From the edge of Hollowmere, Rowan glanced back one last time. The mossy bench where Elarion had been sitting was already fading into the mist. Fog uncoiled, slinking across the ground until the whole village disappeared.

The forest path curled ahead of them, roots punching up through the soil like knobby fists. Vines dangled low, swinging lazily even though the air was perfectly still. Everything felt heavy. No birds or buzzing insects. Just the sound of their footsteps.

Rowan pulled the straps of his pack and glanced nervously from side to side, half expecting to see a Hazbin pop out from behind a tree. “This place feels different,” he muttered.

Bjorn grunted. “Ya, almost like something’s watching us.”

Rowan didn’t argue. Instead, he flicked open the compass. The needle twitched, spun once, then began to whirl in crazy loops, faster and faster, never pointing in one direction.

“Still nothing,” Rowan said. “It’s been like this since we stepped into this forest.”

Bjorn leaned over his shoulder. “Maybe the bark’s full of iron, and messes with the compass.”

“Or maybe we’re already lost,” Rowan shouted. He turned in a slow circle. Trees, endlessly towering above them.

“Wait…” He ran toward a stump, brushed aside a leaf, and uncovered a ring of green mushrooms in a half-moon. “Didn’t we pass this already?”

Bjorn crouched beside him. “Third time. I’ve seen that stump. And that rock that looks like a fox, too.”

Rowan’s eyes widened. “We’re walking in circles.” He shoved the compass back into his cloak. 

Above them, the canopy stitched itself so tightly it was like a wooden ceiling. Thin rays of sunlight pierced through, but even those beams bent oddly, as if the light couldn’t decide where to fall.

“This forest is cursed,” Rowan muttered, kicking at a root.

Bjorn tilted his head. “Not cursed. Just old. Like it refuses to go on a map.”

Rowan tried to swallow his frustration. He turned to Bjorn. “We need to break out of this forest.”

Bjorn crouched, running his hand over a trunk. His fingers paused on a thin groove carved deep into the bark. He checked another tree. Same mark. Same angle. Same depth.

“Strange,” he murmured.

“What is it?” Rowan asked.

Bjorn didn’t answer right away. He moved to a nearby boulder, where moss grew in the shape of a feather. Then another tree. Another patch of moss, same shape, same direction. His eyes narrowed.

“The forest,” he said softly. “It’s marked.”

Rowan’s eyebrows shot up. “Marked? By who?”

“Maybe not by someone,” Bjorn said, pulling a strand of moss free and holding it up. “In Mossmere, there are forests like this. Wild ones that play by their own rules. The elders taught us a trick: the glowing moss always grows on the side that faces the wind.”

Rowan blinked. “Seriously?”

Bjorn grinned. “Follow the moss, follow the wind.”

Rowan looked around. “But…” His voice dipped. “There’s no wind.”

“There was, just a moment ago,” Bjorn reminded him. “You felt it too, right?”

Rowan touched his hair, remembering the faint stir that had lifted it.

“Maybe,” Bjorn said, almost teasing, almost serious, “the wind wants us to find the way.”

Rowan squinted at him. “Are you saying the forest is alive?”

Right on cue, the branches creaked above them, a chorus of old wood shifting in the silence.

Rowan nodded. “Alright. Let’s try your moss trick.”

Bjorn laughed. “Told you Mossmere stuff would come in handy.”

They moved carefully through the forest. Rowan stayed close behind as Bjorn traced patches of moss from tree to tree. A playful gust swirled through the stillness, tugging Rowan’s cloak like a secret guide.

The deeper they went, the stranger the forest became. The moss curved them around a trunk so massive it seemed older than Hollowmere itself. A stream bubbled under a bridge of fallen logs, its current flowing the same way the moss pointed. Rowan paused, watching the water tumble on, and for a moment, it felt like the entire forest was steering them.

“Over here!” Bjorn called. He crouched on a ridge, parting a curtain of vines. “You’ll want to see this.”

Rowan scrambled up beside him and froze.

