The wind fell still. Then, from somewhere deeper in the woods, a faint whistle rose—like the cry of a bird.

  Alexander’s gaze flicked toward Siegfried and the Gryphons, hardening once more. “But first—you must tell me of these men. They wear the look of sellswords. Can they be trusted with the secrets of our people?”

  Baronsworth placed a steady hand upon his arm. “They are more than sellswords, Alexander. They are my brothers—the Golden Gryphons. I have fought beside them for the better part of my life. Their leader, Siegfried of Aeneria, is a man of honor. I trust him as surely as my father once trusted you.”

  At the name of Godfrey, Alexander’s expression faltered. He bowed his head, voice low and fierce.

  “Still do I hold my oath to Lord Godfrey. Twenty years I have lived for nothing but vengeance against his betrayers. If you place your faith in these men, then so shall I.”

  He straightened, voice hard once more.

  “Come, young master. There is much to say, but not here. I will lead you to our camp—only in the hidden places may we speak freely.”

  Alexander signaled with his hand and gave a sharp whistle, like the cry of a songbird. At once his soldiers moved—swift and silent, vanishing into the trees as though they had never been. Baronsworth turned to the Gryphons and his companions.

  “My friends,” he said, his voice steady, “fortune has shown us unexpected kindness. These men were once sworn to my father. They will lead us to their refuge, where we will be safe. Trust them as you would trust me. Move out!”

  The Gryphons obeyed, falling into line as Alexander led them off the road. What seemed at first impassable thickets parted to hidden paths, revealed only by his Men’s sure hands. Even the supply carts rolled safely through, as though the forest itself gave way before them. For a long while they walked beneath the haunting canopy, where every tree seemed to whisper secrets, until at last the way opened upon a place unlike the rest.

  There stood ancient ruins, half-swallowed by earth and ivy, yet still holding the grandeur of their making. Broken columns rose like the bones of forgotten giants, and wide steps led to the remains of a vast estate—perhaps a temple of old.

  Within the great courtyard the carts were drawn aside, cloaked with branches until they seemed but part of the ruin. Horses were led into makeshift chambers, turning fallen walls into stables. Then Alexander beckoned Baronsworth and the others onward through the shattered threshold of the main hall.

  Though weathered by centuries, the place still held majesty—its columns etched with faint carvings, its high vault broken but proud. At one pillar Alexander pressed his hand to the stone. A hidden mechanism groaned to life, and with slow, grinding weight, a great slab carved with a worn relief of battle slid aside. Beyond yawned a passage descending into the earth.

  Alexander lit a torch, its glow casting deep shadows across his face. “We hide among these ruins,” he said. “They are many in the Golden Woods. Our forebears were wise and mighty; they built for ages, not for years. Garathor knows nothing of them, still less of what lies beneath. What was abandoned and forgotten by the world became our salvation.”

  He stepped forward, flame in hand, and the others followed into the narrow throat of stone.

  “Below us stretches a vast labyrinth—part natural cavern, part work of our ancestors. We have walked these halls for years unseen, striking and vanishing, always beyond the reach of our foes.”

  Baronsworth’s eyes widened. “So there are many such entrances across the Woods? That is how you gained the name of ghosts—you could appear where you wished, then vanish without trace.”

  Alexander glanced back, a faint, grim smile on his lips.

  “Indeed, young master. You have lost none of your wit. The tunnels gave us passage, and mystery gave us strength. Yet…” His voice lowered as the torchlight flickered on damp stone. “That is not the whole truth. There are other reasons our foes named us the dead—and those reasons lie beyond steel and stone.”

  Gil’Galion’s eyes glimmered in the half-light, sharp and searching. He lifted his head slightly, as though listening to something beyond mortal hearing. “I have felt them since we entered this place,” he murmured. “Shadows within the gold, watchers at the edge of sight. Speak plainly, Alexander—what power walks with you in these woods?”

  Alexander inclined his head.

  “You sense true. The Golden Woods are not empty. The spirits linger still—elementals, fae, dryads, nymphs, and others besides. Once, Men spoke with them as with kin, but that gift was lost through the ages. When the Sons of Belial defiled these lands, the spirits withdrew into silence, fearing the malice in their hearts. But with us it was different. For centuries the Sons of Sophia honored this forest. Our fathers held this truth: take nothing without giving back; fell one tree, and plant three in its stead. In time, without knowing it, we earned the forest’s favor.”

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  He paused, the flame wavering in his hand, casting shifting shadows across his face.

  “When exile brought me here, I sought them—and they answered. They saw grief in us, yes, but not evil. Since then they have veiled our steps in shadow and mist, and when our foes come hunting, the forest itself turns against them. To guilty eyes it seems as though the dead themselves rise from the trees. That is how the name clung to us—ghosts of the Golden Woods.”

  Karl let out a low breath. “Incredible. We ordinary men truly know nothing of the world.”

  Alexander gave a slow nod. “Indeed. Much has been lost. The fall of Great Asturia cast the world into a darkness that has lasted millennia. A few survivors strove to rebuild what was broken, but never again did we reach the heights of our ancestors. Our kind has dwindled ever since, and many of the old places—these ruins, these hidden halls—stand abandoned, forgotten by all but memory.”

