Story 1156: Warden of the Forgotten Trail

There was a trail older than maps and memory, veiled beneath the roots of Moonwood and smothered by time. The locals called it the Forgotten Trail, and even the bravest hunters would not set foot on it—not because of wolves or bandits, but because of the Warden.

The trail was said to lead to nowhere and everywhere—to places that existed only when the wind whispered your name wrong. And at its threshold stood the Warden, a cloaked figure draped in moss and bone, face hidden behind a carved mask of bark.

No one knew if the Warden was man, ghost, or god.

Only that it guarded the path.

And punished those who tread without purpose.

Caldor Venn, a mapmaker by trade, didn’t believe in old stories. He sought to uncover lost roads, chart hidden valleys, and etch his name into the annals of cartography. When he heard whispers of the Forgotten Trail in a tavern soaked with rain and rum, his heart surged with curiosity.

He ignored the barkeep’s warning.