Chapter 1
Chapter One
Steele
T he rain beats down in relentless sheets, each droplet like an icy needle against Steele’s skin, mirroring the desperate, cold grip of the village’s despair. He swings his sword wildly, and with each labored grunt, he cuts through a tiny section of the gnarled brambles and thorny bushes shrouding the long-forgotten path. The blade catches on branches, snapping them like brittle bones, the sounds being swallowed by the storm. This path—this forbidden stretch of forest—has haunted his childhood like a shadow, whispered of in fireside tales meant to keep wandering boys from testing its dark embrace.
The woods are a coagulation of ancient, decrepit trees, their twisted forms clawing skyward as if begging for salvation. The rumors told of ghostly wails, of creatures lurking just beyond sight, of those who entered but never returned. Steele remembers laughing at those stories once, fearless in his youth. But now, the chill crawling up his spine is far from childish terror.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
His family hasn’t eaten in days. The thought of his little sister’s hollow cheeks and his mother’s trembling hands push him onward. Ever since the death of his beloved father, Steele has taken on the burden of making sure his mother and sister eat and are cared for.
If the rumors are true, and there is something hidden in this cursed forest—a treasure, a beast with a bounty on its head, anything—then he has no choice but to find it. Starvation is the only thing more certain than the danger awaiting him in the shadows.
Another swing, another spray of broken thorns, and the path opens slightly. The forest yawns before him, its heart an abyss of flickering shadows and suffocating silence.
Steele takes a shaky breath, gripping his sword tighter.
There’s no turning back now.
Years ago, a mysterious blight swept across the land, leaving crops to rot in the fields and the soil barren. The sickness spread from plants to livestock, wiping out the kingdom’s once-prosperous farmlands. The villagers called it the Plague of Withering, believing it to be a curse brought on by the king’s greed.
The once beloved king, rumored to be a sorcerer, vanished into the night after a bitter fallout with the queen. Many whispered that he cursed the land as vengeance, stripping it of fertility and prosperity. His departure divided the court, made the people resentful, and left the queen broken.
The queen sought to secure resources, distract her people from their suffering, and waged an ill-advised war against a neighboring kingdom. The conflict drained the treasury, weakened the army, and left the borders vulnerable. When the army returned in defeat, the kingdom’s coffers were empty, and its enemies circled like wolves.
The ancient forest bordering the court, long a source of myth and fear, began encroaching on farmlands and roads. The villagers believe it’s alive, reclaiming what was stolen from it centuries ago when the kingdom expanded its territory. Tales of eerie whispers and vanishing hunters spread, keeping even the bravest from venturing too far.
Sensing weakness, the nobles began hoarding their little wealth and resources, tuning on each other to secure their survival. The royal family’s influence diminished, leaving the villages to fend for themselves. Bandits roamed freely, preying on the vulnerable and plunging the kingdom into chaos.
The kingdom had once thrived under the blessings of its deity, but as suffering spread, temples were abandoned and priests silenced. The people began to believe they were forsaken, their prayers unanswered. Some turned to forbidden magicks or the forest’s dark whispers, further dividing the land’s fragile unity.
All of these calamities culminated in what the people now call the Great Hunger. With the land barren and the treasury empty, starvation swept the kingdom. Families like Steele’s, once modest but self-sufficient, now faced the unbearable choice of watching loved ones waste away or venturing into danger for scraps of survival.
Once a shining beacon of prosperity, the kingdom now exists as a husk of its former self, its people held together only by the faint hope that something—anything—might save them from the abyss.
The calluses burn his hands as he strikes another row of thorns in front of him, his skin bloody and scratched from doing this for hours in the rain. The only thing keeping him going is the thought that whatever lies behind this miles-wide thicket of thorns has to be better than what he’s leaving behind.
The sky has darkened due to the bloated black clouds blotting out the sun, and his stomach rumbles in protest to the exertion he’s emitting to rid the path of these cursed vines. The rain has been falling in fits and starts throughout the whole day, and he hasn’t rested since he woke up this morning.