Through the trees loomed a tower. It stretched high above the canopy, crooked and uneven, as if someone had built it in a hurry. Thick beams leaned against one another like puzzle pieces barely holding together, while ladders clung to their sides, and patched and repatched planks that didn’t quite match. Vines coiled up its frame, curling through the cracks as though the woods refused to let it stand alone.

“Whoa,” Rowan whispered. “What is that?”

“No idea,” Bjorn said, his voice hushed. “But it’s the first thing we’ve seen in hours that isn’t a tree.”

Rowan looked the tower up and down. “Do you think someone built it to watch the forest?”

Before Bjorn could answer, the wind returned. It was soft at first, then a little stronger. The branches above answered with long, creaking groans, and the vines along their trunks trembled, swaying as if the forest was pointing the way.

Rowan looked up at the branches swaying. “There it is again… the wind.”

Bjorn nodded, like he’d been expecting it all along. “Guess that’s our cue.”

They moved together, letting the breeze guide them. It slipped between the trunks and brushed their shoulders. Ferns whispered against their boots, silver streams trickled under mossy logs, and fireflies blinked softly, like tiny lanterns leading the way.

Rowan broke the silence first. “So… what do you think the tower’s for? Some kind of lookout?”

Bjorn stepped over a root and scratched his chin. “Could be. Hunters back home build high perches. Makes it easier to spot deer.”

Rowan tilted his head. “But this one’s huge. Taller than any hunter’s post. Maybe it’s for stargazing. Like an observatory.”

Bjorn’s eyes got big. “Or a wizard’s house. Crooked and spooky, just like the stories.”

Rowan chuckled and slowed his pace as the trees began to thin. Their tall trunks parted like curtains on a stage, revealing the tower.

Both boys stood at the base, staring up. 

Rowan tilted his head back. The crooked wooden spine disappeared into the clouds. “This thing’s huge,” Rowan blurted out..

Bjorn gave the ladder a shake. The rungs trembled but held. “Still standing,” he said. “That’s a good sign.”

The ladder was rough, patched with rope and branches, every inch of it hand-built over the years. Rowan pressed his palm to the wood. It was damp with mist, but steady.

“You think someone still lives up there?” Rowan asked.

“Guess we’ll find out.” Bjorn planted his boot on the first rung.

Rowan followed close behind. The ladder squeaked with every step, but it held firm as they climbed higher and higher. Below them, the forest floor shrank until it melted into a rolling sea of green. The canopy stretched in every direction, endless and alive.

A sudden flutter burst from the beams as a pair of birds shot into the sky, their wings flashing in the light. Rowan paused, spotting a tiny nest tucked safely inside a crack in the wood. Inside lay a single speckled egg, cradled in woven twigs.

“Don’t look down,” Bjorn called.

“I wasn’t going to,” Rowan shot back. Then, of course, he peeked below, and his stomach flipped upside down.

“Almost there,” Bjorn said, hauling himself onto the top rung.

Rowan scrambled after him. Together they stepped onto the platform, a thin railing circling its edge. Different views of Ardentia shot out in every direction, glowing orange and violet in the evening light.

“This is… incredible,” Rowan whispered.

Bjorn didn’t answer. He was already at the center of the platform, where a large telescope waited. Its knobs reflecting in the sun, a leather strap swaying gently as if calling them closer.

Rowan pressed his eye to the glass, and the world sharpened into impossible clarity, as if magic had polished the lens. Beyond the rolling green sea of treetops, the Stormreach Peaks slashed the horizon like jagged blades. Storm clouds circled the tallest peak.

“I see them,” Rowan whispered. “The Stormreach Peaks. We’re close.”

They were so large, Bjorn didn’t even need the telescope to spot them.

Rowan turned the adjustment knob carefully, sliding the view along the horizon. The world unfolded in layers, cliffs split by valleys, thin trails scratched into stone.

Then, movement.

On a winding path, three figures trudged in single file. One wore a bright red cloak. Another leaned on a staff. The third’s arms glowed faintly.

