Morning broke over the Verdantveil with a wash of gold, the river glinting like a trail of molten glass winding into the distance. Mist curled low over the water, and the air smelled of wet earth and crushed mint from the night's dew.
They broke camp in good spirits, chatter carrying over the quiet lap of the river. The talk inevitably circled back to the herbs they were here for, and that was when Eliakim slowed his pace.
"Speaking of herbs…" he said, rummaging in his satchel. From within, he drew the Yggdrasil leaf — deep emerald, veins shifting faintly like sunlight beneath water.
Ezra stopped mid-step, her eyes going wide. "That's—"She didn't finish. Her gaze flicked sharply to Caleb.
The half-elf's expression matched hers, though tinged with something quieter… almost reverent.
Ezra stepped closer, peering at the leaf. "I saw something like this yesterday… only for a second, while picking that Starleaf by the rootbank. Then it—" She frowned. "It vanished. Like it was never there."
Caleb's voice was low, almost hesitant. "I've seen it too. In a dream. Standing in a grove I didn't recognize, and this leaf was in my hand. I woke up before I knew why."
They both turned to Eliakim, urgency replacing curiosity. "Put it away," Ezra urged. "Quickly."
The leaf pulsed faintly in his hand — and then the ground shuddered.
A low, resonant tremor rolled through the earth, rattling their packs and sending ripples across the river's surface. The mist stirred unnaturally, curling toward the treeline. Birds erupted from the branches in frantic flocks.
Eliakim's eyes swept the banks. "To the fire," he ordered.
Within moments, the five of them — Eliakim, Gideon, Ezra, Skyling, and Caleb — stood clustered around the smoldering remains of last night's bonfire. Hands hovered near weapons, breaths held.
Somewhere upriver, something heavy moved through the water.
The tremor subsided, leaving only the steady hush of the Verdantveil. For a breath, nothing moved — even the wind seemed to hold its lungs.
Then the river shifted.
Not like a current change, not like a fish breaking the surface — but as if something immense had passed just beneath. A slick swell rolled against the shore, darkening the water for a heartbeat before smoothing out.
Skyling's ears flattened. "That wasn't a log."
From somewhere downriver, a low hum began to rise — almost mechanical, almost insectile — but layered with something like a voice trying to speak through water. The sound crawled up the spine and settled in the teeth.
Mist curled thicker, curling in tendrils that seemed to move against the wind. Shapes hinted at themselves within — too tall for reeds, too narrow for driftwood.
Ezra took a step forward, squinting. "Does anyone else see—"
A shape breached the mist. It was plantlike, yet wrong — a tangle of vine and root that moved with animal precision, its wet surface glinting faintly with that same unnatural shimmer she'd seen in the herbs. No face, no eyes… but it paused, as if it could see them.
Caleb's bow was half-raised. "That's not from this river," he murmured.
The thing sank back into the mist without a sound. The hum faded. The water stilled.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Eliakim exhaled slowly. "We keep moving. But no one strays from sight."
No one argued.
---
The morning mist clung low over the Verdantveil, turning the river into a shifting ribbon of silver. Their boots sank into damp earth as they followed the bank, the air cool but heavy with a sweetness that didn't belong to water or morning dew.
Ezra kept glancing at the plants along the way. Here and there, clusters of wild mint and river-balm grew too close together, their leaves broader and glossier than they should be. One sprig of feverleaf had tiny blossoms the color of deep wine instead of pale yellow — a shift no season should cause.
Skyling trotted ahead, but twice she stopped to sniff the air, head cocked. The second time, she gave a low, puzzled sound before bounding to catch up again.
Gideon whistled low. "Is it just me, or is the river… louder today?"
They all heard it — the faint, irregular burble that didn't match the current. Sometimes it was ahead of them, sometimes behind. It never stayed in one place.
Caleb walked near the water's edge, gaze drawn to a fallen log half-submerged. Its bark was stripped in smooth spirals, as if something had fed on it with purpose. "Not beavers," he said quietly, almost to himself. "They don't carve in patterns."
Eliakim's eyes flicked to him at that. "You've seen it before?"
Caleb didn't answer right away — just ran a hand along the bow at his back, eyes still on the log. "In dreams," he said finally. Then he walked on.
The others followed, but no one spoke for a while. The river kept whispering, and the mist never broke.
They followed the riverbend, the mist beginning to thin just enough to reveal a widening stretch of water. The Verdantveil slowed here, forming a deep, glassy basin.
And in the middle of that basin rose an island.
At first glance, it looked untouched — a quilt of green hills, clustered trees, and streams that glittered in the morning light. But the longer they stared, the more wrong it became. Some of the treetops shimmered faintly, as though dusted in frost despite the summer air. One of the streams curled unnaturally, winding into a perfect spiral before vanishing into the foliage.
Ezra's breath caught. "That… wasn't on any map."
Caleb stood very still, his expression unreadable. "It has a name," he said finally. "Thornveil Isle."
Eliakim turned sharply toward him. "And you know this how?"
Caleb's gaze didn't leave the island. "Dreams," he said again.
A soft wind stirred the river's surface, and for a moment, the reflection of Thornveil's shoreline wavered like something alive beneath the water.
The unease coiled tighter in Eliakim's chest.