Chapter Four: The Silence Before the Storm
The forest of Elarith was a world untouched by time.
Sunlight filtered through the towering silverwoods, casting golden dust across moss-covered stones. Birds sang softly, and rivers whispered through the undergrowth. Here, magic was not channeled or commanded—it simply was. Ancient. Living.
And so was Bryn.
He moved barefoot along a shaded trail, his hands stained with crushed herbs, his shoulder draped in a shawl of woven roots. In one hand, he carried a satchel full of vials. In the other, a branch he'd carved into a staff—more a companion than a weapon.
Bryn had always been different.
While others prayed for healing, he simply placed his hands on wounds and felt the brokenness fade. Some said he was blessed. Others whispered "cursed." Bryn said nothing. He listened to the wind, to the roots beneath the earth, to the stars above.
And lately, they were screaming.
---
He reached the edge of a small hut nestled near a creek. Inside, a boy lay burning with fever, his mother watching helplessly.
"He's cold, but he sweats," she whispered. "He speaks… in voices."
Bryn nodded gently, kneeling beside the child. He placed a hand on the boy's forehead, eyes fluttering shut.
Then he saw it.
A black tendril coiled around the child's spirit—whispering lies, feeding terror. Not a disease. Not a curse. Something older. Something wrong.
"Go outside," he told the mother. "Now."
When she left, Bryn placed both hands on the boy's chest. He began to chant—not in the language of man, but in the silent rhythm of the forest. The light around them shifted.
The shadow hissed.
Bryn's voice grew louder.
The tendril thrashed—then burned away in a flare of green light.
The boy gasped, eyes wide, then fell into peaceful sleep.
But Bryn didn't move.
He stared at the trail of ash that had fallen from the boy's lips. He'd never seen this before. Never felt something that didn't belong to nature.
Something foreign.
Something broken.
---
That night, he sat near the Spirit Tree at the center of Elarith, staring into the flames of a small fire. The elder, a wrinkled woman named Maela, sat beside him.
"You felt it too," she said softly.
He nodded.
Maela's eyes darkened. "The balance is breaking. And it's not just here. I have felt death in places where none should be. The demons are stirring."
Bryn hesitated. "You believe the old stories?"
"The old stories are becoming new again."
She reached into her robe and pulled out a pendant—shaped like a leaf curled into a spiral. "This is for you. It will help guide the others to you when the time comes."
Bryn blinked. "Others?"
"You are one of five," she whispered. "The world has forgotten the truth—but the forest remembers."
---
Suddenly, the fire flared.
A gust of wind howled through the clearing.
And from the shadows beyond the trees came a low, rattling growl.
Bryn stood, staff raised.
A shape emerged—skeletal limbs wrapped in robes of shadow, its face hidden behind a twisted deer skull. Its presence turned the air cold. The Spirit Tree's light dimmed.
Maela gasped. "A wendigo spirit… corrupted…"
The creature snarled, and leapt.
Bryn spun his staff, roots bursting from the ground to meet the demon midair. It screamed as thorns impaled it, but it fought back—tearing through the vines, claws lashing.
The forest cried out.
Bryn narrowed his eyes and struck the ground with his staff.
A wave of green energy erupted, enveloping the demon. It thrashed—then shattered into leaves and ash.
Silence fell again.
But Bryn could feel it in his bones:
This was only the beginning.
---
Later, as he stood beneath the Spirit Tree, Bryn looked north.
He didn't know their names. He didn't know what brought them.
But he could feel them—four other souls flickering like lanterns in the dark.
And they were moving.
Elsewhere, in the city of Velmora...
The palace towers shimmered under moonlight, pristine and beautiful—on the surface.
Behind them, in the servant halls deep beneath the Council Chamber, blood had once stained the stone.
Her name had been Talia.
A maid. Seventeen. Silent. Obedient.
And no one had listened when she screamed.
Lord Damas Renn, a powerful councilman, had always been known for his charm in public—wealthy, refined, generous with coin.
But he had secrets.
The kind that no one dared question.
Until one night, Talia didn't come home.
She was found in the river two days later. Bruised. Broken. Tossed aside like garbage.
No one investigated.
Damas paid off the guards. He dined with the king that evening. He smiled.
And Talia's soul never rose.
---
She had wandered the city, invisible. Screaming. Crying. Until the pain turned cold.
Until her form began to twist.
Her eyes hollowed. Her limbs elongated. Her skin became black mist, her face hidden behind a cracked porcelain mask. The scar on her neck—the mark of her murder—glowed with fire.
Talia was gone.
But something else remained.
And it remembered.
---
One week ago.
Councilman Renn sat in his bathhouse, sipping wine as steam curled through marble pillars. Two servants stood nearby, silent.
Then the lights flickered.
The water chilled.
And one of the servants raised her head.
Her eyes burned red.
The mask of porcelain slid into place.
Damas stood, gasping. "What—what is this—?"
The doors slammed shut behind him. The water boiled black. Screams echoed through the halls, but no one dared open the door.
By the time the guards arrived, Renn's body was hanging upside down from the ceiling, throat slit ear to ear. His eyes had been removed, replaced by coins.
On the wall, written in blood:
"She screamed. You smiled."
---
That night, in the shadows of Velmora, whispers spread.
Another demon.
Another noble dead.
And the people began to wonder—
Were these demons a curse…
…or justice?
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