In the days following the assault on New Haven and the escape from there, Falcher, Sura, and all the refugees had made camp in the nearby forest, using the dense foliage to avoid detection. The smoke was suffocating the city and everyone there knew what had happened. The first night away from the city, there was a loud explosion that rumbled the surrounding ground. An explosion completely decimated a part of the city’s palace. Sura’s werewolves, those who’d stayed with her or escaped their suicide mission, reported that the humans had a mass exodus.

While free of the confines of the city and its oppressive mentality, still had no way to get home. He spent two days pleading with Sura for some way home and the answer finally came after a dangerous expedition into the smoldering ruins of New Haven.

On the fourth day, Sura approached a grouchy and idle Falcher. He was muzzle deep in a history book, but the way his eyes wandered said volumes about how interesting the read actually was. She crossed her arms and leaned back on her left leg. She cleared her throat to get his attention. “Still want off this continent?”

Falcher slapped the book closed and groggily looked up towards the black-furred woman. Apathy had, to some extent, already set in and it was visible in his gaze. “One could make that assumption, yes,” he responded in a monotone voice.

Sura’s pleasant demeanor soured. Intending to or not, Falcher’s mood dampened her excitement. Regardless, she still told him, “There’s a seaworthy sailing ship still in the harbor.”

Falcher tilted his head. “You’re pulling my leg.”

Sura shook her head determinedly. “Nope. They ran from the city in such a hurry that they left everything behind.”

The wolf-kin put the book away into a bag and pushed himself onto his feet. He paused his excitement momentarily. “How are we supposed to sail a ship without a crew?”

Sura gestured to the encampment of refugees. “We just need one or two sailors who know their way around and everyone else is muscle. It’s an unfortunately narrow plan, but it’s the best I can think of.”

After an hour of herding the masses, Sura and her werewolves led the way back to the city. The city stood completely abandoned, with its gates wide open. Black smoke plumes still fumed out of smoldering coals. Falcher pushed his way to the front of the march and saw the sights. Half the city was reduced to charred rubble. The palace, now visible across a reduced skyline, was half sunk into a massive crater that formed in the middle of the city.

Crunch!

Falcher looked down at the road as he pulled his foot back. Staring back at him was a blackened skull with burnt red flesh still clinging on. He took two steps back and looked to his right where a collapsed house was. Resting in the doorway with a massive splinter of charred wood thought the chest was another human skeleton still partially dressed in commoner’s clothes. His eyes widened in horror. The brutality of the fight became clear to him as he walked only a few yards down the road. The more he looked, the more bodies he saw, civilian and soldier alike.

He couldn’t stand to look at it. He lowered his head and focused his eyes on the road, following the crowd to the docks. Much like the rest of the city, it too was in smoldering ruins. However, much to their fortune, was a large three-mast sailing ship still docked in the harbor. One by one, each person climbed onboard, Falcher being the last one off the docks. He turned and leaned on the railings, looking back at the city. “So much death and destruction,” he lamented.

Sura walked up beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Whether you agree with it, what’s done is done.” She adjusted herself and gripped the railing with both hands. “So, where are we going?”

Falcher coughed hard, almost choking on his own saliva with that question. With a bewildered expression, he turned to look at her. “What do you mean?”

She nodded towards him. “What do you think I mean? The best chance these people have at living is going to be wherever Oakengrove is.”

The bold assumption she made surprised Falcher. That somehow Oakengrove had a place already planned to house these people. “Sura, I’m going to be real with you.” He took a deep breath. “What the hell are you smoking?”

“What?” She held up her hands, showing her surprise. “These people don’t have a home and neither do I anymore. I helped you escape Huma, you help me find a new home, an equal trade.”

Falcher groaned and slammed his forehead into the wooden railing. He furrowed his brows as he thought about it. “You have got to be shitting me.” He threw his head back, staring with full intensity at the clear blue sky above. He wanted so badly to be done with this overextended stay abroad. This new expectation added to my frustrations with the journey. He straightened his posture and held up his hands, open palms outward, saying, “Alright, fine. I will take you and all these people to Oakengrove.”

