Each step closer to the Bleeding Grove revealed new insights to Dahlia. Echoes of the traumatic rite that created the Bleeding Grove lay barely hidden. The remains of the Fey who helped make it were bound to the trees. None retained any psyche or thinking; only overwhelming hunger for the suffering of mortal kind remained. In the way that apples were similar to oranges, the Bleeding Grove had similarities to the Towers of Mourning of the Soulweald.

Vines and briars slithered out of Mr. Disapoofer's path. The trees, the whole grove, recognized the power of a noble Fey come amongst them, one with more standing than their original leader, Lord Thornheart.

“There is great power here,” Xeras said bluntly.

“And great suffering,” Ruth contended against Xeras’s simplification. Dahlia could already see a branching of suggestions on how to deal with this Grove. It was a personal matter for Ruth, while for Xeras, this was a mere opportunity they could exploit.

Shade hissed in a manner that Dahlia interpreted to be familiarity, or kinship, with the grove. The barely sapient shadow’s entire existence paralleled that of the Grove, and it existed only to destroy, maim, and reap pain upon mortal kind. Shade’s reaction lay on the opposite side of the spectrum as that of the spirit allies and the spirit hornets, all of whom were disturbed or at least felt anxious due to the Bleeding Grove.

The bundle of sensations that marked each of the Ebon Chorus in the back of Dahlia’s mind proved to be a fascinating study of how each reacted slightly differently to things. Dahlia would never have taken note of these different emotions as she was in the Soulweald. Still, the growth afforded her by the massive boosts to intelligence, and wisdom expanded her sapience and grew her recognition of others as relevant. Dahlia wanted to shake her fist at the burgeoning sense she could make of other people. Higher attributes seemed to lead to awareness of more significant problems, but, as Fey loved to point out to mortals—ignorance does not excuse nor negate debt acquisition.

What experiences of awareness and thought lay beyond her reach due to the limitations of her current attributes? Should she spend more Glimmer points to raise her intelligence and wisdom to even loftier peaks? The existential crisis had no immediately ready answers despite the unpleasant sensation the quandary created in her stomach. Perhaps she could better herself without magic? Would that be more or less meaningful? The fairy’s tiny stomach rumbled, and she felt a surge of pain as the anxiety and uncertainty took its toll on her poor little tummy.

“Once, Tithora stood amidst the lush emerald hues of her grove. Her slender limbs blended seamlessly into the bark of her great oak. The purpose of a dryad had always been clear—nurture the roots that anchor the forest’s soul, guide new saplings through brutal winters, and sing in quiet communion with leaves and wind. Yet Tithora felt a hollow ache where certainty should have dwelled. She lingered day after day, wondering at the babbling streams and mumbling ferns, trying vainly to find the meaning all her sisters seemed to carry within themselves so effortlessly.

Seasons weathered the bark of her oak like silent spirits. Tithora saw a young buck’s first steps on dew-kissed moss, heard crows caw secrets from bough to branch, and watched storm clouds pass overhead. The world brimmed with life and pattern—cycles repeated, and rhythms echoed as if all knew their part in some grand, ancient symphony. Everyone but her.

Overcome with sadness, Tithora withdrew into her oak. She stopped singing with the dawn breeze. She hid when other dryads called to her. Late one summer afternoon, with thunderheads gathered in distant skies, Tithora stepped away from her old oak and wandered deeper into the forest’s dark heart. She walked until the vines hung heavy, and the silence felt centuries old.

When the storm finally reached her, Tithora found herself in a tiny clearing. Rain came down in silvery threads, each droplet exploding against broad leaves and ancient bark. At first, the rain fell in a steady, endless drumming that blurred into one deep reverberating tone. Tithora slumped onto a mossy stump and closed her eyes. The sounds of the storm washed over her, and she listened and listened until a strange calmness settled over her.

Between the plinks and plotter of rain against bark and bough, there were moments—tiny, flickering intervals of silence like miniature pockets of quiet hidden inside the music that was the storm. It took her a while to notice these moments—they existed only for the space of a heartbeat. But once she had noticed them, they were everywhere—delicate pauses in the song of life.

That silence, Tithora realized, was everything. The forest’s meaning did not come from a single note or melody but from the interplay between sound and silence, motion and stillness. The world communicated not just in what was heard but also in what was left unsaid. The shifting balance between raindrop and hush, whisper and breath, thought and scream, gave form to a subtle truth.

Tithora had sought some grand proclamation to define her worth, but the forest thrived without bold declarations. The roots that twisted quietly into the soil beneath her feet brought nourishment to the tree without applause. The ferns unfurled their leaves each spring, never once needing to explain to themselves or another why they did so. Silence possessed the same vital qualities as the sounds. Commotion and quiet were utterly essential pieces of the forest’s gentle dance of life.

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When the rain slowed to a sprinkle, Tithora rose and touched her fingertips to the trunk of a nearby birch. She felt the quiet coursing through the wood, the rhythms of life asleep in seeds that patiently waited beneath the moss. She now understood that her place was not to force some grand destiny but to be a calm witness and gentle guide. She was meant to stand as a living silence between the world’s many notes, offering space for growth, reflection, and even understanding.

