Four Years Ago – Part VII:
The forest did not let thieves leave unscathed.
The golden glow of the Akar Pool faded behind Hatim, swallowed by thickening mist that curled like smoke through twisted branches. The trees here were no longer luminous sentinels—they were watchmen, their trunks scarred and knotted, copper-edged leaves trembling in a wind heavy with the scent of wet iron. Moss crept up their bark in spirals, pulsing faintly with each gust, as if the forest itself breathed in slow, deliberate rhythms.
Hatim's steps quickened.
He had marked his path—scratches on bark, stones stacked in crude arrows—but the forest undid his work as fast as he made it. Roots slithered across his boots like serpents. The Akar veins beneath the moss dimmed, then vanished entirely, leaving him in a world gone dull and hungry.
Then the silence came.
No birdsong. No beetle hum. Only the creak of branches and the slow, sickening drip of sap from above.
His hand went to the satchel at his hip. The stolen crystals still burned there, their heat a fragile comfort against the cold dread.
A groan split the air.
Not wind. Not wood.
Something alive.
Hatim turned just in time to see the underbrush explode.
Goreback.
Three men tall, a landslide given flesh. Its hide was shattered stone, vents along its flanks spewing steam. Crimson Akar crystals jutted from its spine like broken teeth. One massive limb swung—and a tree snapped like bone.
Hatim moved.
The forest became a blur of shadow and panic. His boots skidded on wet leaves. The Goreback's breath roared behind him, hot as a forge blast. Branches whipped his face, drawing blood. The crystals in his satchel clinked—too loud, too bright—a beacon for the thing hunting him.
Faster.
He vaulted a root, dropped into a ravine, and fell.
Stone tore his palms open. The impact knocked air from his lungs. Icy creek water swallowed him, shocking him back into his body. Above, the Goreback's footsteps shook the earth—closer. Closer.
Hatim dragged himself through mud, fingers clawing for purchase. His ribs screamed. Vision blurred.
A shattered emberglass blade lay nearby—some hunter's last stand. He grabbed it. The edge was dull, the hilt slick with rot.
Pathetic.
The Goreback loomed over him, vents heaving. Red eyes burned like dying coals.
Hatim bared his teeth.
Then—
A song.
No. Not a song. A hum. A vibration cutting through fog like a blade through silk.
The Goreback stiffened.
A flash of white. A scream of splitting stone.
The monster reeled, a gash torn across its flank, crimson Akar spraying like molten slag. It roared—not in rage, but recognition.
And then the Warden stepped into view.
Tall. Still. Armor woven with living glyphs pulsing in time with his heartbeat. A mantle of silverbark leaves rustled at his shoulders, though no wind stirred. In his hands, a longstaff of weepingroot wood, its metal veins singing as it moved.
Another strike. The Goreback staggered, then fled, bellows fading into the trees.
Hatim collapsed. His body was a map of pain.
The Warden looked down at him, unimpressed.
"You're not dead," he said, voice flat, eyes sharp as his staff's edge flicking over Hatim's wounds with clinical precision. "Congratulations. That's rare here."
Hatim spat mud and blood. "Who… who are you?"
The Warden tilted his head. "Name's Kander." A pause. Then, dry as a man stating the sky is grey: "And you are an idiot."