Chapter 4 Look to the Forest
Look to the Forest
Morning light spilled over the rooftops, the sky was still waking as beams of pale-gold threaded through the clouds. Sorcha crossed the town’s edge, her boots clicking on the worn paths. Her task was simple: check in with townsfolk, gather word from the nearby farms, keep her eyes open.
Just a routine patrol, but the tension in her steps hadn’t eased since the meeting at Skyfall. A cool breeze carried the scents of cinnamon sugar that kissed her nose, and her stomach grumbled in response.
“I suppose the bakery is the first stop this morning.” Looking towards the stone and wood buildings, smoke puffed from one peculiar chimney.
It was as though it was trying to create stairs to the heavens but strayed too far right, sat her favorite bakery.
Loaves of bread, biscuits, honeyed buns and other sweets lined the shelves in the window.
“Milis Bakery” gold lettering hung over the open door as a tall, stocky older gentleman walked out, clapping flour into the air from his hands.
Milo. He had a strong yet gentle face with the most joyful smile.
He dusted flour from his arms, his sea-foam eyes crinkling as he waved Sorcha inside.
“Here,” he said, pressing a honeyed roll into her hand. The pastry was still warm, the glaze sticky on her fingertips. “Those damn deer will be the death of me. I’ll be out of business, and you’ll be out of honey rolls. Wee devils need to be controlled.”
The buttery sweetness melted across her tongue, and she nearly choked trying to hold in her laugh. Soon she was snorting, and Milo doubled over too, shaking his head.
“I’m serious, Sorcha!” he said, wagging a flour-dusted finger at her. “Stop laughing. They’re conspiring against me.”
“Milo,” she said between chuckles, “I highly doubt the deer are holding secret gatherings to discuss your downfall.”
“You just wait, missy. You’ll see.” His grin lingered, though his tone softened. “In the meantime, could you do something about it?”
Sorcha licked a smear of honey from her thumb and nodded. “I’ll help reinforce your cellar door and leave food out to draw them off.”
“Good girl,” Milo muttered, already stuffing extra rolls into a paper bag. He shoved it into her hands, the warmth of the bread seeping through the paper. “Take these before the deer do.”
Sorcha shook her head, smiling as she stepped back into the morning light, the comfort of sugar and laughter clinging to her even as she turned toward the rest of town.
By the gossip well, where the older women always gathered to talk, two muttered about squirrels tearing through dried herbs and the forest feeling “off.” Sorcha made a note of it as she thanked them and kept moving.
Since her last encounter had nearly ended with her throwing herself into the well to escape their questions, she had learned to keep conversations short.
She knew that if she lingered too long, they would corner her about whether she was seeing anyone or planning to marry, which was the last thing she wanted to discuss.
She’d rather face wolves than the village gossips.
By midmorning, she had made her way through most of the inner paths, looping out now toward the distant fields.
One last stop before circling back was a small farm on the outermost edge, where crops thinned and the woods crept closer with every season.
She knew the place; the apple trees were her favorite.
The sweet smell of apples carried on the breeze when they ripened.
They were a quiet and lovely family. They had sheep, a few chickens, a sweet dog who would bark happily, and they were always generous with apples in the fall.
But the moment she stepped past the gate, she felt it.
The quiet that welcomed her was anything but normal, the absence of the barking dogs or clucking from the coop.
A heavy, sour sweet stench drifted on the breeze, strong enough to sting the back of her throat.
The house ahead was quiet, but as she stepped closer, she saw blood trailed along the ground to the barn.
The barn door was ajar, its edge splintered as if it had been forced open. She drew her blade before stepping inside. The smell of blood and decay crashed into her.
Three sheep torn open in brutal, careless slashes. A small pile of decapitated chickens lay nearby, sliced up and gutted. Entrails spewed across the barn floor as flies buzzed in lazy spirals above the carnage. Dried drag marks streaked the floorboards, leading toward the back pasture.
A man stood in the shadows, shoulders hunched, his face pale. He stood over a mound as tears streamed down his face as he turned to her.
