Captain Gareth rested his hand on the new sword that hung from his hip as he walked through the training field of the old fort. When it had been brought from Falderfell, its strange make and weight had tempted him to send it back, but Jeorge had insisted he try before riding back. The blade had cut half a foot into an iron-reinforced shield, and Gareth decided to accept the strange gift for what it was. Weird things often made their way out of the forest. As for the boy, Gareth had more pressing things to attend to. He would leave Falderfell’s inner workings to the mayor and the Mother’s council.

A pair of trainees marched past, saluting him as they marched towards the armory. Two Rangers together, as was the way. The trainees would be stationed together for five years, only separating upon their promotion to seniority. His partner had been a short, mean-tempered fellow named Marco. He had been trampled by a startled moon deer two months before Gareth was voted Captain. He had evened out Gareth’s mellow nature with his sharp tongue at the time. He was a good friend.

Gareth walked past the stable and up the winding stairs to the observation tower. The rest of the fort grew smaller and smaller as he ascended the creaking wooden stairs. The old fort was a collection of six log buildings surrounded by a stone wall bristled with wooden stakes. In the center, the observation tower shot higher than even the most adventurous trees would dare to climb. When one reached the top, they felt like a god, towering over creation and watching the world from dizzying heights. Gareth didn’t feel like a god today as he ran his hands along the moss stones of the tower side. Today, he felt like another dust speck in an infinite forest of green.

Today’s watcher, a senior named Gret, saluted as Gareth's boots rapped against the ancient bricks of the tower. Gareth nodded at him, slapping his shoulder as he leaned against the wooden rails. “Anything of note, brother?”

Gret spat over the edge and shook his head. “Saw a couple of oak shades about three miles out, but other than that, all seems quiet.”

Gareth scratched his beard and nodded. “Take an hour to yourself, Gret. I'll take watch until you return.”

“Are you sure, Captain? I can- “

Gareth waved his hand dismissively. “Go, Ranger. Learn to take a break when offered.”

Gret nodded and saluted. He turned and began down the steps, his black and green cloak whipping around him in a sudden wind.

All around Gareth lay the endless expanse of trees. They rustled and sang a gentle song in the wind. Many songs could be heard from the forest if one simply waited for a while. The creaking gentle song of a quiet day, the crashing roaring song of a thunderstorm. On other days, the forest was silent, with no music to be heard no matter how prying the listener. Those days unnerved Gareth more than any other. The forest was old, and many old and strange things lay in its embrace.

Many of the people of Falderfell believed the forest to be infinite, that the world was covered with endless trees. Gareth knew that to be false because books in the town library spoke of oceans, mountains, and deserts. The river of Ela’s Weeping flowed in a fury to the west of the camp. Surely, it must empty somewhere. Yet no matter how many expeditions he sent out, they reported nothing but trees and more oddities the deeper they delved into the wood.

The latest expedition would be back in a week. They had sent a raven stating they had found statues in the deep woods to the northwest, men and women frozen in standstill, holding buckets and tools as if attending to their daily tasks. The note said that the place evoked such a feeling of dread that the men collectively decided to turn back immediately. Gareth did not blame the men or punish them for returning early. The deep woods were full of things such as that, things that only had horrible explanations. Many expeditions ended that way, discovering some new strangeness that threatened to break the minds of the mortals who stumbled on it. At least they were coming back. Last year, eight Rangers had gone into the deep woods and never returned. The previous raven they sent had said that some of the Rangers heard crying from the underbrush.

Gareth had imagined when he joined that he would be the Ranger to find the end of the forest. When he had been voted Captain, he imagined that he would send out the expeditions that would lead them out of these cursed trees. Now, the certainty that he would die under these leaves was weighing upon him like the heavy clouds before a storm broke.

There were no clouds in the sky that day, and the sun shone brightly, warming his black and gold cloak. He could see Falderfell from the tower, the ancient stone buildings, a small oasis in the surrounding trees. Jeorge will surely be back in town by now. The few horses the Rangers had were fast and knew the dirt paths of the safewood better than some of the men. To the west, he could hear the river rushing and babbling. Ela’s Weeping always grew stronger in the autumn months. Soon, the leaves would turn golden brown, the oak shades would retreat until the spring, and hopefully, no rot walkers would surface.

