As the trio walked further from the heart of the village, the atmosphere seemed to shift. The lively sounds of the villagers slowly faded, replaced by the occasional rustle of leaves and distant chirping of birds. The air felt cooler here, on the outskirts.
Shadowheart, attempted to strike up a conversation. "So, Lae'zel... um, what do you think of this village?" she asked, her voice soft but curious, trying to cut through the tension that always seemed to linger between them.
Lae'zel's amber eyes flicked briefly towards her but remained stern. "A very strategic position," she replied with that typical githyanki seriousness. "Easy to defend, hard to attack. With more fortification, this village could be transformed into an impenetrable fortress." Her tone was cold, detached, as if she were surveying a potential battlefield rather than a place where people lived their lives.
Zanisa, the gnome woman leading them, cast a quick glance back at Lae'zel before turning her gaze forward again, clearly not eager to engage in that particular line of thought.
“Right... let’s change the subject,” Shadowheart muttered, rolling her eyes slightly before asking a question that seemed to weigh on her mind more. “What do you think about Alex?”
Lae'zel didn’t answer immediately, her stern expression softening only slightly. After a pause, she replied, “He is a great ally who shows that he isn’t afraid to bleed for his comrades.”
Shadowheart chuckled softly at that, lowering her voice so only Lae'zel could hear. "I don’t think there are many people out there who would let themselves be decapitated just to prove a point," she whispered, recalling the event with a mixture of disbelief and awe.
Lae'zel’s jaw tightened, and for a fleeting moment, there was something in her eyes—something Shadowheart had never expected from her. Regret. “That was a grave mistake,” Lae'zel admitted, her voice just above a murmur, though still laced with her characteristic pride.
The brief moment of vulnerability caught Shadowheart off guard, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it. Lae'zel, recovering quickly, gave her a pointed look. “But what about you, Shadowheart? Your eyes seem to linger more and more on him,” Lae'zel said, her voice low and teasing, but with that smug edge.
A faint blush crept up Shadowheart’s cheeks, the coolness of the night doing nothing to hide it. "It just happens that he’s always in front of me, nothing else," she replied quickly, though her voice faltered slightly.
Lae'zel’s lips curled into a knowing smile, the rare expression lighting up her sharp features. Shadowheart could feel the heat rising in her face even more, but before she could snap back with a witty retort, they were interrupted.
"Uh, sorry to interrupt, but we've reached our destination," Zanisa said, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife.
Both Shadowheart and Lae'zel turned their attention to the small, weathered cottage in front of them. The shutters were crooked, and the faint scent of damp earth and livestock hung in the air. Zanisa knocked on the door lightly, but there was no answer. She knocked again, this time harder, the sound echoing in the stillness of the evening.
The door swung open with a sudden creak, revealing a gnome standing in the doorway. His face was flushed red, and Lae'zel’s nostrils flared at the overpowering scent of alcohol that hit them like a wall.
The gnome’s eyes were bloodshot, his expression blank and distant. The tension was palpable as Shadowheart exchanged a wary glance with Lae'zel.
Zanisa hesitated before speaking, her voice soft but concerned. "Feltor… we’re here to talk with you."
"Talk about what? Leave me alone!" Feltor's voice cracked with raw frustration as he slammed the door in their faces. The dull thud of the wooden door echoed through the air.
Zanisa let out a soft sigh, turning to Shadowheart and Lae'zel, her eyes filled with sympathy. "He’s usually so kind… gentle, even," she began, her voice low, almost as if she feared Feltor might hear through the door. "But one of the livestock that died… a ox. He raised it himself, from the moment it was born, a little calf barely able to stand. He cared for it like family. Losing Tardo—" her voice broke slightly, and she swallowed, "It’s like losing a part of himself."
Shadowheart furrowed her brow, glancing at the door before looking back at Zanisa. "Then what do we do? " she said, her voice a mixture of frustration and compassion. Feltor’s pain was palpable, seeping through the cracks in the door he had slammed shut, and it wasn’t just about the loss of an animal. It was about the emptiness that followed, a void that no one seemed able to fill.
