There were three things to remember when traveling through the Dorark. First, it was not a place to be caught after the sun set. Common knowledge said it would be nearly impossible to find you if your trek wore on into the night. The forest was known to swallow up the occasional solo traveler. It had been generations since the villagers had bothered to send out a search party- a point of pride, it seemed. Any traveler to happen through the village heard the warning “we won’t come looking for ya”, as if it had been adopted as the village slogan. A sign on the road to the infamous forest stated in large, aggressive text “DORARK NO ADMITTANCE PAST MIDDAY”. For every dozen steps there was another sign outlining the various rules and regulations to abide by. By the time a traveler reached the outpost at the edge of the forest they’d been thoroughly warned of the danger that awaited them. It wasn’t uncommon for the guards that maintained the entrance to entertain hesitant traders as they put off their first steps into the Dorark.

The second thing to remember was conveniently provided at the outpost for a small fee. A set of magically sealed earplugs were mandatory equipment and the villagers did not entertain any sort of levity on the topic. Many people rented a pair from the guards at the outpost, though seasoned merchants and adventurers could be expected to carry a personal set.

The third and final irrefutable law of the Dorark forest: to avoid the vegetation with extreme prejudice.

To travel through the Dorark was to accept these conditions.

Situated between two dramatic peaks, the forest corked the bottleneck between the countryside and the Wilds. On one side, a civilization that grew more and more advanced the further one progressed toward the capital at the center. On the other side, a wasteland that grew more desolate and sparse as it wandered away from the Dorark. If not for the vastly shortened travel time of the two commercial highways past the forest, no one would bother crossing through its depths.

Harold brushed at his pants once again as a cloud enveloped him. His “partner” on duty, Torbald, kicked up a puff of dust that quickly caught the wind and disappeared.

“Do you think you could stop?”

Torbald huffed and tossed one of a collection of pebbles in his hand. “I don’t see how. It’s the only thing to do.”

“Covering me in dust is the only thing to do?”

“Only thing worth doing.”

Harold scowled at the kid. The little shit had been on duty at the guard post for all of two months and already he was whining about being bored.

“Just wait until it’s been thirteen years on duty, kid.” He mumbled under his breath.

“Huh?”

“I said I’m doing my rounds.” Harold stomped off into the forest. He heard Torbald spit at his retreating figure and shook his head.

Harold did not remember being an ass at Torbald’s age, but then again, it was hard to judge those things. He vaguely remembered believing that adults in general were conceited and self-important when he was nearly grown. He concluded with a groan that perhaps that was exactly what he had been like.

“Poor kid doesn’t realize what miserable company he makes.” He grumbled.

The forest gently hummed as the air flushed through the leaves. It was the only sound. No birds, deer, bears—not even squirrels inhabited the forest. Occasionally, when the a new layout became evident, he could see clearings through the trees. After thirteen interminable years, the clearings had become the only true perk of the job.

He trudged along the main path finding only a single piece of litter that day- an empty bottle. In the past two months since Torbald began, Harold had been taking daily walks just to get away from the gremlin. At first he’d played them off as “patrol shifts”. He told the kid over and over that it was important to pick up all the litter and keep their area clean. He’d turned himself into something of an activist in the kid’s eyes. Eventually Torbald started ignoring the announcement and any topic that might lead to the nagging. This conveniently left the older man with large swathes of time to himself in the forest.

Today, as every other day, his focus was not on the litter along the road. There was no part of Harold, no matter how small, that cared about litter in the forest. He squinted into the trees, trying to distinguish a clearing from the otherwise solid mass of vegetation. Just this morning Harold picked up on a new layout and every time that changed, the forest seemed to leave him a gift or two. He just needed to look for the…

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There. A patch of forest was markedly brighter than the rest signaling a break in the canopy. With practiced ease, Harold tied a rope to a nearby tree and began feeding it behind him as he walked off the path.

The clearing had been further than he’d expected. Twice, he’d been forced to retrace his steps and find a path that didn’t eat up his cord quite so quickly. In the end, the length was barely too short and stopped about twenty feet from the edge of the clearing. He weighed his options while trying to inspect his “gift”. From what he could tell, squinting and straining at the line to get a better look, there seemed to be four piles.

Four? Four?!

Harold removed the cord from where it had been cinched around his waist and looped it over a branch. He could already tell that he’d happened across a king’s bounty. As always, each pile was dusted in gold coins, trinkets, jewelry and weapons. If he dumped the bottle back into the forest, he would have room in his bag for this treasure trove. He might even need a bigger bag. His heart beat faster at the thought. Harold reached a hand into the pile and retrieved the clothes. They were still sticky with blood meaning that their previous owners were likely among the newly missing. Every month a few more people, usually vagrants, vagabonds and out-of-work mercenaries, went missing. Four at once was unheard of. He held up a shirt and let out a low whistle. Whoever was doing this—whatever it was had been much more violent than in the past. The clothing, often salvageable, was in tatters. Bloody, violent, tatters.