A mass of leaves and twigs blew past him, forming into the shape of a woman who floated in front of him. The wind nymph’s features shifted and reformed constantly as she studied Gareth, her facial features amused. Even though her face was only half-formed by leaves, Gareth could read her expression plainly as she rippled and twisted through the air before him. She dissipated and reformed next to him, leaning against the rail in a playful imitation of him. Gareth sighed and watched as she tried to grasp the railing with formless hands of leaves and soil. Most Rangers didn’t humor the nymphs; some believed that even acknowledging them was bad luck. Others saw them as nuisances, known for knocking down tools and pushing people into puddles. Gareth considered them a welcome change from the oak shades, their masculine cousins.

The nymph gave up on trying to grasp the rail and dissipated again, buffeting Gareth with a brief gust of wind as she passed around him before reforming in front of him again. This time, her expression was questioning, the leaves of her face constantly shifting. She reached out with her arm, the sticks and soil forming into an almost complete arm. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the gold bars on Gareth’s cloak, the symbol of his station. Gareth pulled back slightly. Wind nymphs weren’t dangerous but were known to steal Ranger’s cloaks.

“You are high above the trees.” Her voice was like a breeze whistling through branches, breathy and soft. Her face was now strongly formed, all moss and leaves, her hair falling around her in constantly shifting wisps. “Why are you bound to the earth?”

Nymphs spoke occasionally, usually with simple phrases or playful insults. Most Rangers ignored them, heads full of stories of men falling in love with a nymph and being led into a ravine or drowned in the river. They often ascribed power to them beyond what was indeed there. They were simply another part of the forest, something to be respected, something unexplainable. Gareth had never heard one speak so bluntly, however.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“I wish I knew,” Gareth replied, scratching his beard as he stared beyond the floating nymph at the expanse below him.

This seemed to satisfy the nymph, her face turning back into a smile as she dissipated for the last time, the mass of brush blowing away in the wind. Gareth was left alone, her words still echoing in his head. Bound to the earth. Her words summed up the feelings Gareth had been trying to push away for the last few months. He would never escape the forest, never see what lay beyond. The rest of his watch was uneventful and quiet. He could hear Rangers training and bustling about below. Gret returned, saluting Gareth as he claimed his spot on the tower. Gareth patted Gret on the shoulder as he turned to walk back down the stairs, back to the ground which held so much claim on him.

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The leaves and twigs crunched underneath Seren’s boots. Rays of morning sunlight cut through the canopy above in blades of orange and white. A gentle breeze tugged at him as he plodded forward. His black cloak was open around his shoulders and loose around him. The spear he carried served as a walking stick across the uneven ground. Behind him trailed Trissa and Fyrn, who were holding their bows casually at their sides. Fyrn had his hood up; it cast shadows over his smooth face.

The patrol was silent as they made their way through the thick of the safewood. Regardless of the name, the ring of forest around the village was still ominous soon into the day. The morning was young, and some of the nocturnal residents of the forest hadn’t entirely made their way back to whatever hole they hid in during the daylight hours. There was a faint trail beneath them, less of an actual trail and more of a simple depression in the underbrush that stated Rangers had been here before.

“We should be coming to Rioth’s farm soon.” Fyrn’s voice cut through the silence. “We’ll stop there and make sure everything has been quiet.”

Seren nodded. “The church after that?”

“Then the circle stones, and we’ll return to camp.”

Trissa was quiet today. Seren could see her from the corner of his eye, watching the canopy. Her hair was pulled back, her freckled face unreadable. Seren had known Trissa for as long as they had been Rangers, but reading her emotions remained a mystery. She hid them behind a wall of sarcasm and stone-faced looks. Prodding her only made it worse, so he decided to leave it be.

They followed the path for a while, marching through the slowly brightening brush in formation, Seren leading with the spear, Fyrn and Trissa tailing with their bows ready. A pod of roxies scurried across the path before them, jabbering in their shrill voices as they rushed past. The forest began filling with the sounds of birds and insects, various calls and responses, and flutters all around them. The blades of light quickly grew more robust and wider as the sun dominated the sky. Seren could see the cloudless blue cut to pieces by the canopy above him.

