Despite the ominous moniker, the Forest of Illusion appeared at first glance to be completely unremarkable. Even ordinary.
Ancient oaks stood guard at its edge, their gnarled branches grasping skyward. Graceful maples spread among them, their broad leaves fracturing sunlight into scattered shadows, each tier of foliage merging into the one above.
Spruce and fir pierced the canopy like spears thrust into the clouds while beech trees leaned towards one-another as if exchanging secrets. Leaves and needles rustled in a breeze that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. This rich variety created diverse habitats that welcomed a host of wildlife into its midst.
But the horses knew better.
Shadow hesitated to enter the forest. Duster and Maple lingered at the threshold, ears twitching and tails flicking as though trying to brush off the hush that had fallen around them. They appeared to sense something primeval and unsettling here - a presence woven into bark and loam.
The companions exchanged glances. No words were needed; they would have to walk, leading the horses step by step, coaxing them forward. A few gentle strokes along a quivering flank, a quiet murmur, and eventually the horses followed in reluctant obedience, picking their way into the dimness with stiff-legged caution.
The scent of pine hung in the summer air, as pockets of humidity clung to the various folds under Riven’s robe. Sprinklings of gnats hovered around them, occasionally flying into their eyes as they pressed on.
Not far into the woods, as vision adjusted to the gloom, they came upon a sight that demanded attention: a massive tree stump wider than a giant’s footstool, seemingly on the boundary of reality and myth. The wind sighed through the branches overhead, and the horses shifted again, ears flicking forward and back.
Riven approached the stump, his fingers trailing across its expanse. Despite its surface being worn smooth by untold seasons of rain and wind, it featured myriad rings that marked eras beyond mortal memory.
Sydney drew closer, his chain shirt clinking faintly, as though sensing disapproving glares from the surrounding trees.
Aelfric crouched near the stump, his eyes drawn to tiny seedlings which had found homes in the crevices, pushing through the moss. “How old would you say it is? Older than Excalibria?”
Riven paused for a moment. “The elves don’t use that term.”
The sun caught Aelfric’s features, his eyes shining with curiosity.
“Some say that elves were the first men who walked this world.” Riven followed the spirals with his eyes, reading their history. “They had a term for it: Ri’ir.”
“Rear?” Sydney intoned.
“Ryh-ear,” Riven corrected.
“Ri’ir,” Aelfric mused, his fingers tracing where the seedlings lay.
She kept her distance from the group, the forest’s unnatural quiet making her skin prickle.
Sydney’s hand went to his sword hilt as he scanned the surrounding woods. “It’s considerably larger than the others.”
“The druids speak of guardian trees - venerable sentinels that watch over sacred places. Some say they could even move,” Riven said.
Aelfric bit his cheek and held his breath as he and Riven shared a glance.
Shadow pressed close to She. Duster and Maple snorted nervously, pawing at the ground. Their shared anxiety rippled through the group.
“We should move,” She said.
Sydney withdrew the parchment from beneath his chain shirt. The riddle’s words appeared to shift in the muted light, like the woods sought to obscure their meaning.
Twice to the north star’s ancient light,
Once east where dawn bleeds morning bright.
He traced the words with his finger. “Twice to the north, once east - north by northeast!”
Riven’s eyes narrowed at the crumpled riddle. “I don’t think…” he began, but seemed to think better of it.
“Think what?” Aelfric asked, turning from the stump.
“Nothing.” He gathered his staff and gestured toward the densest part of the forest. “That way lies north by northeast. Though in this place, directions may not amount to much.”
“How comforting,” She muttered.
The horses followed with clear apprehension, their hooves seeming to sink deeper into the loam with each step. Around them, the forest drew closer, its branches weaving together, filtering the afternoon light.
The path ahead narrowed, choked by undergrowth that appeared to shift and realign with each step. Thorny vines curled across fallen logs while patches of moss spreading across stone and bark evoked strange symbols.
She paused at a fork where two equally uninviting trails diverged. Both meandered in and out of darkness.
“Well?” Her eyes darted from one path to the other. Her hand hadn’t left her dagger since entering these woods.
Sydney’s hand reached for the parchment.
“You know what it says!” She stood still, a hand on her side, rolling her eyes.
Aelfric knelt and unfastened his pack. The clattering of torches preceded him withdrawing a small box. He opened it and revealed flint, steel, and some kindling. Placing the kindling on the dirt path, he proceeded to spark the torch.
Sydney stood with his hands on his hips, considering their options. “This one leads north.” Turning the other way, “While this one starts east and seems to go back north.”
“North by northeast,” She said, mostly to herself.
Their eyes met, in silent agreement. They would take the second path.
Riven leaned on his staff, his expression a lot less certain. Aelfric moved closer to the group, the torch in his hand giving the surrounding trees an unsettling semblance of motion.
Or perhaps it wasn’t just semblance.
Sydney drew his sword and led the way. Riven followed with Maple, ensuring secure footing with his staff - but not as certain as the notion that whatever lurked in these words would render a sword meaningless. Next came Aelfric, his torchlight darting into the periphery, seemingly on the lookout for creeping dangers itself. He pulled Duster along with him.
She pursued at a distance, her instincts on edge. Shadow trailed, his unease mirroring hers. It was hard to tell which of them resented this venture more.
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The path wandered like a half-remembered dream, bending around trees, ascending up knolls, and dropping into gullies. They hopped from stone to stone across a babbling stream. On a rock under a fern on the far side sat a speckled toad, its eyes reflecting the torchlight in a way that made Aelfric tighten his grip.
He lingered for a moment, staring at the toad. Two faint pools of flame burned in its eyes as its speckles seemed to shift and change in the wind and shade. A muted croak rose from it - so soft he wasn’t even sure he truly heard it. It drifted in the still air like the ghost of a thought he couldn’t quite recall, making the hair on his arms stand on end.
Aelfric hurried to catch up with the others. He did not turn around. Something told him that, if he did, he may never be able to look away.
They climbed up a higher, mossy hill which led to another shallow valley and a second stream. The stones were different here, and yet… Aelfric’s steps faltered as he saw another toad - or was it the same one? – observing their passage with unblinking eyes.
As they continued down the path, patches of sunlight appeared irregularly - not the cheerful radiance of a summer day, but a dim, smoldering halo of a nearby inferno. Eerie noises began to emerge from every direction. The hooting of an owl, the distant howling of wolves, and various strange, subtle sounds untethered to reality.
A third stream, a third crossing. The toad waited.
Aelfric realized that, through its soulless eyes, it was not a toad that watched them, but the forest itself. The deeper they delved into this twisted woodland, the more he questioned whether they would ever find their way back to lands where the sun rose and set with regularity.
The Forest of Illusion wasn’t just a name, it was a promise.
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