Lae'zel walked forward and her boot connected with the door with a resounding crack, sending it flying off its hinges, splinters scattering across the floor. Shadowheart’s eyes widened slightly, her brow furrowing as she shot Lae’zel a quick glance of both surprise and exasperation. But the githyanki warrior barely noticed, her expression cold and unyielding, focused entirely on the task at hand.
Another door slammed against the wall with a loud bang, and within moments, Feltor came barreling out from deeper within the house. His face was flushed a deep red, veins pulsing at his temples, the pungent smell of alcohol clinging to him like a second skin. In his hand, he gripped a small but deadly knife, the blade trembling slightly as his rage fueled his erratic movements.
“You fucking moron!" he shouted, his voice cracking as it soared with fury. "Why the hell did you break my door?!”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Feltor lunged forward, wild and reckless, his eyes filled with grief and anger. The knife gleamed briefly in the dim light, aimed straight for Lae’zel’s chest. But before the blade could even come close, the githyanki warrior moved with lightning speed. Her hand shot out, and in a flash, an ethereal, glowing psionic blade materialized in her grasp. It shimmered faintly, radiating a deadly, otherworldly energy as she held it inches from Feltor’s face.
Feltor froze, the tip of the blade nearly grazing his eye. His breath came in ragged gasps, his anger instantly evaporating as he stared wide-eyed at the weapon before him. The knife slipped from his trembling hand, clattering uselessly to the floor. His entire body seemed to sag as the reality of the situation finally sank in.
Lae'zel's voice was low and dangerous, her tone sharp enough to cut through steel. “You will answer our questions, gnome," she growled, her gaze piercing. "Or you can die for all I care.”
Feltor’s hands shot up in surrender, his face now pale and dripping with sweat. The fire in his eyes had been extinguished, replaced with sheer terror. The alcohol that once fueled his rage seemed to drain from his system in an instant as he stared at Lae’zel, utterly cowed by the githyanki's lethal presence.
Behind her, Shadowheart and Zanisa watched in silence, the tension in the room palpable. Zanisa looked visibly shaken, while Shadowheart wore a look of resigned understanding. She had seen Lae’zel in action before, and while the githyanki's methods were extreme, they were undeniably effective.
“Please… I’ll talk,” Feltor muttered, his voice cracking under the strain.
Lae’zel lowered the blade but didn’t dismiss it, her amber eyes still locked onto his. “Speak quickly,” she demanded, her voice cutting through the tense air like a blade itself. "Tell us what happened."
Feltor swallowed hard, glancing between Lae'zel and the others. His defiance had melted away, replaced by the hollow look of a man haunted by something he could hardly comprehend. "It was... in the middle of the night," he began, his voice hoarse, "I heard the livestock screaming. A sound I’ll never forget, like they were being torn apart. I—I rushed outside, but… by the time I got there…"
He trailed off, his eyes distant as the memory unfolded before him. Shadowheart watched closely, her expression softening as she saw the pain etched into every line of his face. Zanisa, standing quietly beside her, looked down, understanding the weight of what he was about to say.
“There was nothing,” Feltor continued, his voice quieter now. “Not a single animal in sight. Just silence. Cold, dead silence.” He shivered at the recollection. “I thought of running after them, following the sounds, but… something stopped me. I realized how stupid it would’ve been to run out there alone, in the dark… whatever took them, whatever made them scream like that… it wasn’t something I could face by myself.”
Feltor’s eyes filled with a sadness deeper than mere loss. “So, I ran to the village and brought some friends with me, thinking we’d still find them alive. But when we got there…” His voice broke, and he took a shaky breath. “We found them, alright. But they were all dead. Every last one of them. They looked like... like mummies.”
Shadowheart felt a chill crawl up her spine at his words. “Mummified?” she echoed softly, exchanging a glance with Lae’zel.
