Desecration of a saint

For a good while after our talk, Lord Thorne and I didn't speak. He seemed content to let me sit in silence, granting me the privilege of looking out the window. I welcomed the distraction—it was better than the gnawing boredom that had settled in my chest.

As my eyes wandered across the landscape, I noticed that the open fields had long since vanished. In their place loomed a wall of trees, impossibly tall and densely packed, their dark forms stretching endlessly toward the horizon. The ground itself had begun to rise in a gentle incline, as though the land were guiding us upward, deeper into the tree line.

The trees seemed ancient, their gnarled trunks draped in moss and tangled with ivy. Their canopies intertwined, forming a near-impenetrable roof that turned the air beneath into a world of shadows. The sunlight struggled to break through, and what little light did filter in created an eerie mosaic of fractured beams on the forest floor.

I turned my attention back to the men surrounding the cart, noticing for the first time the tension that gripped the guards. Their hands rested on their weapons, knuckles white. Even the contractors, normally unreadable in their stoicism, showed signs of unease. The fully covered one—shrouded in thick, concealing garments—stood rigid, their posture radiating a subtle wariness.

I didn't know much about the Dire Forest, but the way they carried themselves told me enough. This place wasn't just a stretch of trees—it was something to be feared. And as the wall of trees loomed closer, an unsettling weight seemed to settle over the cart, thick and oppressive.

A bit later, the sun disappeared entirely as we passed beneath the forest's canopy. The air inside was different, heavier. The scents of the forest hit me all at once—a deep, damp earthiness, like the ground after a long rain. There was a wet greenness, mixed with the sharp tang of rotting wood and decaying leaves. Every breath carried a faint metallic bite, subtle but distinct. Occasionally, fleeting whiffs of something sweet or acrid would drift past, lingering for only a moment before vanishing entirely.

I leaned closer to the window, letting my gaze drift into the forest's depths. That's when I saw them—or thought I did. Shapes lingered in the shadows, watching me, or perhaps they weren't watching at all. They blended seamlessly into the darkness, like ink spilled across the contours of the trees. I could only discern them because of the slight differences in the depth of blackness.

And then I heard it—a whisper. Soft, almost too faint to notice, threading through the dense silence of the forest. The words twisted and warped, in a language I didn't understand but somehow felt I could. They danced just on the edge of comprehension, beckoning me to listen harder, to strain my ears against the oppressive quiet.

A chill ran down my spine. The thought of listening closer filled me with a nameless dread, as though the act itself would draw something closer. Something that should remain far away. Why would I want to listen harder? Why would I even consider it? I pressed back into my seat, forcing my eyes away from the trees and trying to shake the unease that had settled over me. But even then, I could still feel them—or the idea of them—watching from the shadows.

"Boy, don't look out of the window. Don't listen to them, and don't ever step out of the cart."

Lord Thorne's voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and unyielding. His own tension was impossible to miss. His usual calm was gone, replaced with a tightness in his features I hadn't seen before. Stress lines etched into his brow, and his jaw was clenched so hard it looked painful.

"You might hear someone call to you," he continued, his tone leaving no room for argument. "They'll promise that they're your friend, maybe even a family member. But do not, under any circumstances, open that door. Do you understand me?"

I swallowed hard, nodding. "Yes, Lord. I understand." I hesitated, then asked, "What is out there?"

I wanted to know. I hoped he would tell me.

"The souls of the lost."

I echoed back what he just said. I felt like it should make sense but it didnt at least to me. How was a soul lost?

Long ago, this forest was home to a thriving kingdom of elves," Lord Thorne began, his voice low and edged with something between disdain and caution. "They were a proud people, prosperous and strong, living in harmony with the land. For a time, they thrived, until their ambitions or perhaps desperation drove them to war. Whether it was human expansion or something more sinister that sparked their conflict, no one can say for certain. What we do know is that they waged war against the neighboring kingdoms—ours among them—and the cost was steep."

He paused, his gaze shifting toward the dense shadows outside the window, as though searching for something only he could see.

"They fought for years," he continued. "But as the battles raged on, their fighters dwindled. Desperation crept into their ranks, and they turned to a covenant with a devil from Hell itself. They sought power, a way to turn the tide and secure their kingdom's survival. But, as is always the case with such deals, they didn't read the conditions of their contract well enough—or perhaps they simply didn't care anymore."

His voice hardened, the weight of his words filling the air between us.

"Whatever the case, the war ended. But their victory came at a cost far greater than they ever could have imagined. The forest was twisted, transformed into this shadowed place you see now. Their kingdom crumbled, consumed by darkness and decay. The elves themselves vanished—or perhaps they became something else entirely. No one truly knows, but their souls… those, it seems, were lost to the bargain. This place became their prison, and their tormentor's playground."

I swallowed, the oppressive atmosphere of the forest pressing against me. "And that's why they whisper? Why they… watch?"

Thorne nodded, his expression grim. "The whispers you hear are them. Fragments of what they once were, reaching out, trying to ensnare anyone foolish enough to listen. They'll promise you anything—friendship, safety, freedom. But step out there, or even open the door, and you'll be lost to them. Your soul is too weak to handle being near them, even the guards struggle."

I shivered, forcing myself to look away from the window. The forest outside felt alive in the worst possible way, its shadows shifting and writhing like living things. I thought back to the whispers, the words that felt so close to understanding but remained maddeningly out of reach. The weight of Lord Thorne's words settled over me like a cold blanket.

"And all of this happened before our kingdom," I murmured, half to myself.

"Long before," Lord Thorne confirmed. "Our kingdom, the followers of Zephyros' founding, came centuries after the fall of this forest. The full records of what truly happened are held by the devotees of the First Flame, the kingdom of Luminara. But they guard their knowledge jealousy, and even they likely don't know the whole truth."

I didn't reply, the silence between us filled only by the faint creaks of the cart and the whispers I tried desperately to ignore. For the first time, I understood why the guards and contractors carried such tension. This wasn't just a forest. 

For the first time, I understood why the guards and contractors carried such tension. This wasn't just a forest.

It was a graveyard—a cursed remnant of a kingdom that had damned itself. And we were traveling right through it.