The road thinned to a pair of worn tracks pressed into brittle grass. Behind them, Highgarde’s low chimneys shrank into the horizon, their smoke dissolving into a pale afternoon sky. The smell of tilled earth and livestock faded with each measured step.

  Lancelot Walford walked at the front.

  He adjusted his grip on the haft of his axe, thumb pressing against the worn groove where years of practice had polished the wood smooth. The weapon’s head rested against his shoulder, its weight familiar, grounding. Each stride set the metal swaying slightly. He corrected it without thinking.

  Why me?

  The question had circled him since the council chamber.

  Not resentment. Not ambition denied. Something quieter. A calculation he could not resolve.

  Laurence possessed steadier skepticism. Lina carried warmth that could anchor a village. Eyda’s instincts cut sharper than steel. Lucas moved like a drawn bowstring. Aeltgen could unspool centuries from a scrap of parchment. Any of them could lead.

  Yet when the roster had been read, eyes had shifted toward him.

  He had inclined his head once.

  That had been enough.

  The wind moved low across the plains, flattening dry stalks in slow ripples. The fields here had not been harvested. The soil grew thin this close to the forest; farmers preferred safer ground. Stone markers dotted the landscape, half-sunken and lichen-bitten, denoting property lines long abandoned.

  Lancelot inhaled through his nose.

  The air tasted different now. Less loam. Less life. It carried a faint mineral dryness, like dust left too long undisturbed.

  He slowed slightly, allowing the formation to tighten behind him.

  They moved in disciplined intervals. Not bunched. Not scattered.

  Lucas de Cueto kept the right flank, spear balanced lightly in one hand, its butt end occasionally tapping the ground with soft, deliberate contact. His gaze never fixed on a single point for long. It shifted—horizon, grassline, sky, distant rock outcroppings. He blinked rarely. The wind tugged at the dark strands near his temple, but his posture did not alter.

  On the left flank, Eyda mirrored him, one hand resting near the small of her back where her spell focus hung concealed beneath her cloak.

  Laurence walked just behind Lancelot’s right shoulder, shield secured, eyes narrowed slightly as he surveyed the land ahead. Jacob and Urian maintained the rear, steps matched, shoulders squared beneath their packs.

  No chatter.

  Boots pressed a steady rhythm into the earth.

  Lancelot adjusted the leather strap across his chest. It had shifted half an inch lower than he preferred. He tugged it back into place and flexed his fingers once around the axe haft, ensuring circulation remained steady.

  Why me?

  Because you will not chase glory, he answered himself.

  He scanned the horizon again.

  The Weeping Forest no longer looked distant. Its treeline stretched wide, a jagged seam against the sky. The canopy’s edge appeared uneven, as if the trees leaned into one another for support. No birds circled above it. No breaks in the mass revealed interior light.

  Cloud cover thickened as they advanced. Not storm clouds. Simply a thinning of brightness. The sun seemed dulled, filtered through a faint veil. The ground shifted underfoot. Grass gave way to patches of ashen soil. Here and there, shrubs grew twisted, their branches bent low as though pressed downward by invisible weight.

  Lancelot slowed again and raised one hand slightly. The formation halted without command spoken aloud.

  He listened.

  Wind. Fabric shifting.

  Nothing else.

  He counted his breaths—one, two, three—then nodded once and resumed walking. Responsibility settled in his shoulders more heavily than the axe.

  Six lives behind him. Eight, counting the carriers.

  He did not crave authority. He preferred clear tasks: hold this line, break that formation, defend this breach. Leadership required decisions before the blade ever met flesh. He rolled his neck once to loosen the tension building there.

  Behind him, Lina’s voice drifted forward briefly, low and calm as she reminded Jacob to sip water despite the cooling air. The boy complied without protest. Lancelot did not turn to look. He trusted them. That trust tightened around his ribs.

  The plains narrowed into a gradual incline. From its crest, the forest dominated the view entirely.

  Up close, its color was not merely dark green. It bled into charcoal and deep umber. The outermost trees stood taller than he remembered from childhood sightings. Their trunks were thick, bark ridged and scarred. The undergrowth between them appeared sparse, yet the shadows beneath the canopy pooled densely.

  A faint chill brushed across his cheek. He paused again, this time without raising a hand. The air here felt heavier. Not damp and humid. Simply still.

  Lucas shifted slightly at the flank, spear angling upward a fraction as his gaze locked onto the treeline.

  Lancelot tested the ground with the butt of his axe. The soil near the forest’s edge compacted differently—firmer, as though pressed down by years of undisturbed weight.

  Behind them, the plains remained open, washed in subdued light. In the far distance, Highgarde’s outline barely registered, a suggestion rather than a structure.

  Ahead, the forest loomed.

  He inhaled once more and adjusted his stance. “Maintain spacing,” he said, voice even.

  The words carried no tremor.

  He stepped forward, boots crossing from gray plain to the shadow cast by the first reaching branches.

  The temperature dipped another degree.

  Why me?

  Because someone must take the first step.