Feltor nodded, his eyes wide and haunted. “My Tardo… my ox… I raised him from when he was a calf. He was like family. When I saw him there, his body all shriveled up, like something had sucked the life right out of him… I—” His voice cracked, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. His hands trembled as he wiped at his eyes. “I couldn't do anything. I couldn't save them."
The room was thick with sorrow, the weight of Feltor’s grief hanging heavily in the air. Shadowheart stepped forward, her expression softened by empathy. "We will find out who did this," she said gently, her voice firm with resolve. "We will avenge Tardo ."
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Lae'zel, though less overt in her sympathy, withdrew her psionic blade. “We need to know what else you saw,” she pressed. “Anything out of the ordinary. Any sounds, any signs that could lead us to this creature.”
Feltor shook his head, his brow furrowed in thought. “There was one thing… just before we found them, I thought I heard… singing. Faint, like it was coming from far away. I thought it was my imagination at first, but… now, I don’t know.”
"Singing?" Zanisa echoed, her voice barely above a whisper. "What kind of singing?"
Feltor shook his head again, visibly frustrated by his own inability to make sense of it. "I don’t know... it wasn’t a song, not exactly. More like a hum, something eerie... it made my skin crawl."
Lae’zel’s jaw clenched at this new detail, her mind clearly racing. “We’ll need to investigate the area where you found them,” she said firmly, her tone brooking no argument. "This is far from over."
Feltor nodded weakly, the exhaustion and despair evident in every line of his face. Shadowheart gave him a small, reassuring nod before turning to Lae’zel. "Let's go. The sooner we uncover this, the better."
_________
They stood in the clearing, the air around them was still, unnaturally so, as if the forest itself held its breath. The sunlight barely pierced through the canopy, casting long shadows across the ground where the remains of Feltor’s livestock once lay. The heavy silence was punctuated only by the occasional rustle of leaves, but there was no sound of animals, no birdsong, no life—just an eerie quiet that pressed against their ears.
Shadowheart and Zanisa exchanged uneasy glances, their eyes darting around the clearing, scanning for any sign of what might have killed the livestock. But there were no obvious clues. The earth was undisturbed, the ground seemed normal. It was as if the life had simply drained from the creatures, leaving only emptiness behind.
Feltor was sitting down next to them . His gaze distant.
Lae’zel, however, stood apart from the others, her sharp gaze locked on a twisted, gnarled tree that loomed at the edge of the clearing. The tree was ancient, its bark gray and cracked, its branches like bony fingers clawing at the sky. Something about it was wrong, deeply wrong. Her warrior’s instincts screamed at her that the tree didn’t belong, that it wasn’t just some lifeless husk.
Without a word, she strode toward it, her hand already gripping the hilt of her blade. Shadowheart frowned, watching her companion’s purposeful movements. “Lae’zel… what are you doing?” she called out, her voice tinged with caution. But Lae’zel didn’t respond. Her eyes were narrowed, her senses honed on the tree, as if she could feel something sinister emanating from its decayed form.
Standing before the tree, she unsheathed her sword. The blade ignited with a brilliant, crackling flame, casting flickering light across her fierce expression. Without hesitation, she raised the sword high above her head, ready to plunge it into the tree’s heart.
Just as her blade was about to strike, the tree moved.
In an instant, what seemed to be lifeless wood came alive with malicious intent. The dead branches, long and twisted like skeletal arms, shot toward Lae’zel with terrifying speed. They wrapped around her wrist and forearm, pulling her sword arm back before she could deliver the blow. More branches lashed out, snaring her by the waist, her legs, and her throat, their gnarled surfaces digging into her skin, tightening with each passing second.
“Lae’zel!” Shadowheart shouted, her voice filled with alarm as she rushed forward, but the distance seemed impossibly far. Zanisa and Feltor were frozen in place, their eyes wide with terror.
