The forest thickened with mist, winding between the gnarled roots like pale, spectral hands reaching out to ensnare the group. Vlastimir halted, raising his hand to signal the others. His sharp eyes scanned ahead, where the ground turned dark and sodden. The air carried a fetid smell of decay and something faintly acrid, like the sting of corruption.
“There's a swamp,” Vlastimir murmured, his voice a low rasp.
“This is wrong,” Bogdan muttered, his breath visible in the strange chill that crept over them. His gloved fingers tightened on his staff, and faint frost began to gather around its tip. “Even the spirits won’t follow us.”
Indeed, the faint, whispering presences that had accompanied them through the Great Forest seemed to linger at the edge of the mire, their soft glow dimming as if reluctant to proceed. A few darted around them nervously, their voices almost pleading.
Zavila stepped forward, her hand outstretched, her voice calm yet insistent. “Why do you stop here? What lies ahead that even you fear?”
One spirit flickered and shifted, its form coalescing briefly into the shape of a mournful face before dissolving again into drifting light. A single word echoed faintly in her mind: Corruption.
“They won’t go further,” she said, turning back to the group. “Blight festers here... they're afraid of being warped by it.”
Vlastimir’s jaw tightened. “We have no choice. If this is the only way to fix all this, we press on.”
The group exchanged uneasy glances but followed him into the swamp. With each step, the earth grew wetter and more treacherous. Pools of black water glistened, the surface unnervingly still, while twisted trees loomed overhead, their skeletal branches clawing at the sky. Strange fungi glowed faintly along the roots, their sickly green light casting unnatural shadows.
Suddenly, the ground trembled faintly, and an unnatural stillness descended. A low, guttural groan echoed through the swamp, followed by a rustling sound that seemed to come from all directions. Before they could react, the mist ahead churned violently, and an enormous figure emerged.
The Leshy was a towering colossus, a shifting amalgamation of bark, moss, and roots. Its limbs moved with a creaking, groaning sound, each step causing the earth to tremble. Hollow eyes glowed faintly green, their gaze piercing and ancient. Antlers of woven branches sprouted from its head, entwined with vines that dripped glowing sap.
The group froze, their weapons instinctively at the ready. Bogdan conjured a shard of ice in his hand, but Zavila raised her arm to stop him.
“Wait,” she whispered. “It’s not attacking.”
The Leshy loomed over them, its voice a deep, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very air. “Fools...” it intoned. “You tread upon cursed ground. This swamp devours all who enter. Turn back, or be claimed by blight and undeath.”
“We can’t turn back,” Vlastimir replied, his voice steady despite the Leshy’s imposing presence. “We were seeking a way through to the Darklands, but then the spirits forced us to deal with whatever is causing them problems.”
The Leshy’s eyes narrowed, and its gaze swept over the group, letting out a deep sigh with inflection. “The Darklands lie beyond this cursed mire, but you will not survive its heart.” It paused, then added, “The spirits are desperate indeed," it stated, shaking its head slightly, "If you wish to be led out of the forest, I will guide you.”
Zavila stepped forward, bowing her head before the great spirit guardian. “We’ve seen the corruption that festers here, and we were sent to find a pathway through. If it is obstructed, then we are willing to try and fix it, and as a shaman, I can’t ignore the suffering of the spirits.”
The Leshy tilted its head, considering her words. "If your heart is set to help the spirits where I failed, then I am thankful, young one." Settling its roots down, the Leshy began to speak more. “The heart of this swamp was once a sacred tree, its seed carried across the great divide by a druidic circle of the west, in days long past. Its guardian was once a soulbound ranger, a chosen soul of the druidic circle blessed by their divine Arawn. But one day there was a great attack upon the circle and the tree. The druids all died, and the tree and its guardian were turned into undeath.” The Leshy appeared to be mourning as it told the story before going on. “Now the tree spreads nothing but the blight, and the undead are raised without end.”
Bogdan stepped forward, his voice cautious. “Can the tree be cleansed?”
The Leshy’s form seemed to sag, as if weighed down by centuries of sorrow. “I do not know... The guardian’s soul is bound to the tree, and I don’t think he would let you cleanse it. I do not know how it became like this to begin with.”
A heavy silence hung over the group as they absorbed the weight of the task before them. Finally, Vlastimir nodded. “We’ll do what we must. Show us the way.”
The Leshy’s gaze darkened. “You are brave, but make sure the swamp won't consume you, as it has so many others.”
The Leshy straightened up, its form towering over them. “I will guide you as far as I can, but the blight is strong near the heart. You must face the guardian alone.”
With that, the Leshy turned, its massive form moving with surprising grace through the swamp. The group followed, their steps careful. They were venturing into the very heart of corruption, and the fate of the forest would be decided soon.
