Dilwan, chief of Nybala and foremost among the lower lords of the Hindulië, had just settled down for his mid-day meal when a scout came running into his tree hut.

“Trouble, sir! Trouble,” the young elf said.

“Calm down and speak,” Dilwan snapped, glancing forlornly at his lunch.

The aroma of herbs and roasted Dread Fowl wafted up from the platter. His large paunch rumbled in impatience, unable to tolerate a moment’s delay in sustenance.

Dilwan calmed it with a rub.

The young scout, who was somewhere around iron rank, judging by the color of his aura, bore the same rust-red hair as Dilwan. However, that was where the similarities ended. His copper-colored skin looked closer to bronze than yellow, and the muscles on his arms bulged with definition.

The young lad frowned at the noise from Dilwan’s gut before refocusing his efforts on catching his breath.

Dilwan let the insult slide just this once, after all, he was as benevolent as he was wise.

There would be time enough to remind the errant young that his title of village chief wasn’t to be scorned, especially considering that he had held that same title for eighty long years.

That time could wait till after lunch though. Or dinner. There was no hurry in life.

“I heard the tree nymphs, sir,” the boy said, “while on my usual patrol. They were whispering, and I decided to give a listen.”

Dilwan tapped his fork. Everyone knew that tree nymphs were the best sources of gossip in Dreadwood. The ancient chieftains had taught their children the language of the trees, doing so until the skill had progressed into a racial perk, ingrained from birth.

Despite that, the tree nymphs were just that—trees. And, trees discussed a myriad of useless topics that no one cared to listen to. The village had once employed tree whisperers, whose sole job involved gleaning information from the mindless ramblings of the forest.

However, Nybala had since dispensed with that tradition. The only tree whisperers in Dreadwood survived now in the court of the Wood Elf King. If they learned anything important enough for all the clans, they simply sent a bird.

“I would have thought,” Dilwan drawled, “that you had more important things to do on duty than laze around in a glade.”

The scout went beet-red.

“Well, go on then!” Dilwan said. “Tell me what you heard. I would like to resume eating sometime within the hour.”

The boy comported himself, though his copper skin retained some of his flush. “Apologies, sir. As I was saying, one particular whisper among the nymphs caught my attention. Someone wandered into the wild god's territory and killed his pet.”

Dilwan froze. Dreadwood harbored a single god, and though he sometimes disappeared for decades at a time, the Wood Elves avoided any region he frequented.

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“Where did this happen?” he stammered.

“North-wise, sir,” the scout said. “In the direction of the old tomb, according to the trees.”

Dilwan trembled. What kind of idiot ventured that far off the paths? The humans knew to never leave the roads while visiting Dreadwood, and no Wood Elf with a proper head on their shoulders dared to venture in that direction.

“Did they say who it was?” Dilwan asked. “Did the trees mention who did it?”

“They spoke of an elf, sir.”

“Well, what kind of elf?”

“I don’t think tree nymphs can tell the difference. They didn’t seem to know.”

Dilwan groaned into his palms. It seemed lunch was going to be delayed far longer than he’d thought. The wild god wouldn’t go mad over the death of one of his playthings, but the killer risked piquing his interest, and nothing good came out of attracting the interest of a Herald.

“We’ll send word to the villages,” Dilwan said at last. “If some upstart is out stirring trouble, the chiefs would need to know. Appropriate punishment would be meted to the culprit if we deem the action malicious.”

“But, that’s not all.”

“That’s not all?” Dilwan asked, unable to contain a stutter.

“The killer also visited the old tomb and desecrated the corpse.”

Dilwan whimpered. The old tomb referred to the abode of the Mage Priest, a rather significant landmark in Dreadwood. The Mage Priest had earned renown for being one of a handful of elves to survive direct contact with the Herald.

In life, the kindly priest had spent his time interring the dead. In death, the Wood Elves wanted nothing to do with him ever since the wild god was spotted at his funeral.

“W-what should we do?” the scout asked in a high-pitched tone. “This is the first time anything of the sort has happened.”

“I’m trying to think, boy!” Dilwan said.

“You don’t presume the wild god would take offense, do you?”

Take offense? Who could presume what beings like that thought?

The wild god played games that mere mortals had trouble understanding. Dreadwood, for example, had been classified as a regular spawning ground in the ages before his first sighting. Following his active involvement, however, the forest had changed. Iron-ranked monsters now ran rampant throughout the forest, sprinkled with stronger beasts of Silver.

Dilwan massaged his temples. “We’d have an easier time bottling lightning than attempting to predict the wild god’s actions. The only thing we know for certain is that he has been seeding monsters in Dreadwood. Whether or not he harbors a continued interest in the mausoleum is anyone’s guess.”

“So, our worries are meaningless?”

“Of course, they aren't, you fool! What do you think would happen to the elf or village that catches the wild god’s attention? Can anything good sprout from the mingling of mortals with the divine?”

The scout paled.

“We can’t afford,” Dilwan continued, “to rouse that old beast into action. We sit closer to the mausoleum than any of the others; we would be first to take the blame. Alert the guardsmen and the hunters. I want the culprit found!”

The boy raced out of the hut.

Dilwan dropped his wooden fork, appetite all but gone. He had been incorrect when he described Nybala as the closest village to the old tomb. One other village stood even closer, but it was filled with Nandulië, otherwise known as Dark Elves: alien to the woods and as demonic as they come.

The wily, old Irithiel had written him of her intent to visit. Something about goblin activity in their neck of the woods. However, the tree whisperers of the Wood King had warned of nothing of the sort.

Could the Dark Elves be linked to the unfortunate accident at the mausoleum? Were they finally making a play for control of the domain?

“Either way ends in war,” Dilwan muttered, and he shoved the fowl aside for a single pomegranate.