The crew made their way back to the ship, their boots echoing against the wooden planks of the dock. As they approached, Jhon spotted the crewmen keeping watch. Sayf, ever the cautious one, scanned their faces, muttering each of their names and roles under his breath to make sure none had abandoned ship—or worse, turned traitor.
Once they reached the deck, Jhon clapped his hands together, drawing everyone's attention. "Alright, listen up," he said. "We got what we came for—information. No map, but we have the route in our heads. We'll need to cross plains, forests, cliffs, wastelands, and eventually climb the Grey Mountains. It'll take weeks, not days." He let that sink in. "That means we need to be smart. While we're docked, catch whatever you can—fish, crabs, anything edible. Luthadel isn't cheap, and I'd rather not waste more Dun than necessary."
A few of the crew exchanged glances, grumbling about how nothing in this cursed city was cheap.
"Gorim," Jhon turned to the old dwarf, "make sure the fresh supplies get stored properly. Last thing I want is spoiled food halfway through the journey."
"Aye, aye," Gorim muttered, already eyeing the crates.
"Rahotep, take inventory of our water barrels and rations. If we need more, we'll get it before we leave."
Rahotep gave a firm nod. "I'll make sure we're not short."
"Arianne, check the medicines and herbs. If we run into trouble, I want to be prepared for more than just sword wounds."
Arianne flicked her hair back. "I'll see what we have, but if we need more, I'll need coin."
Jhon sighed. "We'll figure that out."
He turned to Varnic. "Weapons?"
Varnic grinned. "Polished, sharpened, and ready to kill."
Jhon then gestured toward Khaltar, Nadra, and Sayf. "You three—you're carrying the heaviest loads. No complaints."
Khaltar rolled his shoulders. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Nadra, still simmering from the cartographer's antics, simply scoffed and grabbed the first crate without a word.
Sayf smirked. "I carry heavier things than this—like the weight of my past."
Jhon ignored him. Each of them grabbed what they could, heavy sacks of grain, crates of salted meat, dried fruit, bottles of ale, and bundles of firewood—everything they'd need for weeks of travel.
As they worked, the smell of freshly caught fish roasting over a makeshift fire filled the air. Some of the crew had already started hauling nets, pulling in whatever the sea had to offer.
Rahotep passed by Jhon and muttered, "If we're lucky, maybe we won't have to eat hardtack for half the journey."
Jhon exhaled. "If we're lucky, we won't have to eat each other either."
As the sun rose over Luthadel's distant walls, the party ventured eastward into the Eastern Lowlands, a vast stretch of fertile land that once served as the breadbasket of kingdoms. Rolling fields of golden wheat, verdant pastures, and meandering rivers defined the landscape. The road, though well-trodden, bore the scars of war—ruts from heavy siege wagons, abandoned fortifications, and the scattered remnants of armor left to rust in the sun.
For centuries, the Eastern Lowlands had been the heart of trade, its wealth feeding both noble houses and common folk alike. But war had changed everything. What was once a thriving land of farmers and merchants was now a patchwork of desolation and survival.
On their second day, they passed through the village of Eldrin's Hollow, or what was left of it. Roofs had caved in, doors swung open in the wind, and the remnants of lives abruptly abandoned lay scattered across dirt floors—broken dishes, overturned chairs, children's toys left forgotten in the dust.
"The people here didn't run," Sayf muttered, his sharp eyes scanning the ruins.
Jhon knelt near the entrance of a house, his fingers brushing against blackened wood. "No," he agreed. "They burned."
The scorch marks across the stone suggested not fire from torches, but something far hotter—alchemical flames or a mage's wrath. A few skeletons still lay in the streets, some curled as if shielding loved ones, others half-buried under the collapsed beams of their homes.
"This was done swiftly," Khaltar noted grimly. "A purge."
Arianne whispered a quiet prayer before they moved on. That night, as they camped beyond the ruins, the wind carried a distant sound—low, whispering, almost like voices. Nadra pulled her cloak closer, shifting uncomfortably.