------------
The Leshy stopped, its massive form casting a shadow over the group. It turned to face them, its hollow eyes glowing with an ancient sadness. "This is where I must part ways with you," it rumbled, the weight of its voice reverberating through the air. "The blight's gnaw is too strong beyond here. My roots would wither, my essence would be lost."
As the Leshy bid them farewell, it melted back into the shadows of the swamp, its towering form blending seamlessly into the grotesque trees and mist. Its parting words echoed in their minds: Face the guardian, but do not forget—desperation breeds regret, and wrath leaves ruin.
The group trudged forward, the ground beneath their feet growing softer and more treacherous with each step. Zavila used her staff to test the earth ahead, avoiding the pools of stagnant water that seemed to bubble with dark energy. Every now and then, faint screams drifted through the air, though whether they were from lingering spirits or the swamp itself, no one could tell.
The path narrowed, hemmed in by dense thickets of thorny vines that snagged at their clothes and skin. The air grew denser, heavy with the stench of decay and something sharper—an acrid tang that burned their noses and throats. Even Bogdan’s ice magic seemed to falter in the oppressive atmosphere, his usual frost-covered staff dripping with condensation.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
“Stay close,” Vlastimir said, his voice tight. “If we lose sight of each other in this place, we may never find our way back.”
Zavila placed a hand on one of the thorny vines, her fingers tracing the warped growth. “The blight is strong here. The spirits were wise to fear it.”
The air grew colder as they pressed on, the landscape shifting unnaturally. Soon, the ground gave way to a barren expanse—a hill of dry, blackened soil that seemed utterly devoid of life. No grass, no moss, not even the twisted fungi they had seen earlier. At the hill's apex stood the sacred tree, now a grotesque shadow of its former self. Its trunk was gnarled and blackened, oozing dark sap that pooled at its base. Its branches stretched skyward, jagged and spiked like a crown of thorns, clawing at the sky as if in anguish.
At the base of the tree stood the guardian.
The undead ranger was a haunting sight. Its figure was skeletal yet strangely preserved, draped in the tattered remnants of a once-proud cloak. Antlers sprouted from its helmet, twisting unnaturally and deformed. Its hollow eyes glowed faintly, the eerie light flickering like a dying ember. In its hands, it clutched a bow, its design unmistakably unnatural.
The group froze at the edge of the clearing. The ranger had not moved, its gaze fixed on them. Slowly, it raised a hand, not in attack but in warning.
“Begone,” it said, its voice a hollow rasp that carried a weight of sorrow and despair. “This place is not your burden.”
The group exchanged uneasy glances. Vlastimir stepped forward cautiously, his spear lowered but ready. "We mean no harm. We've come to cleanse the tree and end the blight."
The ranger let out a hollow laugh, a sound devoid of humor. "Cleanse?" It stood up, grabbing its bow. "You cannot 'cleanse' it without killing or replacing its guardian, and you cannot kill me." Seeing how the group backed up at his words, he settled down again. "Let that which is lost be. The sacred tree, the forest... they are lost forever."
Bogdan stepped forward, his grip on his staff tightening. "You were the chosen guardian, weren't you? What happened here? How did this even start?"
The ranger’s antlers dipped slightly, as if in mourning. "I was... once, I still am. When the druids fell, I was all that remained to protect the tree. But the attackers were too many, too strong. In my desperation, I..." He paused, his skeletal fingers tightening around the bow. "I tore this Root from the tree itself, offering my soul to Angrboða for power and Hel for eternal life to protect it forever, thereby also offering a part of the tree's soul with which I am bound."
Zavila’s eyes widened. "You offered yourself to the goddess of blight and undeath..."
The ranger nodded slowly. "The tree’s power was never meant to be harnessed in such a way. In my wrath, I corrupted it, and it, in turn, corrupted me. Together, we drove the attackers away... but at a cost." He gestured to the blighted swamp around them. "This is my penance forever. To stand here, alone, watching over the tree as it spreads the very corruption I sought to prevent, raising the very dead I had slain to save it."
The air hung thick with tension as Vlastimir stood before the undead guardian, his heart pounding in his chest. The tragic tale of the fallen ranger and the corrupted tree weighed heavily on him. Yet, despite the hopelessness in the air, something within Vlastimir stirred—a strange sense of duty, as if fate itself had led him here.
He looked to the ranger, his eyes meeting the hollow gaze. "I see the pain you carry," Vlastimir said quietly. "Someone must end this curse eventually."
The ranger’s hollow eyes flickered, a semblance of recognition or perhaps longing in the ancient, withered gaze. "You think you can end it, do you? The strength you carry is not enough to serve as its guardian, let alone bind yourself to the sacred tree. You are... too weak." The last word hung in the air, sharp and biting, and yet there was something else in the ranger’s voice—a challenge, a test.