The Month of Harvest, approximately three months after Falcher began his journey, brought with it a chilling wind and vibrantly colored autumnal leaves. Oakengrove had worried about Falcher. Fearing a war on the horizon, he wanted his people home. However, duty called, and they needed to fill the roles he provided. He trusted Falcher’s capabilities, just as much as he trusted everyone else’s. He knew them to be capable, a gut feeling that counteracted his anxieties. They finally buried the necrotic journals in the yard, placing them some twenty feet down into the soil, and encasing them in a stone coffin.

The stone coffin was an extra precaution against any sort of corrupting magic that lived in the necrotic books. The Month of Harvest had something that resembled a day of infamy amongst the Vikans and Basars, even with the beastfolk village. Known as the All Hallows Eve, the day was long deemed to be one in which the veil between all realms was at its thinnest. It was the day that ushered in the Era of Monsters a few thousand years ago.

Since the closure of the last hellish portal, the day of infamy became a converted holiday in mockery of the hells. Mostly prevalent amongst human cultures, some history books pointed to it being a precursor to another holy day, one belonging to Syna, the Goddess of the cycles of life and death. All Hallows Eve and the Hallowed Day are two days that represented two very different things. One broke the balance of life and death, and the other fixed it. One makes light of a period of suffering, the other to remember those who endured a few thousand years of suffering.

Oakengrove had a slight fear, a teardrop in size, that those books could have the potential for world-effective damage on a night like All Hallows Eve. Thus, he saw they were not just buried, but sealed for eternity. He attempted to destroy them himself, but their magical resilience astonished him.

The treant had been spending his time honing his magic, getting used to wielding it. Throughout the summer, he’d grown a thousand more trees, doubled the ground cover, provided natural barriers against intruders, and turned a sparse forest into a purposefully wild overgrowth. The air and soil felt clean, and the water was shimmering in daylight. Wild critters prospered under his care as he sought to create a wholly naturalistic utopia.

Since Castias’ attack and the gathering of mercenaries, only a brave few had dared get close to his forest. A fact that he was more than happy with. Peace and quiet, just how he liked it. Then an armored fairy with purple and green wings abruptly woke him up as he barged into his room. “Oakengrove!” He shouted with frantic intensity.

The treant shot upright from his seat, slamming his knees and thighs into the desk. After a prolonged groan of pain, he stepped out, leaned against the chair, and rubbed the soreness from his legs. “Cedrik, what’s wrong?” he asked. The urgency in Cedrik’s voice unnerved him.

“About a mile west of here is a large caravan of humans.” Cedrik rushed to the window and pointed to the distant blob.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

Bewildered by this spontaneous update, Oakengrove waddled over and stared out over the tree-tops. Just beyond the outer edges of his forest was a massive gathering of people. From where they were, these humans didn’t look armed, but they were undoubtedly heading straight for his forest. “Come, let’s go greet our guests.”

The clouds overheard were extra dark this afternoon. A storm was brewing. Alongside the green-winged fairy, the treant patiently waited amongst the foliage, wholly concealed. Then he recognized someone at the head of the caravan. A very familiar wolf-kin in full black leather armor. A wide smile cracked his stern face. With some exuberancy, he walked towards the caravan with his arms outstretched. “Falcher!”

The wolf-kin, whose head was down and his feet dragging behind him, suddenly perked up and upon his face was a pained and exhausted smile. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Apologies for the lack of notice, but I have brought with me some company.”

The black-skinned half-wolf woman gave a toothy grin. “Doth mine eyes deceive me?”

Oakengrove’s gaze shifted over to the woman dressed in the finer garments, but his expression showed no recognition of the one wearing it.