The tree line began to thin as they approached the farm. There were countless farms like this within the safewood, subsisting on their crops and trading with Falderfell. The Rangers knew Rioth and his wife Lena well. Their oldest son, a quiet fellow named Matthew, joined two years ago. The forest opened into a clearing, the forest floor giving way to a swaying wheat field. Rioth’s house lay in the center of the clearing, the fields forming a circle around it for a couple hundred yards before the forest took control farther out. The wheat grew up to Seren’s chest, and he had to push through it with the pole of his spear, careful not to trample the plants.

“You would have thought Rioth would’ve harvested by now,” Seren exclaimed as he stepped towards the house. Fyrn nodded silently, his brow furrowing in the shadows of his cloak. Fyrn made a quick signal with his hand towards Trissa.

“Circle the back. See if you spot anything unusual.” Fyrn placed his hand on the hilt of his sword as Trissa nodded and disappeared into the wheat field. Unease was building in Seren’s gut as he plodded out of the wheat onto a dirt path that cut through the field. The farm was silent; no dogs ran about, no sounds of work in the fields, and no sign of the bustle that came with harvest time. Seren’s grip on his spear tightened as he and Fyrn slowly walked along the dirt path.

As they rounded a final corner in the field, the sight of the farmhouse turned Seren’s sinking feeling of unease into a pit of dread in his stomach. Fyrn’s sword rasped as he pulled it from the sheath. The yard around the log cottage was littered with debris, bushels of wheat scattered, and a wagon lay in pieces. A dog with matted grey fur, no doubt one of the farm’s pets, lay motionless, a streak of red against the side of the house showing where it had been thrown. The west wall of the house was torn open, the logs splintered as if a massive hammer had struck them. Shards of glass crunched underneath Seren’s boots. He raised his hood, covering his exposed neck with thick fabric. He turned into the hole ripped through the house, his spear planted in front of him defensively. Fyrn followed closely behind, sword held at the ready. Rays of sunlight shone from a gash in the roof, giving form to a scattered mess of rubble and blood.

The wall logs caved inwards, jagged wood chunks scattered across the floor and impaled themselves in the surrounding walls. The massive beam that supported the roof above was splintered and bending like something huge had recklessly crashed into it. A table lay in two pieces, the stained wood caved in by some unknowable strength. Cabinets and shelves, likely family heirlooms as ancient as the house, lay shattered across the floor, pieces of bloodstained glass catching the light. The smell of blood was strong and metallic in the still air. The source of the smell became quickly evident to Seren as he stepped into the middle of the ruined home.

Rioth lay in a broken heap, his arms splayed about him, all going in the wrong direction. The wall behind him caved in slightly. The man had been thrown with enough force to crack the age-hardened wood. His blood pooled around him, muddying the dirt around him. His eyes were open, staring at the sky blankly, questioning what god brought this misfortune upon him. Seren was silent. There was nothing one could say when seeing a man in such a condition. Fyrn walked beside him, sheathing his sword and inspecting the body of the unfortunate farmer.

“There’s only one thing that could do this.” Seren supposed he was asking a question, but it was really just a statement.

Fyrn nodded grimly, closing Rioth’s eyes. “We need to leave. Now.” He stood up and turned to the exit.

“They don’t come this far into the safewood. We catch them before they do.”

Fyrn turned towards him. Seren could see the urgency burning in his grey eyes underneath his hood. “Well, they do now.” He took Seren firmly by the arm. Fyrn was only a few years Seren’s senior, but his grip was iron as he pulled him out of the house. “This is what is going to happen. I am going to run like the hells are behind me to the Camp and send a raven to Captain Gareth.” Fyrn cut off Seren as he began to open his mouth in protest. “You and Trissa are going to continue the patrol. I’ll go quicker and quieter alone. Just because there’s a rot walker about doesn’t mean something else couldn’t have slipped past us. Look for traces of it. You can’t miss the things.” He looked towards the shattered home, the hood obscuring his expression. He inhaled sharply through his nose, the kind of gesture a man does when trying to pull himself together for the younger or less experienced. “If you find it, don’t engage with it unless necessary; you two aren’t experienced enough. Track it, stay hidden, wait for reinforcement.”

The wheat fluttered and whispered as Trissa pushed out of it to the west of the house. Her were blank as she stumbled towards them. She noted the hole in the wall of the house with marked indifference and dropped her bow onto the soil. She pointed behind the house to a stone barn in the wheat fields. “Lena,” her voice shook, and Seren could see the beginning of tears in her eyes. “The children. Their all…in there.” She collapsed to her knees and began to vomit.