“We didn’t hear it come,” he said, voice rasping like he’d swallowed gravel.
She knelt down, studying the ground. Wide claw marks scored the floor, deep and uneven gouges. Claws that had broken off were submerged in the blood. Next to it, almost lost in the gore, were boot prints.
“Which way does the trail lead?”
The man pointed silently towards the woods. She’d followed the blood through the fields, slipping into the trees, boots silent as she moved. The sun had just disappeared below the horizon, giving way to a darkening velvet sky. The faint trail of fresh footprints leading deeper into the trees.
Fog rolled low, swallowing her boots. A shape formed ahead; she crouched instinctively behind a fallen log. Branches cracked in different directions, snapping her aim between shadow and sound.
Her eyes locked onto a shape materializing in the haze. It was a figure, tall and strong. For a moment, she wondered if it was the injured beast. But as he stepped closer, his face came into view, outlined by moonlight filtering through the trees.
His coppery-blond hair had just brushed the tops of his broad shoulders, and slate-blue eyes stood in stark contrast against the dark.
His jaw was powerful and square, softened only by the faint shadow of stubble that traced its clean lines.
Sorcha watched him closely, her attention locked onto the man in front of her.
He appeared to be searching for something when a sudden crack behind them startled both to attention.
Branches continued to break under the weight of the unseen.
When out of the undergrowth, the wounded creature lunged.
Its snarls tore through the stillness. Sorcha spun, bow rising in one fluid motion.
Her runes flared beneath her skin, heat racing along her arms. But before she could release the string, the man stepped forward and raised his hands.
His tunic caught the wind, the fabric clinging just long enough to outline the strength of his arms, the long stretch of his torso.
Sorcha’s gaze snapped between him and the approaching creature.
Mist coiled around the forest floor, curling between tree roots and twisting through the air as if it had a will of its own.
As the creature charged, the haze snaked toward it, wrapping around its limbs, constricting as it struggled forward.
Its snarls turned to screams when the mist curled around its legs, it thrashed against the force overtaking it.
The man turned pale, staring wide eyed as he whispered.
His hands moved, and the mist responded.
It surged around the beast, tightening its grip until the creature’s struggles faltered.
A final, pitiful whine slipped from its throat before it dropped, panting and still.
Sorcha watched, her arrow remained notched, her eyes locked on the man.
Her heart was still drumming in her ears.
She hadn’t decided if he’d just saved them or if things just became more dangerous.
The creature, stunned, stared at him with a mix of terror and sorrow. As the fog receded, Sorcha thought she saw compassion flicker across the man’s face. He turned to her, holding her gaze, rooting her to the spot.
“I mean you no harm, Sorcha,” he whispered. His voice was low and edged with a rasp, yet it slid through her like silk, sweet and unsettling all at once.
Her grip on the bow loosened slightly. The shimmer in her hair caught the moonlight, gold threads glowing under the moon’s gaze, and his eyes lingered there for a moment before returning to hers.
“How do you know my name? Who are you?” Her voice wavered despite her best efforts to keep it steady.
He hesitated, listening to leaves rustle in the treetops above.
“Kyron.”
Her gaze shot to the subdued creature slumped on the forest floor.
The creature whimpered as Kyron knelt beside it. The gray clouds curling gently around them as he placed his hand over its face and the creature went limp beside him.
“It’s safer if you leave this part of the forest,” he warned, his voice was filled with frustration but also strained.
Before she could speak, he stepped back into the shadows.
His figure dissolved into the haze with the creature, leaving her alone in the clearing.
The forest was suddenly so quiet, as if neither he nor the creature had ever been there.
Doubt crept in. Had she imagined it? She searched the area twice over.
At first, there was nothing. There was not a trace of them to be seen.
Then, as if the moon were illuminating the path for her, light poured onto faint tracks, revealing small splatters of decayed flesh.
Subtle signs, nearly hidden by fog, but enough to confirm what she’d seen.
Unease twisted in her chest as she turned toward Lumora.
Kyron’s warning wrapped around her thoughts, constricting all others from her mind.
