of ash, soft enough to smudge beneath his boots. Every trace of colour had been drained from the world within.
Except for the thread like webs.
They stretched between the trunks in impossible numbers, delicate strands of silk that gleamed like wet jewels, glistening in vivid hues that shouldn't exist in a dead place. Cyan, gold, violet. Each line pulsed faintly with captured light, cutting through the gloom like veins of living crystal.
It was beautiful. And utterly wrong.
Arion's face didn't change.
His expression was that of a man confronted with his own personal phobia written into the world's source code.
"Right," he said flatly. "A laser-security maze of death."
He groaned.
"Fantastic."
He closed the journal and stepped forward, ducking beneath the first thread. The air changed at once, muffled, heavy, charged with faint vibration. No wind moved. No birds called. The silence pressed down so completely that even the faint scrape of his own boots in the ash put him on edge.
Vitalis hummed faintly in his veins. He reached out pre-emptively, testing for Luminary presence in the air — but the field felt thin, almost drained, as if the environment itself absorbed more than it gave.
'Essence is barely present. Eaten? Absorbed? Taken?' An earlier note from the journal flickered through his head.
He kept moving, careful and deliberate, weaving between the shining strands. The deeper he went, the denser the silk-web became. Threads crisscrossing in geometric layers, some thin as hair, others thick enough to reflect his own shape back at him in ghosted light.
Bodies hung above him in the high canopies, wrapped tight. Or perhaps they were husks — the shape of bodies, hollow now, each threaded to the trees like ornaments.
His skin prickled. Every step felt like a trespass — an intrusion into the maw of something vast and unseen.
The unknown consumed him.
…
When the first sound came, he didn't realise what it was.
Creaaak.
A low, distant creak. Like an old beam settling.
Then another, closer.
A heavy groan of bark under strain, echoing down the line of trees.
Then a slight disturbance of ash, as if a slight breeze came through.
… yet, there was none.
He froze.
It wasn't random. It came in rhythm — first far, then closer, nearer.
Groooan.
A sound that moved.
He felt it before he heard it again, the faintest quiver through the ash and ground, a ripple that tickled his nerves.
Snap.
Something was behind him.
The journal's warning burned in his memory:
'Don't touch the threads. Don't acknowledge her existence.'
He swallowed, forcing his lungs to work in slow, even rhythm.
Stay calm.
Don't think about it. Don't feed it.
His voice cracked the silence like a blade.
"A-ahh, what a lovely day for a walk in a nice, definitely not creepy forest… haha…"
The laugh was paper-thin.
The bark groaned again — closer.
Much. Closer.
He didn't turn.
He kept walking, each step measured. Each inhale was deliberate.
The instinct to glance back clawed, both physically and mentally, at the back of his mind. His body screamed to look.
It's hunting… through perception?
It doesn't make sense — but then…nothing here ever does.
He was so focused that he started manually operating his body, breathing and blinking to keep his nerves in check. Walking and stepping, as if he was controlling his joints like a crane operator.
Every action was recorded and executed.
He glared at the threads ahead. Focusing on where not to step. On anything but the thing breathing down the back of his neck.
Behind him, the sound of wood grinding against wood followed like a second heartbeat. It didn't hurry. It simply matched his pace.
When he slowed, it slowed.
When he breathed, the surrounding forest seemed to match his exhale.
He walked for what felt like hours. His heartbeat became his metronome. Each step was another bargain with reason.
Then, the creaking softened.
Faded.
The air lightened fractionally. The pressure against his skin eased.
It's… losing interest.
He dared a single shaky breath of relief.
The bark groaning drifted further away — once, twice, until it became part of the background noise again.
He exhaled, shakily.
"There we go. No problem at all. Perfectly safe environment."
He paused to regain his composure.
"Ten out of ten, would hike again."
He didn't laugh, neither did the forest. But it may have listened.
Arion adjusted the loosening strap at his hip and kept walking, weaving between the luminous lines. His nerves were finally starting to steady now.
Until the knot came loose.
The waterskin slipped from his belt, bounced once off his boot, and rolled.
It all transpired in slow motion.
He watched it tumble helplessly into a thread.
The contact was soft.
Anti-climactic even.
But the sound that followed, wasn't.
A low hum rippled outward — deep, resonant, spreading through every line of silk in sight. The threads shivered in perfect unison, their colours blooming bright for a heartbeat before fading again.
Then —
Silence.
Not natural silence.
Vacuum silence.
Even his pulse seemed to mute itself.
Then he realised the dread.
The groaning of trees in the distance had stopped.
Arion's hand hovered over the dropped flask, breath caught halfway. Still like time had frozen.
Every fibre of the forest had gone still.
Creak.
Then, far behind him, the first creak returned — deep, slow, rising like pressure under stone.
CREEAKK.
Then another. Louder. Faster.
The forest began to wake.
CRCK. CRUCK. SNAP. CREAK.
Bark cracked, branches screamed, the air tore under sudden movement. He didn't think, he grabbed the waterskin, spun, and ran.
The noise behind him became a storm of wood and silk. Trees shuddered, threads snapped like whips, shards of glowing fibre bursting into the air.
He could feel it chasing him now — not footsteps, but vibration, pressure, heat behind his spine. Every nerve screamed.
"Alright! Fuck it!—"
He slammed Vitalis through his limbs, every breath an explosion. Wind surged from behind him, raw and unfocused, propelling him forward through the maze of light and ash.
PShhhhhh-
His body spun violently, changing direction mid-air.
Threads sliced against his robe, cut shallow lines across his cheek.
Light ahead — faint blue leaking between trunks.
He forced one final burst, the air detonating at his back. The world blurred, colours streaked, threads sheared like glass.
Then he was through.
His side collided into a tree, suddenly propelling him sideways. He hit the ground hard, rolling across damp earth.
The dead air of the Tree Grave gave way to cool mist and faint luminescence. He lay still, chest heaving, staring up at the new canopy above — dark blue leaves, glimmering with dew.
Behind him, nothing moved.
No creaking. No groaning.
Well, except for him.
The silence stretched, vast and perfect.
He waited, counting to five, then ten.
Nothing.
For a while he didn't move. The world had weight again; sound had edges. He almost missed the silence.
He blinked. "Right, fuck that..." he muttered, "no more shortcuts— I'm taking the long way round next time."
Arion slowly sat up, breathing shallowly. His hands were shaking.
He glanced once toward the ashen forest behind him. The threads at its edge glowed faintly, unmoving.
No shape emerged.
No sound followed.
Only that dreadful, unbroken silence remained — lingering in the throat of the forest, where the unknown waited to consume.
—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——