  They halted near a scatter of broken stone that rose from the plain like old teeth.

  The Weeping Forest stood less than half a mile ahead. From here, the treeline filled the horizon entirely. No sky showed between its upper branches. The light seemed to thin as it approached those trees, as though drawn inward.

  Lina Bradbridge set her pack down carefully, rolling her shoulders once before loosening the straps. The leather had begun to press into the muscle beneath her collarbone. She flexed her fingers, then reached for a waterskin.

  “Drink,” she said, turning first to Jacob.

  He was already standing too straight, as if someone had pulled a string through the center of him. His cheeks were flushed from the march, but his grin held steady. “I’m fine,” he said quickly. “It’s not that heavy.”

  The pack on his back sagged slightly to one side, one strap riding higher than the other.

  Lina stepped closer and adjusted it without comment, fingers efficient, gentle. She tightened the left strap, shifted the weight higher. “Now it isn’t,” she said, handing him the waterskin.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Jacob hesitated only a second before accepting it. He drank deeply, then wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “I can carry more if needed,” he added. “If someone needs—”

  “You’ll carry what’s assigned,” Lina said, not unkindly. “And you’ll carry it well. That’s enough.”

  He nodded, the eagerness still buzzing beneath his skin like a plucked wire.

  She turned to Urian Fox.

  He had already removed his pack and set it down with deliberate care. His movements lacked Jacob’s restless edge. He conserved motion. Even at rest, his shoulders remained slightly forward, as though braced for a shove that might never come.

  She offered him the second waterskin.

  Urian accepted it with a brief incline of his head. “Thank you,” he said.

  His voice was lower than Jacob’s, steadier. He drank in measured swallows, eyes never straying far from the forest.

  “You’re pacing well,” Lina said. “Better than some recruits twice your age.”

  One corner of Urian’s mouth shifted faintly. Not quite a smile. “I’ve walked worse roads,” he replied.

  She did not ask which ones.

  Instead, she crouched between the two of them, resting her forearms loosely on her knees. “You are not porters,” she said quietly. “You are part of this expedition. If something feels wrong—air, sound, ground—you say it. I don’t care if it seems small.”

  Jacob nodded immediately.

  Urian gave a slower nod.

  “We walk together,” she added. “We return together.”

  The wind shifted slightly, brushing a strand of her hair across her cheek. It carried no scent of pine. No damp earth. Just a thin, cold dryness.

  Behind her, boots scraped stone.

  Eyda Me?ers had climbed onto one of the jagged outcroppings without announcement. She stood balanced on its narrowest edge, arms extended loosely at her sides. The rock sloped unevenly beneath her boots, crumbling at its edges.

  “Careful,” Lucas called from the flank, though his tone lacked urgency.

  Eyda ignored him.

  She drew one dagger from her belt and flipped it into the air. The blade spun end over end, catching what little light filtered through the cloud cover. Before it descended fully, she had drawn the second and sent it following the first in a staggered arc.

  Steel flashed. Her hands moved in quick, precise adjustments. The first dagger landed in her palm by its hilt; the second she caught by the blade’s flat, fingers closing just shy of the edge.

  She grinned down at them.

  “If the forest intends to swallow us,” she called lightly, “I’d prefer it do so after witnessing proper form.”

  Jacob’s eyes widened.

  Lina rose halfway to her feet. “Eyda—”

  Eyda shifted her stance, pivoting on the narrow ridge of stone. Pebbles skittered down its side. She tossed both daggers again, crossing their paths midair before reclaiming them in reverse hands.

  Laurence’s voice cut across the break, even and cool.

  “Conserve energy.”

  Eyda glanced toward him, still balanced precariously high. “I am conserving morale,” she replied.

  “Morale does not require fractured ankles,” Laurence said.

  She laughed once under her breath and hopped down from the rock, landing in a controlled crouch. Dust puffed around her boots. She sheathed both daggers with practiced ease.

  “Very well,” she said, brushing grit from her palms. “I shall be solemn.”

  She lasted three heartbeats before her gaze flicked toward Jacob. “Try not to look so eager,” she added. “The forest prefers seasoned meals.”

  Jacob blinked.

  Lina shot Eyda a look.

  Eyda raised both hands in surrender. “A jest.”

  Urian did not smile. Lancelot stepped closer to the group, axe resting against his shoulder. His eyes moved across each of them in quiet assessment.

  “Five minutes,” he said.

  No one argued.

  Lina picked up her pack and slung it over her shoulders once more. She helped Jacob secure his straps again, then nodded to Urian. When she finally lifted her gaze past them, the forest dominated her view.

  Up close, the outermost trees seemed taller than they had moments ago. Their trunks rose straight and thick, bark dark and deeply grooved. Branches intertwined overhead in a dense lattice that swallowed light.

  The air near the treeline shimmered faintly—not visibly, but perceptibly, like the pressure before a storm.

  She drew a slow breath.

  It felt thinner here. Behind her, the plains stretched back toward Highgarde, toward open sky and fields shaped by human hands.