Her formal tone dropped as she rested both of her hands on her hips. “Tsk, you don’t recognize your own damn sister?” she sassed him. “I’m hurt.”

Oakengrove slowly turned his head to Cedrik, who looked equally confused, then back to the woman. “I have a sister?”

There was a loud slap as Sura’s hand hit her face, followed by an audible groan. “Did Velnyr curse you with amnesia? It’s me! Sura!”

Oakengrove’s expression wasn’t the happy one she was hoping for. It was a look of confusion covered up with an awkward smile and a slow upward shrug of the shoulders.

Falcher stood up. “I also brought with me two hundred refugees from what remains of New Haven.”

The creaking of wood echoed as the treant’s head slowly turned to Falcher. “What do you mean by that?”

The words felt like a knife to the chest, as if Falcher was solely and wholly responsible for the events of the past few months. “It’s a long story, but I’d like a hot meal first.”

Oakengrove motioned for them to follow. “I’ll have Frida make a beef stew.”

Frida’s forge was also the kitchen, the sewing room, the tannery, and all things related to making or building. Being the one and only crafter was one hell of a chore. The big eight-gallon cast iron stew pot rested on a stand above the blazing coals. She’d repurposed the Charcoal kiln into an enclosed cookery. Using a long iron poker, she lifted the handle for the pot and carefully brought it out onto the dried, burnt, and cracked dirt ground.

Beneath the lid was a pot of a very cheesy bison meat soup. Bathing in several pounds of melted gouda, parmesan, and Asiago cheeses alongside the meat were dozens of potatoes, all chopped up into bite-sized chunks. Sprinkled across the surface of the soup was a garden variety of herbs, adding texture, color, and flavor to its overall appearance. Despite the very heavy dosage of cooked cheese, the aroma of the garlic and onion powders dominated. The blue-scaled lizardfolk scooped up some of the soup with a metal ladle and took a sip. It was piping hot and the meat juices sat in the aftertaste alongside the gouda cheese.

Affixed to the exterior of the home tree was a large bell with a thick rope dangling underneath it. It resembled dockyard bells, something Frida had made herself to remind her of the ocean that was just out of reach. She grabbed the rope and yanked it from side to side rapidly. The brass bell chimed, and its ring resonated throughout the forest.

Way up in the tree, inside Oakengrove’s personal room, Sura sat on the edge of the makeshift bed the treant used. “I shouldn’t be surprised you don’t remember me,” she commented, “But it still hurt.”

“What can I say?” he asked with a tinge of frustration in his voice. “I’ve been trying to piece together my memories since I woke up five months ago. All I know is that I died and the most likely perpetrators are the same batch of assholes trying to kill me now.”

“I can’t even imagine what that must be like.” Her voice softened as she spoke. She heard the frustration in his voice and his circular pacing only further elaborated upon the troubles that plagued him. “I wish I knew how or when it happened.”

The treant stopped and leaned against his desk. “When did you find out?”

“Enderia told me and she’d only found out through a few of her followers who were in Rykensvik, or what was then known as Mosfel.” She’d hoped that the old country name would awaken some of his memories.

Mosfel was another piece of the puzzle, but Oakengrove didn’t know where it belonged in the tapestry. He shrugged it off and let out a sigh. “I have a few ideas about how I died, but when you put it into context, it makes no sense.”

Sura rubbed the back of her head. “You really don’t remember. That’s actually insane. All I know is that your presence was gone. Enderia didn’t know the details of how it went down, so I’m curious what you’ve found.”

Oakengrove pulled out the chain sword from a drawer in the desk. “Theory one is that one or more of these weapons attacked me. According to a connection of mine, someone designed this type of weapon specifically to curtail plant creatures, like me.”

Sura’s eyes widened at the sight of it. She saw the wood chips and sawdust that were still lodged in it. She said nothing about it, much to Oakengrove’s displeasure.

“Theory two,” he held up two fingers. “A wildfire killed me. Caused by some sort of festival gone wrong, the flames consumed me in a state of slumber.”