By the time she reached town, the night was well past midnight.
Torchlights swayed in the breeze. Their flickering glow lit the tall golden gates and guided her to the central guard post. Her boots tapped on the cobblestones in slow rhythm as she began to gather her thoughts.
She quickened her pace, trying to think of what she would tell the Commander.
Inside, Commander Nethran stood at his desk, poring over a stack of reports. The lantern’s glow lit the dark amethyst strands of his hair. He looked up suddenly as she entered, his eyes narrowing.
“Everything all right, Ranger?”
Sorcha hesitated. The surreal events clung to her thoughts. She hadn’t had time to process them, but she knew she couldn’t keep them to herself.
“I followed the beast that attacked the small farm outside Lumora,” she began, voice steadying. “But I ran into someone while tracking it in the woods.” She tried to collect herself for a moment before continuing. “He subdued the creature and then vanished.”
Nethran’s expression darkened.
“You found it, but it got away?” Nethran’s face changed from calm to irritated within moments. “I’m not following. What do you mean, they vanished?”
She shook her head.
“Respectfully, sir, I mean they disappeared. One moment they were there. The next, gone into the mist.” She waved her hands in the air, trying to illustrate what she meant.
“I know how it sounds, Commander. But all I have is a name Kyron.”
His name settled heavily in the room. Nethran’s eyebrow raised, and he tapped his fingers on the desk for a moment, lost in thought. “You did the right thing, reporting this. I’ll alert the Circle. For now, head home. We’ll figure out what it all means tomorrow.”
Sorcha nodded. Relief and confusion tugged at her in equal measure. Giving a brief salute, she turned to leave. She could go home and crawl into bed, pretend the day hadn’t happened, but her nerves refused to settle.
Her boots carried her, almost without thought, toward the low amber glow of the tavern windows. Inside, the familiar hum of clinking mugs and quiet voices wrapped around her like an old cloak.
Drystan looked up from his corner table, one brow raised.
The color of Scots pine lingered in his hair, a burnished brown touched by the sun, which was half pulled up in a neat knot.
The rest falling over his shoulders stopping short of his collarbone.
A few stray pieces fell across his cheekbones, framing his face.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he murmured, sliding a mug across the table without waiting for her to ask.
She dropped into the seat across from him; the wood creaked beneath her weight.
“Something like that,” she mumbled, lifting the ale and gulping down a few mouthfuls. Then she leaned back in the chair with a sigh.
Drystan chuckled, slipping an arm around her shoulder. Those bluebell eyes, adorned with long eyelashes, stared into hers.
“Let’s have it,” he teased. “What’s going on?”
Sorcha looked at his devilishly handsome face and exhaled, letting herself lean into the comfort of his arm.
“You know that quiet family on the edge of the fields? The ones who always give out apples at harvest?”
Drystan nodded. “How could I forget? Those apples alone kept me alive all last season. Why?” Then his smile faltered. “Did something happen to them?”
Sorcha let the words fall freely as her hands trembled slightly. “Many of the livestock perished along with their dog being severely injured. Their barn is also damaged.”
She shook her head, teeth clenched. “Whatever did it didn’t kill to eat. It tore them apart and just… left the bodies.” Her thoughts went back to the beast in the woods as her voice trailed off. She reached for the mug again, gulping more down.
Drystan was quiet for a beat, his fingers drumming against the mug, watching her stare into hers. Then he gave a small nod.
“I’ll head over there tomorrow, lend a hand with the barn door. I’ll have Mason come with me.”
Sorcha turned to him, her expression softening. “Thank you.”
He waved it off. “Don’t. It’s the least I can do.”
He flagged the barkeep for another round, then gave her a grin full of trouble.
“So… how many drinks till you come home with me?”
Sorcha chuckled into her mug. “I came out to drink, not to carry your sorry ass home.”
Drystan winked. “That’s one way to get you into my bed.”
Sorcha laughed again, raising her mug. “To surviving another day.”
Drystan shook his head and smiled. “Another day.”