  Ahead, the forest waited without movement. Cold and patient.

  Lancelot adjusted his grip on his axe. Laurence tightened the strap across his shield. Lucas shifted his spear. Eyda rolled her shoulders, restless energy coiling again beneath her skin.

  Lina rested her hand briefly against Jacob’s back, then against Urian’s shoulder. “Stay close,” she said.

  The break ended.

  They stepped forward together, toward the jagged silhouette that did not welcome them, yet did not retreat.

  The sun bled low across the plains, flattening into a dull amber disc that skimmed the horizon. Its light stretched long and thin behind them, casting their shadows forward toward the trees.

  Lancelot stopped three paces from the first trunk.

  Up close, the Weeping Forest did not resemble woodland. The trees rose in tight formation, bark dark and ridged like layered scars. Their roots broke through the soil in knotted ridges, curling over one another before plunging back into earth packed hard as fired clay.

  He lifted one hand.

  The formation stilled.

  The last wind from the plains brushed the back of his neck, cool and restless. It carried the faint scent of dry grass and distant soil.

  Ahead, nothing moved.

  No sway of branches. No tremor in leaf or limb.

  He stepped closer and pressed the butt of his axe lightly against the forest floor beyond the treeline. The soil inside differed from the plains—darker, compacted, layered thick with fallen leaves that had long since lost their color. They crumbled to fine powder at the slightest pressure.

  He inhaled.

  The air smelled old. Not rot. Not sap. Simply aged, as though sealed away from circulation.

  Lancelot lowered his hand.

  “Advance,” he said.

  His voice did not carry far.

  He crossed first.

  The transition struck immediately.

  The amber light at his back vanished as though snuffed by a closing door. The canopy overhead knitted so tightly that only faint threads of gray filtered through. Within three steps, the sun ceased to exist.

  The temperature dropped. Not sharply, but decisively.

  Behind him, boots followed.

  The sound of the plains—wind brushing grass, distant shifting earth—cut off at the threshold. It did not fade. It stopped.

  The silence pressed inward. No insects chirred. No birds startled from branches. No leaves rustled under unseen paws. Only the measured crunch of their boots against dead foliage.

  The sound rang louder than it should have. Each step produced a brittle crackle that seemed to linger a fraction too long in the air before dissolving.

  Lancelot adjusted his grip on the axe, fingers tightening around the haft. The wood felt cooler now.

  Lucas entered on the right flank, spear angled forward. Eyda slipped in on the left, her usual lightness of step muted by the dense layer of leaves. Aeltgen and Lina followed.

  Jacob stumbled slightly as his boot caught a root. The thud of his recovery echoed. Urian’s head turned slowly, scanning upward through the interlocked branches.

  The forest did not respond to their presence. It did not acknowledge them at all.

  Three more steps.

  Five.

  Ten.

  The light behind them thinned further, reduced to a narrow smear between trunks.

  Lancelot did not look back. He counted his breaths instead. Inhale four. Exhale four. Keep the rhythm steady. The ground sloped subtly downward. Not enough to strain, but enough to feel.

  Laurence moved up beside him. Without ceremony, he drew his sword. Steel whispered from its sheath, the sound startling in the compressed quiet. He raised his shield into position, its edge catching what little light filtered through.

  He did not rush his words. “So,” Laurence said softly, gaze fixed ahead, “this is where the golden path begins.”

  No one answered.

  They moved another dozen paces.

  Darkness thickened. Shapes lost definition. Tree trunks blurred into vertical masses. The air felt denser, as if pressed between unseen walls.

  Laurence’s voice came again, quieter still. “I see no fireflies.”

  The statement hung there, simple and unadorned.

  Lancelot felt the weight of it settle behind his sternum. He scanned the undergrowth. Nothing glowed. Nothing flickered. No hum of promised light vibrated through the branches.

  Only their breathing.

  Eyda’s usual restless energy had stilled. She walked now with measured precision, daggers unsheathed but lowered, eyes narrowed.

  Aeltgen’s head tilted slightly as though listening for something beneath the silence. There was nothing to catch.

  Jacob swallowed. The sound was small, yet audible.

  Lancelot rolled his shoulders once, forcing tension out before it could settle. He lifted his chin and adjusted the position of his axe, bringing it down from his shoulder into a ready carry across his body.

  He would not hesitate at the doorway.

  “Maintain formation,” he said evenly. “Slow pace. Watch footing.”

  His voice felt absorbed by the trunks, swallowed before it traveled more than a few feet.

  They pressed deeper.

  Behind them, the last sliver of plains light narrowed further, then fractured between overlapping branches.

  The crunch of boots continued.

  Left. Right. Left.

  No answering sound. No whisper of wind threading through leaves. No distant animal call marking territory.

  The silence did not feel empty. It felt occupied. They advanced another stretch, and the final trace of sunset disappeared entirely. Darkness folded over them from every side.

  Lancelot did not slow. He stepped forward again, and the forest closed in behind them, sealing the threshold with a stillness so complete that even their own footsteps seemed reluctant to break it.