The forest had gone silent in the wake of the battle, the kind of silence that pressed against the ears until it felt heavier than sound.
The red-spined monster's carcass lay in pieces among churned soil and splintered roots, its fluids seeping into the earth. Above, the canopy swayed gently, as though the fight hadn't just torn the clearing apart.
Eliakim stood still, his chains coiled loosely at his side, the last echo of their metallic clink fading into the hush. His breathing slowed, but his eyes never stopped scanning. The battle had ended, yes—but the forest felt like it was holding its breath.
Malachi was the first to break the quiet. "We can't stay here." His voice was low, gravel threaded through weariness.
Eliakim glanced at him. "Because the carcass will draw scavengers?"
Malachi shook his head. "Because it's already drawn worse."
The others turned toward him. Caleb, still catching his breath, lowered his bow. Ezra sat against a fractured trunk, hand pressed lightly to her temple. Gideon rested the haft of his fused axe on the ground, the blades still faintly aglow.
Malachi's gaze drifted past them, toward where the remains of his hut once stood—charred beams and crushed roof buried under debris. "While you were all unconscious after the last attack," he began slowly, "I had visitors. Every night. Monster scouts—different species, different sizes. All moving toward this place like they could smell something here. Or someone."
The words lingered, heavy and sharp. Ezra's head lifted slightly, her expression unreadable beneath the shadow of her hair.
Eliakim narrowed his eyes. "You're saying they weren't random?"
"They came too often, too direct," Malachi replied. "This place wasn't a coincidence. And after tonight, staying means dying. My hut was the only shelter for miles. It's gone. Which means we push forward, or we wait here for the next wave."
Caleb shifted uneasily. "Push forward… into where?"
Malachi turned to him. "Into the Forbidden Canopy."
The name alone seemed to sour the air. Caleb's jaw tensed. His voice lost its usual playful ease. "We don't go there."
"Apparently, now we do," Gideon said, his tone flat.
Eliakim studied Caleb. "You've been avoiding it. Why?"
Caleb's eyes flickered toward the distant wall of darker green—the place where the forest's shadows deepened unnaturally. "Because it's alive in ways it shouldn't be. The trees there… they think. They remember. And they don't like strangers."
Ezra frowned faintly. "And yet we're going in?"
Caleb hesitated, then sighed. "We don't have much choice."
Eliakim stepped closer. "Back during the fight, you pulled out that druid staff. You've been holding back. Why?"
The archer gave a small smirk. "Show-off, remember?"
"Caleb."
His smirk faded. He looked away, voice quieter. "Because the staff isn't just any branch I can pick up. The wood comes from the Canopy. A living fragment of its oldest tree. Using it… connects you to the forest. It lets you pull power from it. But it also lets it… look back at you."
Ezra's brow creased. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," Caleb said, "the more I use it, the more the Canopy learns me. My scent, my mana, my heartbeat. The old tribes warned—use it too much, and you won't be able to leave. The forest will keep you."
Gideon's grip on his axe tightened slightly. "So every time you used it—"
"I gave it a piece of myself," Caleb finished. "Which is why I only ever use it when things go bad. Like today."
Malachi exhaled slowly. "Then we're walking straight into the jaws of something that already knows you."
"That's one way to put it." Caleb's tone was dry, but his fingers flexed restlessly on the bowstring at his side.
They began to gather what supplies remained, salvaging what the battle hadn't destroyed. There wasn't much—some food, a few tools, and whatever weapons hadn't been spent or shattered. The air smelled faintly of scorched wood and iron.
As they prepared to leave, Caleb paused near a large birch. His hands moved with practiced ease, peeling long strips of bark. The rest of the group watched curiously as he worked the fibers between his fingers, weaving them together until a length of soft, pale linen took shape.
He turned toward Ezra. "Here. For your eyes."
Ezra blinked. "My eyes?"
"You've been straining them with mana perception. And…" He hesitated, glancing briefly at Malachi, then back to her. "There are things ahead you might not want to see directly."
Ezra's lips parted in mild protest, but Caleb was already stepping forward, holding the fabric out. She took it reluctantly.
The bark-linen was surprisingly smooth against her skin as she tied it in place. It fell across her face much like the shade of long hair, concealing her eyes but leaving her mouth visible.
The reaction was immediate.
"...Hells," Gideon murmured.
Even Malachi's brows lifted slightly. "Well. Didn't expect that."
Eliakim tilted his head, chains swaying faintly. "You look… different. In a good way."
Caleb chuckled under his breath. "Guess I made better fabric than I thought."
Ezra shifted uncomfortably under the weight of their gazes. "You're all ridiculous."
"Ridiculously honest," Gideon countered.
Color touched her cheeks despite herself. She turned away, tightening the knot on the linen.
The small exchange softened the lingering tension—but only for a moment.
Malachi hefted his mace and glanced toward the shadowed treeline. "We leave now. The longer we wait, the closer they get."
The group fell into formation—Eliakim at the front, chains loose but ready; Gideon to his right, the twin axe gleaming; Malachi taking the rear; Caleb moving silently along the left flank, bow in hand; Ezra between them, her new blindfold lending her an almost statuesque calm.
The first steps into the Forbidden Canopy were like stepping across an unseen threshold. The air thickened, the light dimmed, and every sound seemed to carry farther than it should. Leaves whispered in a language none of them knew. The trees loomed, their trunks twisted and massive, roots curling like the claws of buried beasts.
Eliakim slowed, scanning the shadows. "It's quieter than I expected."
Caleb's voice was low. "That's not quiet. That's listening."
They moved on, feet crunching softly on moss and fallen leaves. Here and there, the trees bore faint scars—marks of old battles, or perhaps something else entirely. A few looked as though they'd been burned from within, the heartwood blackened but still standing.
Malachi's voice carried from the back. "If they're drawn to someone, it's not just scent or sound. It's intent. They're following a presence."
Eliakim glanced over his shoulder. "And you think it's one of us."
"I know it is," Malachi said. His gaze slid briefly to each of them before resting somewhere none of them could see. "The question is who."
No one answered. The only reply came from the wind threading through the branches, as though the forest itself were considering the same question.