Story 1148: Bone Roots

In the heart of the Moonwood, where no paths remain and even the wind forgets to blow, there lies a grove untouched by time. The trees there are tall and silent, their trunks pale and smooth as bone. Locals call it The Rootgrave, and none who’ve entered have ever returned unchanged—if they returned at all.

Mira Dalwyn had no fear of such tales. She was a herbalist, trained in the old ways, and believed the forest whispered only to those who listened. So when her mother fell ill and the village healer spoke of a cure that grew in the Rootgrave, Mira packed her satchel, braided charms into her hair, and crossed the threshold at dawn.

At first, all was still. The deeper she walked, the quieter the forest became, until even her heartbeat sounded too loud. The air thickened. Shadows lengthened. The trees changed—no longer covered in bark, but smooth, hard, and ivory-colored.

Then she saw them: bones—not scattered remains, but grown into the trees.