Lae’zel gritted her teeth, her muscles straining as she fought against the supernatural grip of the branches. The flames on her sword sputtered and flared, but the tree held firm, dragging her closer, its twisted bark creaking as it seemed to absorb her strength. The warrior growled in fury, her eyes blazing with defiance. She would not be taken so easily.
With a roar of effort, Lae’zel flexed every muscle in her body, summoning her psionic powers. Dozen of daggers appeared around her and swarmed the tree , cutting away at the branches that were holding her . The flames on her sword flared to life once more, burning brighter, fiercer. She swung it with all her might, cutting through the remaining branches with a single, powerful stroke.
Lae’zel's fiery blade cleaved into its thick, twisted trunk. Her muscles strained as she yanked her sword free, but she didn't have time to celebrate the strike. The ground beneath her feet began to rumble—subtle at first, but quickly growing violent. Her warrior’s instincts kicked in, and she leaped backward just as the dark, snaking roots shot up from the earth, writhing like venomous serpents, desperate to ensnare her once again.
She landed in a crouch, her heart hammering in her chest. In front of her, the monstrous tree ripped itself free from the ground with a sickening creak. It loomed over them, its gnarled branches twisting into grotesque, claw-like arms. The trunk cracked and split down the center, revealing a hideous vertical mouth lined with jagged, bark-like teeth, ready to devour anything in its path. Its roots flailed wildly, lashing out at the air, seeking prey.
From the depths of the split trunk emerged a figure—a dryad, or at least something that once was. But this dryad was no longer the serene, ethereal being of the Feywild. Her skin was a sickly, decayed green, veins of dark corruption pulsing beneath the surface. Her once gentle eyes were hollow, burning with an unnatural, malevolent light. Twisted vines clung to her form, and a staff of dead wood crackled in her grasp.
"That's a corrupted dryad," Shadowheart gasped, her voice tense with recognition. The memory of the Shadowcursed Lands flooded back. They had fought creatures like this before, beings twisted by dark magic. Alex had warned them the undead were coming—and now, the proof of his words stood before them.
Lae’zel, undeterred, gripped her sword tightly, her eyes locked on the towering tree and its corrupted guardian. Shadowheart, by her side, drew her mace and shield, the broken mirror flickering beside her. She wasn’t a cleric anymore, no longer able to call upon the divine power of Shar, but that wouldn’t stop her from protecting her comrades.
As they prepared for battle, Lae’zel raised her hand, her psionic energy manifesting into a massive, shimmering blade above her head. With a shout of determination, she swung her arm down, directing the ethereal weapon. The blade crashed down, cleaving the tree in two with an earth-shattering force. The tree screamed once more, its cries of agony filling the air as it split apart, collapsing with a thunderous crash. Splinters and ash exploded from the impact, filling the clearing like a storm.
But the dryad remained.
Her face twisted in fury and pain, the corrupted dryad released a blood-curdling shriek, a sound so piercing it felt like it cut through their very souls. Lae’zel staggered, her vision blurring momentarily, and she wiped at her nose, feeling the telltale warmth of blood. She’d pushed herself hard—perhaps too hard—but there was no time to dwell on it.
Suddenly, the dryad's staff came crashing down, aimed directly at Lae’zel. Shadowheart, without thinking, rushed in front of her, raising her shield just in time. The staff smashed against the shield with a deafening clang, the force of the blow reverberating through Shadowheart’s arms, but she held firm.
For a brief moment, she tried to summon divine energy, to infuse her mace with the radiant light of a Divine Strike, but nothing came. The glow never appeared. She didn't serve Shar , not anymore. She was alone in this fight.
But it didn’t matter.
With a fierce determination, Shadowheart swung her mace, striking the dryad directly in the head. The sound of the impact echoed through the clearing as the dryad’s skull partially caved in. Her body, once unnaturally resilient, now began to wither rapidly, her twisted form shriveling away as her connection to the tree was severed off.
