In a hunt for the enthusiast

The further we went into the Wraithwood, the tighter the forest seemed to squeeze its hold on us. The trees were impossibly tall, their branches weaving a lattice that shut out the sun and cast everything in a perpetual twilight. The air was heavy with moisture and the faint, sweet stench of decay.

No one spoke. Even Lira, usually sharp and commanding, kept her words to a minimum. The whispers continued, soft and elusive, like breaths against the back of our necks.

"How much farther?" Rykard asked, his voice low.

"Farther than you'd like," Lira replied.

Rykard muttered something under his breath but kept moving. He was the scout, but even his confidence seemed shaken by the oppressive atmosphere.

I looked back at the column. Soldiers trudged along, with faces as pale and drawn as clay. Fear settled over us like a shroud, and I could feel it too—a tightness in my chest, a weight that lay upon my shoulders.

Then the trees began to change.

The gnarled trunks grew thicker, their bark blackened and scarred as if burned. Roots twisted and coiled like serpents, writhing just beneath the forest floor. The shadows deepened, taking on shapes that made my heart pound.

" Hold," Lira ordered suddenly, raising her hand.

The column halted, weapons clattering softly as soldiers instinctively reached for their blades.

"What is it?" I asked, moving up beside her.

She pointed ahead. At first, I didn't see it, but then my eyes adjusted to the gloom. There, in the distance, stood a massive tree, its trunk impossibly wide and its branches spreading like the arms of a skeletal giant. Around its base were shapes—figures that were human but… wrong.

"Rykard," Lira said, her voice tight. "Scout it."

Rykard hesitated, then nodded. He shifted forward, silent as a shadow. The rest of us waited for what felt like an age, the silence around us becoming almost unbearable.

The whispers grew louder.

I strained to make them out, but they seemed fragmented, like words spoken under water. A name perhaps? Or a warning?

Rykard returned mere moments later, his face pale.

"They're not alive," he said, his voice shaking. "At least, not in the way we are."

"What do you mean?" Lira demanded.

"They're. rooted to the ground. Their flesh has turned to bark, their faces twisted like they're screaming. They look like they've been there for years, but they're… moving. Just barely."

A shiver ran down my spine. "Moving?"

He nodded. "Like they're breathing."

Lira's face set into stubborn lines. "We go round it. No one gets near it. Got it?"

The soldiers nodded, their fear unmistakable.

We edged past the tree and its wretched protectors, keeping our distance. But the whispers grew louder with every step, a chorus of voices that seemed to come from the trees themselves.

"Help us."

I froze. The voice was clear, sharp, and unmistakably human. I looked around, but the others didn't react.

"Help us," it came again, softer this time.

I turned toward the sound, my hand tightening on my sword. Just beyond the line of soldiers, I saw a figure—a woman, her face pale and her eyes wide with terror. She was tangled in the roots of a tree, struggling weakly.

"Lira," I called, my voice hushed.

She turned, following my gaze. Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.

"I'm going to check," I said, taking a step toward the figure.

"Don't," Lira said, reaching out to grab my arm. "It's a trick."

"What if it's not?" I said.

Her grip tightened. "And what if it is?"

I paused, my heart racing. The woman's eyes locked onto mine, and her lips moved wordlessly, repeating the same phrase again and again. Help me.

"Lira," I said again, my voice steady. "We can't just leave her."

"She's already gone," Lira said, her voice cold.

The woman screamed. Raw, filled with anguish. My blood ran cold from it. I yanked myself free of Lira's grip, not thinking, and then moved forward.

"Wait!" Lira hissed, but she was too late.

When I reached the woman, I saw the truth. Her lower body was somehow attached to the tree, so her skin blended into the bark and root. She looked up at me, tears falling from her face.

"Please," she whispered. "Kill me."

Before I could move, the roots flexed, wrapping around her body and pulling her down into the tree. Her scream ended abruptly, leaving only the whispers.

I stumbled back, sword drawn, but the roots did not follow me.

"Are you happy?" Lira's voice was cutting, her eyes blazing with anger.

I couldn't respond. The image of the woman—her fear, her agony—was branded into my mind.

"Get back in line," Lira snapped. "We're leaving."

We trudged on in silence, the tension between us thick and unspoken. The whispers followed us, growing louder, more insistent.

"Help us."

"Turn back."

"Run."

The forest felt alive, its presence pressing down on us like a predator toying with its prey. And yet, through the fear, I felt something else—a pull, a strange compulsion to keep moving forward.

The Wraithwood wasn't just trying to stop us. It wanted us.

And we were walking willingly into its jaws.