"This land remembers," she murmured. And in the silence that followed, none dared to disagree.
On the third day, the golden fields of wheat gave way to more untamed terrain. The road forked between two paths—one a more traveled trade route known for bandits, the other an older, forgotten road winding through abandoned vineyards and crumbling watchtowers.
Rahotep, ever the strategist, argued for the safer but longer detour. Sayf, pragmatic and ever wary of risks, suggested they avoid both and ride through the hills instead. Khaltar, gripping the handle of his axe, simply smirked.
"We take the trade road," he said. "Bandits are only a problem if you let them be."
Jhon, caught between reason and risk, made the choice. They took the bandit road. The first sign of trouble came by dusk—a lone wagon left in the center of the road, its wheels broken, crates spilling grain onto the dirt. Crows pecked at the spoils, but no bodies lay nearby.
"A trap," Sayf muttered, already slipping into the shadows.
Jhon's hand rested on his sword as he signaled the others. Rahotep and Varnic flanked left, Khaltar and Gorim took right, while Arianne and Nadra remained behind. Then came the whistle—sharp, deliberate.
Figures emerged from the tall grass—half a dozen men, clad in tattered leather and chain, weapons glinting under the dying sun. Their leader, a wiry man with a scarred face, smiled the way only a man who's seen too much blood can.
"You lot made a mistake coming this way," he drawled. "You should have taken the hills."
Jhon didn't answer. He simply drew his sword. The bandits charged. It was over in minutes. Sayf moved like a shadow, daggers finding throats before steel could even sing. Khaltar, a whirlwind of strength, split one man's shield in half with a single swing. Gorim fought like a cornered bear, his hammer crushing ribs and shattering kneecaps. Arianne called forth a gust of wind, blinding two bandits with dust before Rahotep cut them down.
The leader tried to run. He didn't make it far. Nadra, still fuming from earlier, threw a firebolt at his back, sending him sprawling into the dirt. "You," she snapped, standing over him. "People like you are why this land is dying."
The bandit groaned, still alive but burned. Khaltar, ever practical, simply ended his suffering. They left the bodies where they fell. The crows would take care of the rest.
By the fourth day, the Lowlands had begun to change. The rolling hills grew rockier, the rivers ran thinner, and the scars of war became more frequent.
They passed the bones of an ancient battlefield, where rusted blades and splintered banners told the story of an old war, one long forgotten by those who did not fight it.
Further on, they reached the remnants of a bridge, half-collapsed into the river below. They were forced to cross the waters on foot, the cold biting into their legs as their horses swam beside them.
On the fifth night, they spotted a lone watchtower, its beacon still lit. A sign that someone—or something—still guarded these roads.
Jhon stared at the distant fire, unease settling in his chest. We're not the only ones out here," he murmured.
The Eastern Lowlands had been tamed once. But now, with war reshaping the world, it was a land claimed by ghosts, by survivors, and by those willing to spill blood for whatever scraps remained. As dawn broke on the sixth day, the Eastern Lowlands gave way to something far older, far wilder—the Tanglewood Forest.
Towering trees, their trunks twisted with age, loomed like ancient sentinels, their roots snaking across the ground in tangled knots. Thick vines hung from the canopy, draping the forest in a curtain of green, while moss carpeted everything—the rocks, the fallen logs, even the very air felt damp with the weight of the living woods.
Rahotep reined in his horse at the forest's edge. "We ride through?" he asked, though his tone made it clear he already knew the answer.
"There's no going around," Jhon said, gazing into the gloom ahead. "The Tanglewood is the only way."
Khaltar scoffed. "Only if you want to get lost."
Arianne, who had been quiet until now, shifted uneasily in her saddle. "They say the forest moves."
Gorim grunted. "Trees don't move."
Varnic, the younger dwarf, gave him a sideways glance. "Tell that to the trees."