  Baronsworth lifted his chin, his voice firm. “But now the gods have spoken. The Light shall return, and a new age will dawn—one of beauty and love, where the old ways will be honored again.”

  Alexander’s eyes flicked to him, bewildered at first. His mind, hardened by years of tribulation, balked at such hope. Yet his heart leapt. To it, Baronsworth’s words were as cool water in a desert—sweet and impossible, yet real all the same. The young man’s certainty was a balm, his faith a spark. Slowly, something long dormant within Alexander stirred—the embers of a fire he had thought long dead flaring once more.

  At last, in a hushed voice, he said, “For all our sakes, young Lord Baronsworth… may you be right.”

  They journeyed long in silence through the crystalline caverns, the torchlight catching veins of color in the walls—green, red, blue, violet, gold. Baronsworth recalled the tales his mother had once whispered to him: that in these deep places their forefathers had held mysteries and rites, initiations into secret schools, communing with the gods beneath the earth where the world’s pulse beat strongest. Few mortals had ever passed here, she had said, and so the air remained pure, unbroken, close to the divine. He was lost in those memories when Karl’s voice roused him.

  “You said men forgot how to speak with the spirits. How did you do it?”

  Alexander’s eyes narrowed at the flame, as though peering into a memory. His voice, when it came, was low and steady, tinged with awe.

  “That is a tale I myself sometimes struggle to believe. It was early in our exile. We had no mastery of these woods then, and Garathor’s patrols pressed us hard—soldiers, hounds as tall as men, always hunting. Once, while foraging, my band and I were ambushed. I drew them off to buy my men time. An arrow struck my chest. I ran bleeding, the hounds on my scent, until I could run no more. My strength failed. All seemed lost.”

  He paused, the light trembling over the hard lines of his face.

  “It was then I stumbled into a clearing, quiet as a dream. At its heart lay a crystalline pool, fed by a spring from deep within the earth. Exhausted, I knelt, drank, and made peace with death. I prayed—asking the gods to let me meet my end with dignity.”

  His voice softened, reverent.

  “And then… she came. A lady rose from the water, robed in blue, her hair golden, her form radiant with sapphire light. She spoke not with words, but to my heart, and bade me take her hand. I thought I was dying, lost in a vision. Yet when she drew me into the pool, I found I could breathe—a pure breath, clear as no air I had known. And there, in her arms, I felt peace.”

  Alexander’s throat tightened. For a moment his voice faltered, but he pressed on.

  “She looked into me. She saw my grief—how the death of my son had torn my soul—and yet she said she saw no malice, only a man who still fought for his kin. She told me she was mistress of this forest, and that she would aid me. We spoke at length of things I will not share, but at last I slept. When I woke, I lay upon the moss. Morning sun fell through the trees. My wound was gone. No blood, no tracks, no hunters. I was delivered.”

  He lifted his chin, his eyes gleaming in the dark.

  “From that day, the spirits have been with us. They shroud us in shadow and mist, harry our enemies, and drive terror into the guilty. To them, we are no longer men but shades of vengeance. Thus the Sons of Belial gave us our name—wraiths of the Golden Woods.”

  Karl exhaled sharply, wonder plain on his face. “By the gods. Never have I heard such a tale. The world is stranger—and greater—than we know.”

  Baronsworth was deeply moved by Alexander’s tale. Only weeks ago he had felt adrift, a lone figure in a world of darkness. Now he understood—he had more allies than he had ever imagined, not only among men, but among powers unseen. His voice trembled with the weight of what pressed on his heart.

  “Alexander,” he began softly, “I wish to tell you about your son—”

  “Not now,” Alexander cut him off, firm yet measured. “We have spoken enough. That matter is for us alone, in private. When we reach the camp, we will speak of it.”

  Baronsworth bowed his head. He understood. The wound was too deep to touch here, before the eyes of Alexander’s men.

  They pressed on. The caves widened, their walls glimmering with veins of crystal—emerald, sapphire, gold—like fragments of the firmament buried in stone. The air grew stiller, charged with a hush that felt almost holy, as though the breath of the gods lingered in those depths.

  At length the winding passages gave way to something wrought by human hands. They stood before a vast hall, its sides lined with towering columns in the Asturian style. At its far end rose a monumental set of doors, worked in worn but intricate reliefs—gods and warriors, battles and coronations, scenes whose meaning time had half-erased, yet whose grandeur remained undimmed. Whether carved directly from the living rock or raised by some forgotten craft, Baronsworth could not tell.

  Alexander stepped forward. From his side he drew a great horn, lifted it, and blew.

  The note rang out deep and solemn, filling the caverns, rolling down unseen corridors. It was a sound that seemed older than memory, a summons that made the very stone shiver. At its call Baronsworth’s heart swelled, for it was the same sound that had once heralded his father’s return from war.

  With a groan like mountains stirring, the gates began to open. Hidden gears rumbled deep within the earth, and the massive stone slabs drew slowly apart. Alexander lowered the horn, and with a solemn gesture, beckoned his companions forward.

  And what lay beyond stilled every tongue.

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