The forest no longer felt like scenery; it felt attentive. It felt like a living thing that had discovered gossip, and Aiden had somehow become its favorite scandal. Birds paused mid-song to watch him like unimpressed reviewers. Foxes studied him like investors evaluating unstable potential. A raccoon sat near the path, staring with the measured consideration of someone deciding whether robbing him would be worth the effort. Senior drifted forward in serene calm, which was deeply suspicious because fae serenity usually meant nothing was safe—it was simply entertaining.
Silence gathered around them. Not peaceful silence. Deliberate silence. The kind that falls before judgment. Claws scraped bark overhead. Leaves shifted with slow, collective focus.
Then the squirrels appeared.
They did not swarm. They assembled. Branches filled with bright, unblinking eyes. Tails lifted like banners raised at a formal tribunal. They radiated authority. And grudges.
Aiden did not immediately look up."Senior… tell me they want nuts."
"No."
"Food?"
"No."
"…a small woodland festival?"
"No."
The wish did not slam into him. It settled, cold and certain. Ahead lay a clearing of tree stumps—some old, some freshly wounded. A carelessly abandoned axe rested on one, as if even it didn't particularly care what it had been used for.
Homes destroyed.
Nests shattered.
Lives uprooted.
And someone had laughed while doing it.
And squirrels never forgot.
Senior folded his hands with solemn grace. "Squirrels do not forget violations of home. Nor insult. Nor particularly unforgivable fashion choices." One offended squirrel slapped its tail firmly, as if filing paperwork.
They did not want blood or spectacle. They wanted fear. Lingering, corrective fear. They wanted hesitation at the treeline. They wanted the man who cut their home apart to feel watched, weighed, and judged every time he dared to approach. This wasn't cruelty.
It was correction.
Aiden exhaled. "…You want me to give a grown man psychological trauma?"
Every squirrel tail flicked in proud agreement.
Senior nodded with dignified approval. "Minimal ecological harm. Excellent deterrent. I approve."
A pinecone dropped near Aiden's boot.
He lifted his hand slightly. "Fine. But I'm not destroying him. I'm not ruining his life."
The squirrels radiated generational offense.
"But I'm not ignoring you either."
The air tightened. They listened. They judged. They measured him silently, like tiny immortal accountants performing a divine audit.
Aiden shaped the wish gently and deliberately.
"I grant fear to those who destroy without thought," he whispered to the universe, "but I leave room for change… if he learns."
The world accepted.
Somewhere distant, a man approaching a forest froze mid-step, suddenly and inexplicably certain that the world no longer wished to humor him.
The squirrels relaxed—not happily, but triumphantly, like tiny attorneys who had successfully prosecuted reality. They vanished back into branches, ruffling leaves with smug satisfaction.
Aiden dragged a hand over his face."I just negotiated with a woodland mafia."
"Yes," Senior replied kindly. "And they are satisfied. Therefore, you remain unhaunted. Excellent outcome."
They walked for a while before Aiden asked quietly, "What did it cost?"
Senior's voice softened."Not all costs fall upon the world, Aiden. Some costs shape the one who decides. Every wish leaves weight. You will carry that. It is part of what you are becoming."
Aiden didn't answer.
He didn't argue either.
Behind them the forest returned to whispering. Ahead, the universe waited—calm, patient, not even close to finished. This had been practice.
Senior had known this moment would come long before they entered these trees. Forests speak loudly when they wish to be heard. Squirrels speak loudly even when they don't need to. He watched Aiden handle it, and he approved. The boy did not crush their pain. He did not indulge vengeance. He balanced both—mercy and judgment interwoven.
Demons would have delighted in cruelty.
Angels would have overwritten the wish entirely.
Tricksters would have twisted it for spectacle.
Mortals would have walked away.
Aiden listened.
Rare.
Dangerous.
Beautiful.
Senior also knew something else with the quiet certainty he never voiced: his time beside this boy was not endless. He had agreed to guide, not anchor. To teach, not cling. One day—sooner than Aiden realized—the boy would walk forward without him. That was simply how such stories worked.
So Senior walked beside him now, calm and steady.
For as long as he still could.
Days later, when the world had moved on and the squirrels had resumed plotting quietly, Seris Valen reached the forest.
By then she carried not just suspicion, but a collection of earlier, increasingly bizarre incident reports she had already submitted. Ducks behaving with unnervingly smug coordination. Coincidences stacking too neatly to be coincidence. Chaotic events forming results instead of disasters. All of it strange. All of it wrong.
Her superiors had called it "odd but inconclusive." With emphasis.
Then she stepped into the forest.
And the forest judged her.
Not magically.
Emotionally.
The entire woodland held a grudge. Leaves whispered like irritated witnesses. Roots hummed quiet resentment. The air felt like someone looking down their nose at her existence.
She slowly lifted her gaze.
Squirrels.
Many.
Focused.
Professional.
One held eye contact and very deliberately dropped a pinecone in front of her boot. A formal gesture. A warning. A courtesy.
"…Understood," she muttered.
She reached the clearing and found no burn scars, no magical residue, no tear in reality. No spellcraft. Just… altered intention. Reality had made a decision.
That was worse.
She left the forest calmly, acutely aware she was being escorted out by extremely serious woodland authorities, and returned to town to write.
She resubmitted her earlier bizarre event reports with updates. She detailed the duck incident again as "displayed intelligence beyond natural expectation." She clarified that earlier anomalies behaved less like magic and more like… negotiations. Then she wrote of the forest:
The forest holds a grudge.
Emotional tenor: anger, protection, controlled hostility.
This was not spellwork.
Something wished—and the world complied.
Her quill hovered only briefly before writing:
The fae companion is likely involved.
He was not acting alone.
Then, slowly but firmly:
I believe wishes are real.
They would laugh again.
They always did.
Until they stood beneath those trees themselves.
Seris closed her report and exhaled. She would follow the boy. She would follow the fae. She would keep going until she understood.
Even if understanding frightened her.
Far down the road, Aiden continued walking, unaware that belief, suspicion, and inevitable collision all followed behind him. Senior walked beside him, still present.
For now.
The universe hummed softly.
And it was not finished.
Not nearly.