Vlastimir’s jaw clenched. "Perhaps I am weak now, but I won’t stay weak."
The ranger’s eyes narrowed, studying him for a long, unsettling moment. "You are too quick to speak of things you do not fully understand. To cleanse the tree, you must replace me. You must bind your soul to it, just as I did. Only then will the strength of the tree flow through you. But that power comes with a price. If you seek to replace me, if you accept this path, you will never leave. You will be bound to the tree, to the forest, to the corruption. You will never know another life. Your soul will be bound here until it is destroyed, or you are replaced. Do you understand?"
Vlastimir looked to his comrades, his gaze meeting each of theirs in turn. He could see the concern in their eyes—Bogdan’s wariness, Zavila’s sadness, Miloslav’s silent support. They had followed him this far, and now it seemed the weight of their journey rested on his shoulders.
Finally, Vlastimir turned back to the ranger, his expression hardening with resolve. "I understand," he said, his voice steady. "I will bear the weight of this curse. If I must become the guardian to set this right, then I will."
The ranger’s eyes flared briefly with something akin to respect, or perhaps surprise, before returning to their hollow, sorrowful depth. "You are brave," it said quietly. "I will train you, teach you, until you are strong enough to bind with the Sacred Tree. When the day comes, you will stand as I do now—a guardian who can never leave."
Vlastimir nodded once, resolute. "I will accept it. Teach me, so I can be strong enough to save this place."
With a single movement, the ranger lowered his bow, the creaking of his bones echoing in the silence. He stepped forward, his hands brushing against the trunk of the corrupted tree. "Come then, say farewell to your comrades," he said, his voice now resolute. "And let us begin."
"How long will the training take?" Vlastimir asked, his voice steady despite the uncertainty gnawing at him.
The ranger's hollow gaze lingered on him for a long while, a silence stretching between them before it spoke. "A year, perhaps more. Time is different here, and the power of the tree is slow to yield itself. But you will learn, and you will grow strong. The forest will not be kind, but it will shape you."
Vlastimir’s heart sank, but he held his ground. A year of training to become something bound to this land. It felt like an eternity, and yet, he could not allow himself to regret the choice now.
"But before that," Vlastimir continued, his voice filled with a quiet plea, "Can I still guide my comrades home? I cannot leave them in the wilderness. They have followed me here, and I owe them that much."
The ranger tilted its head, as though considering the question with a patience that seemed to stretch through the centuries. "You can," it said, a trace of something softer in its voice. "You may lead them to the edge of the swamp, where the mists grow thicker. I'm certain the Leshy will be there waiting for you."
Vlastimir nodded. "I will lead them out of the swamp then," he said, his resolve unwavering. "And then, I will begin my training. I will become the guardian this place needs, and in doing so, I will set you free of your burden."
A faint flicker of something passed through the ranger's eyes, an emotion Vlastimir couldn't place. "Very well," it said, a weary acceptance in its tone. "Say your farewells, for when you return, you will not leave again."
Vlastimir turned to his comrades, each of them looking at him with varying degrees of concern and uncertainty. He stepped toward them, his heart heavy with the burden of what he was about to ask.
"I have to do this," he began, his voice quiet but firm. "The guardian has chosen me. I will be bound to this place, and my life must change. But first, I will take you to the edge of the swamp, and from there, you will find the Leshy and your own way home."
Zavila's eyes softened with understanding, though there was an undeniable sadness in her gaze. "I'm thankful, Vlastimir, as I'm sure the spirits will be," she said, her voice steady. "And I will come back to see you every year!"
The words meant more to him than he could express. She was giving him something that few could offer—hope, a connection to people that would remain, even in the face of such an irrevocable choice.
"I will be waiting," Vlastimir replied, his voice thick with emotion, though he kept his gaze steady. "I will be here. When the time comes, we will meet again."
With that, he turned to the ranger, ready to lead his comrades out of the forest, knowing that once they left, he would begin his transformation. The year ahead would be grueling, but it was the price of strength. And he would pay it, for the forest, for the tree, and for a future he had yet to see.
He gestured for his comrades to follow, leading them through the tangled woods, the air thick with the promise of what was to come. As they neared the swamp’s edge, a tall, recognizable figure sat down in the distance, glowing softly with spirits twirling around it, as though it had been waiting for them all this time. His own last words echoed through his mind as he glanced back at the forest one last time before stepping back into the swamp.
"We will meet again," he said. "One day, we will."
And with that, the team departed, leaving Vlastimir to his new fate, to the training that awaited him, and to the lonely years ahead.