The shiver that was making its way down Harold’s spine was forgotten in an instant. The pouch that plopped out of the shirt contained no less than twenty-two rubies. Their sizes varied wildly from a kernel of corn to a raw lump the size of a mouse. The gold was negligible in comparison, the rubies alone would allow him to retire in luxury. He scooped up everything from the piles, making sure to shake out each rag. Beyond the rubies, nothing else seemed to be of value. The jewelry looked sentimental rather than valuable and Harold couldn’t help but be annoyed. Shouldn’t people who carry pouches of rubies be wearing… well, rubies?

He stopped, realizing just how ridiculous a bad mood was right now. He was rich. Torbald could eat a bag of bugs for all Harold cared.

With a comforting hand on his satchel, Harold stood with a contented sigh. He just needed to follow the cord back to the road. The sky visible through the treetops was slowly melting from blue to pink, his sign to leave. The only step left was to find the rope and return to his new life.

***

The sky was unforgiving to Harold. As he searched for the cord, he grew more and more frantic.

“I left it right there!” He shouted at the tree. The branch sticking out at a 45° angle was, without a doubt, the same one on which he had left his rope. But there was no rope.

He let out an angry cry at the ever-darkening sky.

“Harold, you idiot!” He slumped his shoulders and peered into the trees. The forest floor was getting darker much faster than the sky. The ambient rustling of leaves had silenced with the wind. Not a single sound accompanied Harold through the Dorark. Each crunch of his boot and every tinkle of the gems in his bag seemed to travel only a few feet before being smothered by the oppressive silence.

“A peaceful heart, a tempered breath to guide my soul away from death. A peaceful heart, a tempered breath to guide my… soul…”, away from death. He finished silently. He stopped in his tracks.

Sitting just before Harold in a small pile, much like the ones he had just rooted through, lay his loosely coiled rope.

Harold squinted at the sky. Though the colors of the sunset were still vaguely visible, he could could no longer deny that night had finally fallen.

There was no where to hide, and if there was, he couldn’t see it. He’d squandered precious time looking for the rope, now there was almost no light to look for shelter.

As if from a sudden peal of thunder, a massive crash broke through the silence. Harold screamed.

A moment later he heard a terrible cracking noise followed by the resounding thud of a tree hitting the forest floor nearby.

Anything approximating stealth was discarded in the ensuing mad dash. Harold knew that no matter where he ran, whether it was toward the road or deeper into the forest, he needed to be as far from whatever toppled that tree as possible.

Harold made it only a few steps before going sprawling into the underbrush; his foot caught on a particularly prominent root. The gold in his bag rained down around him, yet he didn’t take the time to rummage in the dark for it. On his feet, Harold took off at a dead sprint. He made it a dozen steps before once again hooking his foot under another exposed root. This time, his satchel tumbled away from him.

He didn’t hesitate before jumping back to his feet and abandoning it. He couldn’t spend rubies if his clothes ended up in a clearing in the Dorark.

When Harold was sent sprawling for a third time on yet another root, the quiet that settled was not silence.

Harold froze. His blood turned icy at the faint sound of footsteps. Not the cantor of a beast charging but a deliberate step. Then another. Then another. Patient. Calm. Inevitable.

Harold kept up his frantic, stuttering journey through the Dorark. No matter how fast he ran or how much distance he thought he put between them, the footsteps grew ever closer.

Finally, with a sickening crack he tripped for the last time. His foot had gotten stuck beneath the root when the rest of his body carried on with his momentum.

As he soundlessly writhed on the ground a new noise filtered through the trees.

Clicking. The sound of an insect chattering- or perhaps the sound of fingernails on a tabletop. Harold couldn’t place the sound but it hardly mattered as the noise drew closer.

It was at this very moment that Harold remembered the second law of the forest. Too late, he grabbed for the pair of earplugs that always hung around his neck. He clung to the hope that by obeying this tenet of the forest, he might be able to avoid his fate.

They were gone. Lost to one of the roots.

“Dammit!” He sobbed into the darkness.

The footsteps came to a stop. Just before him stood a shadowed figure. In the suffocating darkness, only the bare feet of his pursuer could be made out.

The clicking noises broke off and left the man’s weeping as the only sound in the pitch blackness. Soon that was gone as well.