That night, as twilight softened the edges of the forest, Tithora returned to her oak. She pressed her palm against its bark and sang, but softly—just a few notes drifting into the forgiving, comfortable silence of dusk. Between each note, the lingering hush she had come to love breathed life into the world around her. The forest answered with a faint rustle of leaves, the drip of rainwater, and the quiet acceptance of Tithora’s newfound calm. Tithora found her purpose in that silence, nestled like a seed of truth in the intervals of an even greater song.”

Xeras fell quiet when he finished, Dahlia and the other members of the Ebon Chorus all stared at him with wide eyes and mouths agape. In telling the story of Tithora Xeras, he spoke more words than he had since Dahlia had called him to this world. That the quiet, gruff Gloamknight had so accurately identified Dahlia’s emotional state and spoke a story to calm her filled the tiny fairy with a warmth she had never experienced. What incredible emotion was this? It reminded her of the warmth of Lady Nyxaria’s comfort and safety, but the flavor was different in some vital way the fairy had never experienced.

Even the Bleeding Grove fell quiet when Xeras told the story of Tithora. The bleeding trees eagerly listened—every bit as enthusiastic as they would have consumed a mortal. For a long, quiet moment, their rage, pain, and suffering abated, replaced by a sense of wonder.

Surprisingly, Dahlia found that her stomach had stopped hurting while she listened to the story.

“Thank you,” Dahlia whispered into Xeras’s mind.

Xeras nodded the finely shaped wood of his head at her as if speaking had exhausted his allocation of words for the near future.

“To the heart of the grove,” Dahlia commanded Mr. Disapoofer. Lorien and Drynthor took the lead, the ranger finding a safe path for the party while Drynthor looked every way, prepared to defend against surprise attacks.

The very few vines that hung from bleeding boughs looked more like chains than regular vines, and Dahlia did not doubt that the dense magic that infused them would allow for whip-like attacks that would drag humanoid races to their demise against the trunk of a bleeding tree. Skeletal remains littered the floor of the grove, and as they traveled toward its heart, they only grew more common.

A colossal tree rose above all the others at the center of the Bleeding Grove. Its crimson leaves shone thick with the pulsing of blood within the shiny spouts, and Dahlia could almost hear the thump-thump of mortals' blood pulsing within the massive tree. Barely concealed next to each leaf were sharp, spiny needles, ready to puncture and drain mankind of their vital fluids.

“Oh, Lord Thornheart, it should not have come to this…” Ruth sobbed.

The forest floor beneath the boughs of the humongous tree was littered with the crushed bone fragments of countless men and women. So thick were the bones here that if one were so inclined, they could build a large section of road with naught but the skulls of the dead.

Dahlia could feel the dark power of the spell and the trees themselves at the center of the Bleeding Grove. Power such as this was a rare commodity that could be drunk from in the same manner as a stream with sweet, flavored water. Yet, there were dangers to powers like this. The emotional connection, the hatred, and the suffering would spill over into any who dared to drink too deeply from this font of magic. How long could someone drink from the flow of magic before it corrupted them? It was a game with no winners, and Dahlia hated to lose.

A tiny sliver of a voice, one that sounded like that bitch Deborah, suggested that Dahlia enslave the Bleeding Grove, bind its power, and use it to rain destruction upon mortal man in violent retribution for making another Fey resort to these desperate measures. There were other options, of course. She could break the curse and let the lingering essence of the Fey bound here return to the Soulweald, where they would heal and eventually be reborn. That one came with its dangers, though.

“How many mortals do you think this grove has eaten over the years?” Dahlia mused.

Shade answered with a snarl. Dahlia translated the snarl to mean not enough.

“What will we do, Mistress?” Ruth asked Dahlia, hope shining in her insubstantial, ethereal eyes.

Dahlia activated the Insight of the Thaumaturge, and the magical power flow grew even clearer to her eyes. She gazed at the central tree, the lesser trees, and the piles of bones. The whole of the Grove had become so steeped in magic that any action she took was liable to have a significant reaction.

Yet Ruth’s puppy-doglike eyes plead to her. Not for the freedom of the suffering human souls but for the fate of her fellow soldiers and Lord who had bound themselves outside the proper flow of existence.

“Why don’t you ask your Lord Thornheart what he wants, dear?” Dahlia answered and gestured to the tree.

“He’s… still there?” Ruth gasped in horror.

“Only one way to find out, isn’t there? Talk to him. We’ll stay right here,” Dahlia assured the spectral mage.

“Okay,” Ruth nodded. The spirit approached Lord Thornheart's vessel. After a few moments, Ruth touched a hand to the tree. From their distance, none of the Ebon Chorus could hear what Ruth said, save for Mr. Disapoofer, who had quite amazing hearing. Dahlia didn’t eavesdrop through her familiar, though. Instead, she considered how to break the curse without having a potent power source on hand, such as a dragon’s heart.

Dahlia still hadn’t worked it out entirely when Ruth returned.

“Lord Thornheart had forgotten the Soulweald exists, Lady Dahlia. Your presence reminds him of what should have been. Would you please save him?” Ruth requested.

“I will, but it’s going to cost him, and he’d better not be stingy about paying up,” Dahlia answered with a huge grin. Only Xeras seemed to notice the bright, cheery voice and the large grin hid Dahlia’s true feelings on the matter.

One question cycled through Dahlia’s mind again and again.

How could any Fey forget the Soulweald?