They said the woods would eat you alive.
Not with teeth, but with silence. With shadow. With the kind of dread that crawls beneath your skin and whispers that you shouldn't have come.
Deep in that cursed forest, where even birds dared not sing, lay the kingdom of Zenithara.
A realm spoken of only in fear. They said fire bowed to its name, and ice cracked beneath it.
To some, Zenithara was a myth. To others, a sentence worse than death.
And at its heart ruled King Abbas, the man whose mercy was as rare as the kingdom's invitation.
Only the summoned could cross Zenithara's borders. Fewer still could leave.
Yet still, from the desperate lands of the south, a battalion had been sent.
Desperation makes men bold, or foolish.
Their horses moved through the choking maze of trees, hooves muffled by a damp, unending carpet of leaves. Above, the sky was swallowed by branches, and below, the air was thick with the scent of moss and danger.
Captain Ormond, a broad shouldered man with a weathered face and the hardened stillness of long campaigns, suddenly pulled his reins.
The line of soldiers halted behind him.
He turned to the man riding closest. His second-in-command, Benard.
"How far are we from Zenithara?" he asked.
Benard studied the worn map, his gloved finger tracing the faded ink lines.
"According to this," he said, squinting, "we keep heading west until we hit the river coming down from the mountains. That should lead us straight to the kingdom."
Ormond frowned. "Further west?"
"Yes, Captain."
"We've been riding west all day," Okran muttered from behind, shifting uneasily in his saddle. "Feels like we've been moving in circles."
A beat of silence passed. Even the horses seemed to sense the unease.
"Could the map be wrong?" Okran added, his voice quieter this time.
Ormond's jaw tightened. He reached for the scroll tucked in his belt and held it up like a holy relic.
"His Majesty himself handed me this map," he said. "If this map is false, then none of us stand a chance."
His eyes swept across the line of soldiers. "Unless anyone here has a better lead?"
No one spoke. The forest answered with the distant rustle of unseen things.
"Then we keep going," Ormond said finally, tucking the map away. "And we pray the woods don't swallow us first."
With a sharp nudge to his horse's side, Captain Ormond rode forward, his cloak whipping in the wind as the column followed behind.
The sun dipped lower, staining the forest in amber and gold. But the deeper they ventured, the darker it seemed to grow. The river, their supposed guide to Zenithara, was nowhere in sight.
Weariness hung over the men like fog. Shoulders slumped. Eyes darted to the shadows.
"Well," Okran muttered, half to himself, "the land of mystery lives up to its name."
He glanced around, his voice dry. "Might as well try finding a needle in a haystack."
A voice called from the rear. "Captain," a soldier said cautiously, "we've been fortunate so far, with no ambushes and no beasts. But I fear our luck fades with the light."
The words lingered in the air, swallowed by silence. Only the leaves rustled above and the distant call of some bird unknown.
Ormond's expression darkened.
"If you are tired," he said quietly, almost too calmly, "you may return."
His horse paced forward a step, the captain's eyes burning beneath his helm. Then his voice rose, not loud, but thunderous in its weight.
"Go back, and wait. Wait for the blood to flood our streets. Wait for the screams of your families as they run, barefoot and broken, from burning homes. Wait for salvation that will never come."
He turned his steely gaze to his men.
"Or ride with me, and give our kingdom a fighting chance."
His words clung to the night like a curse, wrapping the camp in silence.
The soldiers stood still, their faces hollowed by the weight of imagined horrors.
"If you are tired," he repeated quietly, "you may return."
No one moved. No one dared.
Okran's voice broke the silence, low and worn. "What do we do now, Captain?"
Ormond's eyes scanned the darkening horizon. The trees stretched endlessly, shadows growing longer by the minute.
"We camp," he said at last. "Pitch the tents. Light the fire. Rest while we still can."
With tired nods, the soldiers moved into action. They worked like men who had done this too many times before, setting stakes, drawing canvas, feeding dry wood to fire.
Ormond lingered at the edge of the clearing, watching the trees. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching back.
Zenithara still hid behind the veil of forest, and it would not reveal itself easily.