It’s been five days since he set off into the forbidden forest; his mother, sister, and other family and friends waved him off into the depths of despair he’s now in.
Many others have tried and failed to fell these woods, to get as far as they could and discover there is actually an end to them, but every man, woman, and child who has ventured too far into this dark and forbidden place either haven’t returned, or haven’t returned the same.
There are also rumors dating back to the Great Hunger—hundreds of years of folklore—telling a tale of something so wicked living at the edge of the forest, so wicked indeed that it killed every living tree within a hundred-mile radius.
Tales of what or who this evil is has been lost to time, warping and wafting with every new version. They’re so distorted and aged that no one knows the origin or if the rumors have even an inkling of truth.
No one knows.
Anyone who’s made it to the end of the dead trees has never returned to tell the tale.
However, it is going to change for Steele.
He will be triumphant and bring back a valuable treasure that will be worth his weight in gold.
He will be the savior of Wyndhallow.
Exhaustion blurs his vision as he stops and rests on the trunk of a large tree, unhooking his canteen from his belt and taking two large swigs. He had filled the canteen up this morning by the babbling brook he’d made camp by, boiling the water before funneling it into his container.
The few berries he’d found weren’t much to quell the ache in his gut from the hunger pangs but he knew, more than anything else, that he was close to uncovering something.
He can feel it.
Capping the canteen, he wipes his beard with his gloved hand, removing the sweat, rain, and spittle before continuing.
Chop, chop, swing. Chop, chop, swing.
The rhythm of his blade bites through the thick vines as the last remnants of daylight fade, swallowed by the encroaching darkness. His vision diminishes in the dimming light, and the cold rain soaks him to the bone. Just as he considers giving up for the night, a sound stops him mid-swing.
Music.
“No,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head. It can’t be. I must be imagining things.
He cocks his head, straining to hear beyond the drumming rain. The faint notes of a lute weaves through the wind—or so he thinks. But then, just as quickly, the melody shifts into the harsh caw of a distant bird echoing beyond the craggy woods.
He exhales sharply, gripping his sword tighter. Then it comes again—the unmistakable melody, light, and teasing, pulling at something deep inside him.
This time, he knows he isn’t imagining it.
Adrenaline surges through his veins. He swings faster, slashing at the tangled brambles with newfound desperation. Each vine feels like a prison, keeping him from salvation—or maybe insanity. He isn’t sure which. His breath comes in ragged gasps as he hacks away, driven by something he can’t explain.
Then, through the choking mass of vines, a faint, shimmering red light pulses in the darkness.
He throws his head back and laughs at the rain, a wild, unhinged sound that echoes through the air. Whether it’s relief, madness, or some cruel joke of exhaustion, he doesn’t know. But he keeps going.
Six more layers.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Finally, the last of the vines fall away, and the sight before him steals his breath.
Lightning cracks the sky, and Steele narrows his eyes ahead of him against the sting of the rainfall.
A magnificent rose garden yawns in the hallow, glowing faintly in the stormy night. It’s like a labyrinth of life and fire, with intricately shaped hedges depicting fantastical creatures, their forms illuminated by the soft, pulsing light of thousands of roses, lilies, lotus, and daffodils—all made of fire.
In the heart of the garden, atop a grand fountain, stands the largest lotus, glowing a brilliant red and crackling with flames. As he steps closer, he swears he hears it whisper.
“Pluck me,” it beckons. “Pluck me, and you’ll never go hungry again. Cut me down, and I’ll turn to gold. Sell me, and you’ll be richer than kings.”
“No, pick me!” another flower screams, its voice seductive and honeyed. “I bring eternal youth and boundless love to anyone who keeps me.”
The whispers grow louder, an intoxicating symphony that clouds his thoughts.
Drawn in, his hand trembles as he reaches for the largest flower. The whispers swell, promising salvation, wealth, and love. His blade lifts, ready to sever the stem and claim his prize.
But just as the blade begins to descend?—
The world goes black.