“Seekers,” Rowan whispered.

Bjorn’s brow furrowed. “So we’re not the only ones heading north.”

Rowan swept the scope again. Dark trees filled the view. Shapes slipped between the trunks, hunched like wolves on the hunt—at least five. One dragged a net. Another flashed a curved blade, its edge catching the fading light.

“Bandits,” Rowan muttered.

Bjorn’s jaw tightened. “Could be the same ones from Whistlebend, or maybe worse.”

Rowan twisted the scope once more. A narrow gorge came into view, where a broken bridge dangled in splinters. And there, waiting beside it, stood a beast.

It towered over the rocks, horns curling like twisted branches. Its red fur glowed as though fire burned beneath it, steam snorting from its nostrils with every breath. The ground seemed to shudder as it stamped a hoof the size of a barrel.

“Whoa,” Rowan whispered. “What is that thing?”

Rowan stepped to the side while Bjorn looked through the telescope. “Looks like trouble.”

Rowan turned the scope one last time until something strange came into view.

Nestled in a stone clearing lay the ruins of a half-crumbled building. Half the building had broken walls, and its pillars sagged under centuries of weight. A grand archway, cracked and crooked, still stood as if unwilling to fall, guarding what remained within. Vines draped the stones in green, and shafts of fading sunlight slipped between the gaps, painting the ruins in gold.

As Rowan looked closer at the second floor, he noticed something, half-hidden among the shadows and broken stone. 

“We have to go check it out,” Rowan said.

Bjorn glanced at the sun sinking in the sky. “Not tonight. We’ve got maybe an hour left of light. And there’s no way I’m fighting with that horned beast in the dark.”

Rowan’s shoulders sagged, but he knew Bjorn was right. The ruins and whatever else he saw in them would still be there tomorrow.

He sat on the platform’s edge, legs dangling into open air, as Bjorn spread a blanket out near the center of the platform. With a groan, he lowered his pack and sat cross-legged, tearing into a strip of dried meat. “Well,” he said with a crooked grin, “not the worst place we’ve slept.”

Rowan smiled faintly. “Definitely the highest.”

They ate in silence, watching the sky deepen from orange and pink to dark blue. Stars began to blink—first one, then another, then dozens, until the sky twinkled like spilled jewels. 

Bjorn leaned back on his elbows, looking at the stars. “Y’know… my brother used to say the stars were campfires for the gods.”

Rowan turned to him, surprised. “You never talk about him.”

Bjorn stayed quiet for a long while. “Not much to say. He left on a journey like this one and never came back.”

Rowan straightened. “Do you think he’s searching for the Koro too?”

“Maybe.” Bjorn’s gaze drifted toward the Stormreach Peaks on the horizon. “Or maybe he just wanted to see what was beyond Mossmere.”

Rowan’s throat tightened. He wanted to say something reassuring, but no words came. Instead, he let the silence hold between them.

SCREECH!

Rowan jerked to his feet. “Did you hear that?”

Bjorn’s hand slid instinctively toward the axe at his side. 

“Yeah, kind of hard to miss,” Bjorn said, while his eyes swept the sky. “And I don’t think it was a bird.”

The high-pitched screech came again, louder this time. The tower shuddered as the echoes rattled down its beams.

Rowan’s cloak whipped around him as he backed toward the center of the platform. His heart pounded so hard it drowned out the creak of the wood.

They tore down from the clouds in a blur of flame, wings blazing like molten streaks across the night. Their bodies writhed like ribbons of smoke, each flap scattering burning embers that danced in the air. Heat slammed against Rowan’s face, as if the whole sky had turned to fire.

“Firebats!” Rowan shouted.

The swarm spiraled around the tower, shrieking with voices like iron scraping stone. 

“They’re everywhere…” he gasped, spinning as the creatures streaked past, leaving smears of orange light across the night.

Bjorn’s hand gripped the handle of his axe. His eyes never left the swarm. 

“They’ve found us.”