—
Night came swiftly, swallowing the camp in quiet. The flames crackled in the center, throwing flickering light across hardened faces. No one spoke of fear, but it lay thick in the air, unspoken and shared.
Inside his tent, Captain Ormond sat hunched over the map, elbows resting on the crude wooden table. The candle beside him sputtered in protest, casting long, dancing shadows on the fabric walls.
Midnight had passed.
Doubt gnawed at him like a rat in the walls. Had he led them wrong? Was the path real? Was the map ever meant to guide, or to bury them?
The silence grew heavier. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath.
Then,
A low voice murmured outside, nearly lost in the shifting wind.
"Captain."
Ormond's spine straightened. His hand moved to his dagger before he recognized the tone.
"Come in," he called, trying to smooth the edge from his voice.
The flap lifted. Benard entered, his silhouette framed by candlelight, calm, familiar, yet sharp-eyed.
"You're still awake," Ormond said quietly, nodding toward the pallet as Benard sat down. "We've got a long march ahead tomorrow."
Benard offered a half smile. "For the same reason you're awake, Captain."
Ormond raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Is that so?"
Benard met his gaze without flinching. "Mystery doesn't rest easy. Zenithara's reputation wasn't born from chance. It was earned."
He leaned back slightly, voice steady. "A map in the king's hands… and yet it leads nowhere. Either someone deceived His Majesty, or His Majesty deceived us."
A flicker of interest sparked in Ormond's eyes.
"You're bold," he said, folding his arms. "And perceptive. That's a dangerous combination."
Benard gave a slight nod, unfazed. "You were thinking the same thing."
Ormond studied him for a moment, then leaned forward.
"The map is a ruse," Benard said, voice low but certain. "Zenithara thrives on its mystery. If I were its king, I'd do exactly this, spread incomplete maps across the kingdoms. Let the world chase shadows."
Ormond's brows lifted, a flicker of realization crossing his face.
"You think there's no true map at all?"
Benard nodded slowly. "It's a theory. But consider it. If Zenithara wanted only the worthy to enter, wouldn't this be the perfect test? A false trail to weed out the desperate from the capable."
Ormond leaned back, eyes narrowing. "That would explain the cryptic symbols... and the river."
"Exactly."
"But the river felt real," Ormond pressed. "Could it be another deception?"
"Not necessarily," Benard replied. "The river may exist, but the scale, direction, even its flow might be wrong. Deliberately wrong. We've been following it blindly, but maybe we weren't meant to follow at all."
Silence stretched between them.
Ormond's gaze dropped to the map between them. Candlelight flickered across its surface, highlighting faded lines and strange symbols.
"So what now?" he murmured. "If the path we were given is false... what path is the right one?"
Benard didn't answer immediately. He stared at the flame, his voice quiet when it came.
"The one no map can show us. We stop searching for directions... and start watching for signs."
Ormond's fingers drummed softly on the table, his eyes fixed on the edge of the map.
"Watch for signs," he echoed. "And what if there are none?"
Benard stood, his gaze turning toward the tent's entrance.
"There will be," he said. "Have you ever heard the old poem, The Lotus Riddle?"
Ormond looked up from the map. "Of course."
Benard spoke the words softly, as though reciting a forgotten spell:
"Where shadows bloom at end of day,
The vanished road reveals its grace.
Look not ahead, but turn away,
The past may hold the hidden place."
A beat passed, then Ormond's eyes widened.
"Turn away…" he repeated under his breath. "The vanished road… the path behind…"
He bent over the map with sudden energy, tracing the lines backward, not forward.
"Of course!" he breathed. "It's not ahead of us, it's behind. The route to Zenithara was never meant to be approached head on. It was hidden in reverse!"
Benard nodded, calm but satisfied. "Sometimes, the answer is not in finding a new way, but in re-seeing the old one."
Ormond looked at him with renewed respect. "Benard, you've done it again."
He gave a low, appreciative laugh. "I don't say this lightly, but if I am to walk into legend, I'm glad it's with you beside me. You were born for more than command. There's something... deeper in you."
Benard said nothing, but a flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes, a thought he chose not to share.