They pressed onward. The deeper they rode, the more the forest seemed to close in around them. Sunlight barely touched the ground, swallowed by the dense canopy above. Roots twisted like serpents, gnarled branches reached out like skeletal hands, and the air itself grew thick with an eerie silence. No birds sang. No insects buzzed. Even the wind refused to whisper.
By midday, they had lost sight of the road entirely. "This isn't right," Sayf murmured, scanning the trees with narrowed eyes. "We've been riding straight, but we're looping back."
Jhon dismounted, pressing a hand to one of the ancient trunks. The bark was rough, damp, almost pulsing. He had seen many things in his travels, but this… this forest was awake.
Nadra huffed, crossing her arms. "Let me guess—cursed?"
Arianne nodded slowly. "Or worse."
Then came the whispers. At first, it was just a murmur, like distant voices carried on the wind. Then, the sound grew—soft, melodic, beckoning. Jhooon…
He stiffened. The voice was familiar. Too familiar. Sayf cursed under his breath. "Don't listen. Keep moving."
But it was too late. Varnic had already stepped away from the group, his wide eyes unfocused as he wandered toward the trees.
"Varnic!" Gorim barked, but the younger dwarf didn't respond.
The moment he crossed a ring of strange mushrooms at the base of a tree, he vanished.
One second he was there. The next, gone. Khaltar drew his axe. "Enough of this," he growled, raising it to strike the nearest tree—Only for the bark to split open, revealing a gaping maw lined with thorned teeth.
The tree screamed. From the darkness, shadows began to stir. Figures emerged—twisted forms, neither plant nor man, their limbs stretching into jagged claws, their faces hollow with glowing green eyes.
"Woodwraiths!" Arianne shouted. "They feed on the lost!"
Jhon didn't wait. He drew steel, the sound of his blade echoing through the cursed forest. "We're not getting lost," he growled. "We're cutting through."
The wraiths lunged. Khaltar cleaved through the first, his axe splitting its bark-like body in half, though the creature screamed as if it still felt pain. Rahotep fought with precision, his curved blade dancing between shadows, while Gorim and Nadra stood back to back, hammer and fire meeting the onslaught.
Arianne raised her hands, calling forth a burst of light. The wraiths shrieked, retreating from the glow, but they did not flee.
"They're stalling us," Sayf hissed, dodging a clawed swipe. "They want us trapped."
Then—a cry. Varnic. Jhon turned to see the young dwarf struggling, half-consumed by the bark of a great tree, its roots wrapping around his limbs, dragging him inward.
"No!" Gorim roared, charging forward. He slammed his hammer into the trunk, the force shaking the ground, but the tree did not yield.
Jhon didn't think. He dropped his sword, grabbed the nearest torch, and drove the flame into the wraith-infested bark.
The tree screamed—a horrible, ear-splitting wail—before its grip loosened. Sayf yanked Varnic free, the dwarf gasping as he hit the ground. "We need to move," Arianne urged. "Now."
Nadra unleashed one final blast of fire, setting the roots alight. The flames spread unnaturally fast, and within seconds, the Tanglewood was burning.
Jhon didn't hesitate. "Run!"
They raced through the twisting maze, the fire at their backs consuming everything in its path. The whispers turned to wails, the trees shuddered, the wraiths fled.
Then—a break in the trees. They burst through the forest's edge, tumbling onto an open field just as the last of the flames died behind them.
For a long moment, no one spoke. They only stared back at the Tanglewood, its ancient boughs now eerily still, as if watching them.
Jhon turned to Varnic. The young dwarf sat trembling, his arms still covered in the blackened imprint of the tree's roots.
"You're alright now," Jhon said, kneeling beside him. "It's over."
But Arianne met his gaze, her expression grim. "No," she whispered. "Not yet."
She pointed at the edge of the forest, where the burned trees were already beginning to heal. The flames had died, but the Tanglewood remained. And it would never forget them.