But the dryad wasn’t finished. She staggered, her limbs twitching as she tried to raise her staff again. Lae’zel, blood still trickling from her nose, snarled in fury. She wasn’t about to let this corrupted creature rise again. With a final, powerful swing of her flaming sword, she cleaved the dryad in half, the blade searing through her body as if cutting through ash.
The dryad let out one last wail before her form disintegrated, turning to ash that scattered on the wind. Lae’zel stood over the remains, her chest heaving, her hands trembling from the exertion. She wiped her face again, a faint, victorious smile touched her lips.
"I didn't know you could do that," Shadowheart said, her voice strained but steady, trying to lighten the mood despite the tension.
Lae’zel, gave a small smirk. "Unlike you, I try to train this newfound power as often as I can," she replied, though the pride in her voice was evident. She was pushing herself harder with each fight, embracing her growing strength, but that faint trail of blood from her nose was a reminder—these powers came at a cost.
Shadowheart's expression tightened at Lae'zel's words. Her fingers clenched around her mace, her mind clouded with doubt. 'I'm the weakest in the party now,' she thought bitterly. She no longer had the divine favor of Shar. She wasn’t the strongest, nor the fastest. She wasn’t even the smartest. A sense of inadequacy gnawed at her insides, like a dark shadow she couldn't shake. She forced herself to push the thoughts aside. 'I have to do something about this.'
Before either could dwell on their thoughts, they were interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps. Feltor came rushing toward them, his face contorted with grief and anger. His steps were unsteady, driven more by emotion than coordination. He didn’t even acknowledge the two women who had saved him as he sprinted past them, straight toward the pile of ash that had once been the corrupted dryad.
With a wild, almost feral cry, Feltor began stomping on the ashes, his boots kicking up clouds of dust. Tears streamed down his reddened face, his voice raw with pain. "This is for Tardo!" he shouted, his words cracking with the weight of his sorrow. Each stomp, each strike of his foot, was a desperate attempt to erase the nightmare that had taken his beloved ox, his cherished companion since its birth.
Lae’zel and Shadowheart stood in stunned silence, watching the gnome’s grief unfold before them. Feltor's anger was not directed at them—it was directed at the world, at fate, at whatever cruel force had ripped away something so dear to him. His pain was palpable, a raw wound that filled the clearing like a heavy fog.
After a few agonizing moments, Feltor’s fury seemed to drain out of him, leaving him standing amidst the ashes, his shoulders slumped and his breath ragged. His tears, no longer hot with rage, now flowed freely with the cold weight of loss. Slowly, he turned back toward the two warriors, his face streaked with dirt and sorrow.
“Thank you,” Feltor murmured, his voice barely a whisper as he forced a weak, broken smile onto his face. “For avenging Tardo.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with a depth of emotion that made Lae'zel and Shadowheart exchange a glance. There was no glory in this victory—only a hollow sense of having stopped something terrible. But for Feltor, it was everything. His eyes, wet and red from crying, were filled with a fragile gratitude.
Zanisa, who had stood silently by, finally stepped forward. She gently placed a hand on Feltor’s trembling shoulder, offering him a small measure of comfort. “We’ll make sure Tardo is remembered,” she said softly, her voice carrying a tenderness that only close companions could share.
Feltor nodded weakly, his lips trembling as he tried to hold onto his composure. He looked down at the ashes, then back at the two women who had fought so fiercely to save his village. “You’ve done more than you know,” he whispered, though the weight of his loss was still evident in every word.
Lae’zel, sheathed her sword, her expression unreadable. She had no patience for sentiment, yet even she could sense the depth of Feltor’s grief. "We did what had to be done," she said simply, her voice hard but not unkind.
Shadowheart, on the other hand, placed a hand on Feltor’s other shoulder, her touch light but reassuring. “We’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again,” she promised, though inside, her own feelings of inadequacy gnawed at her even more. She had no divine power to offer, but she could still stand by those in need. For now, that would have to be enough.
Together, the group stood in the clearing, the ashes of the corrupted dryad swirling around them, mingling with the dust and sorrow that had been left behind.