Sura shook her head. The second theory sounded too far-fetched with the weapon laid bare in front of her. She stood up and walked over, taking the weapon in hand. She held it gingerly to not activate it and hurt herself with it. It was lightweight and weirdly easy to wield. On the underside of it, she noticed an access panel, held in by some tacks with custom heads. She popped a claw and started twisting.

Oakengrove watched her curiously. She’d noticed something that he didn’t.

With some dexterity and effort, the panel popped off, revealing a dark emerald inside. Crimson vines wrapped around it aggressively. Sura poked the vines with a claw.

The vines erupted into flames, torching the emerald and turning on the chain sword. The chain ran about the racetrack of the blade with furious hunger. It whirred with a loud metallic grinding noise.

In a panic, Sura started clawing at the vines, trying to shut it off. As Sura snapped each one, they withered away, and when she broke the last one, the chain ground to a halt. She plucked the emerald from its chamber and held it. All around it were cracks, some deeper and larger than others.

Oakengrove had migrated to the other side of the room, keeping clear of the blade with as much distance as he could create. Seeing Sura holding the cracked emerald, he approached. “That’s what powers this weapon?” He asked.

Sura stretched her jaw and shrugged her shoulders. “I guess so? I don’t really know. I don’t make contraptions like this.”

“How’d you know to pull that panel off, then?” he asked quizzically.

“Huma has similar artifacts, but usually it’s something different. Like some tube of metal with a lightning bolt on it.” She turned the emerald over and over, trying to look for the familiar symbol. There was none present.

“Another mystery to the puzzle.” The Treant groaned. “Human ingenuity will never cease to amaze me.”

“I don’t think it’s wholly human. The weapon’s construction is human, without a doubt, but those flaming red vines.” She lowered it and looked up at him. “Those were demonic.”

The news surprised Oakengrove. As far as he knew, the portals to the hells had been closed for several millennia. He began stroking his beard as he thought about it. “If demons were involved in making this, what sort of deal did they strike with the druid?” He mumbled. “And better yet, why?”

“Last I knew of the demons, only the princes could still interact with the mortal world and only if someone called them via a ritual. Someone requested this type of weapon.” Sura explained. “Whoever this druid is, he’s in league with the hells.”

“Was in league. He is dead.” Oakengrove snapped his fingers. “The books Falcher brought with him might have details on the portals.”

Sura shook her head. “I’ve read through that library those books are from. Very little is even known by Huma and this world spent almost seven thousand years in the Age of Monsters. If the Huma Ministry of Historical Records doesn’t know, then no one knows.”

Dead ends annoyed him. He wanted knowledge to know what was being withheld. He wanted to enjoy his life and be left alone. The discovery threw another barricade on his road to peaceful living. “I suppose that’s a matter for another day, however. I got two hundred wayward souls to find a home for.”

“When Falcher told me you were back, I had hoped you’d be able to lend a hand with that.” The words struggled to get past her lips. “I wish I could’ve given you a head up about it.”

Oakengrove clasped his hands together, trying to think of where to put them. Building his own village was a plausible idea, but it would take time and with winter right around the corner, there simply was not enough to even build a barracks. He hadn’t seen winter yet and did not know how cold it would get. It would hinder his ability to retaliate, as he’d need to focus on protecting them.

Then he remembered Poppy’s town. Abandoned houses on the outskirts used to be occupied by humans before they were cast out or left of their own volition. However, the town’s leadership was actively anti-human and would likely do things behind Poppy’s back to chase the humans out. Sending them to Rykensvik or to Basar territory would only give them over to what he now considered his enemy, even if it’d be very easy for the refugees to acclimate and integrate.

The treant took several slow and deep breaths, letting the trains of thought clear his mind entirely. “Sura,” he said, looking in her direction. “Can any of them build?”

Sura nodded. “A few of them I know to have been construction workers. What do you have in mind?”