Secrets of the Veins

### **Chapter 4: Secrets of the Veins**

The deep hum of the forest pressed in around them as the Dryad led Trill and Bren through the twisting woods. The trees seemed to lean in closer, their branches brushing softly against their shoulders, as if the forest itself was listening, watching. Trill felt the familiar twinge of suspicion in his gut. It had been days since the Dryad had first appeared, and he still couldn't shake the feeling that something was hidden beneath her cryptic words and ethereal beauty.

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the distant fragrance of decaying flowers.

They came upon a clearing where the trees opened wide to reveal an enormous tree—its trunk wide and knotted, roots sprawling like veins beneath the ground. The Dryad stopped before it, her eyes softening as she gazed upon the ancient tree. Trill could feel the power of the Veins pulsing beneath his feet, the very ground trembling with the force of the magic that thrummed through it.

"This is the heart of the forest," the Dryad said, her voice like the rustling of leaves in a gentle breeze. "The source of all life here. It is dying."

Trill stepped forward, his hand brushing the wooden medallion at his neck. He had been here before, or at least, somewhere similar. A place of power. A place where life and death were inextricably tied.

"And why is it dying?" he asked, his voice flat and sharp. "Is this your doing?"

The Dryad's lips curled in a soft, knowing smile. "It is not I who has corrupted it, child of the mountains. But there are forces beyond your understanding that seek to use it. To twist it."

"What forces?" Bren's voice rang out, more skeptical than inquisitive. "What exactly are we supposed to be fighting?"

The Dryad's green eyes flicked to Bren, as if noticing her for the first time. She didn't seem alarmed by the mercenary's mistrust; if anything, it seemed to amuse her. "You see only the surface, flame-bringer. But there is more to this forest than your kind can comprehend."

Bren's hand drifted to the hilt of her sword, her fingers flexing. "I understand enough to know when something's off." Her eyes narrowed. "If you want us to save this… heart, then what do you offer in return?"

The Dryad's smile faltered, but she did not seem angered. "What could I offer to one such as you, mercenary?" she asked, her tone like silk.

Bren stiffened, her eyes cold. "I'm not here to play your games, lady. You've got a corrupted heart that needs fixing, and we've got skills to get it done. But we're not just doing this out of charity."

Trill's eyes flicked to Bren. He had no interest in being a hero. Mercenaries understood the value of a coin—and they expected to be compensated for their labor.

"I'll be blunt," Trill said, stepping forward and crossing his arms. "We're not here to save the forest because we care about it. We're here because we have our own reasons. I'll help you with your problem, but I expect a reward for my trouble."

The Dryad regarded them both for a long moment, her gaze unreadable. The breeze picked up around her, swirling through her hair like the tendrils of vines. Finally, she nodded. "The forest does not give freely. It is old, and it has its ways. But if you succeed in healing the heart, then perhaps there is something I can offer."

Trill didn't flinch. "What's the catch?"

She tilted her head slightly, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "You would seek the answers first? Then you will be like the many who came before you—curious, eager to know, yet unwilling to accept the price for such knowledge."

Bren snorted. "Yeah, I've seen this act before. Always some mysterious, cryptic nonsense about balance and nature. I'm not interested in riddles, Dryad. I want something real."

The Dryad's gaze turned sharp, and for a moment, it was as though the forest itself had grown quiet. The light shifted, and the leaves overhead seemed to darken, the air thick with ancient power. "You think me a fool, mercenary? You think I do not know your kind? You are no different from the others who have come here, drawn by the allure of power and riches. Do you believe the forest will simply hand you what you ask for?"

Bren's face hardened, but she did not draw her weapon. "I'm not here to trade empty words. If you want us to help you, then make it worth our while."

Trill stepped forward, his eyes cold but calculating. "She's right. I'm not here to save the world. I'm an assassin, not some saint. You want me to do your bidding, Dryad? Then give me something in return."

The Dryad's eyes glittered with an unreadable emotion. She stepped closer to Trill, her presence imposing yet strangely calm. "What is it you seek, assassin?"

Trill hesitated, his gaze drifting to the twisted roots of the tree. "Information," he said finally, his voice low. "I want to know who destroyed my village. I want to know who took my family."

For a moment, there was silence. The Dryad's expression softened, though her eyes remained guarded. "You seek vengeance," she murmured. "How fitting."

Bren's brows furrowed. "Vengeance? What do you mean by that?"

The Dryad looked at Bren, her eyes measuring. "There is little difference between a hero and an assassin when their hands are stained with blood. You seek only the truth of your past. It is a common desire. But truth is a double-edged sword, child of the mountains."

Trill clenched his jaw, unwilling to show any weakness. "I don't care about the rest of the world. I care about the answers. So you'll tell me what I want to know, or you'll find someone else to deal with this corruption."

The Dryad's lips parted in what could have been a smile, though her eyes remained hard. "If you heal the heart, you will be granted your answers. But know this: The truth you seek may not be what you wish to find."

Bren's hand gripped her sword tighter. "That's a hell of a promise."

"It is a promise bound by the very roots of the earth," the Dryad said. "If you succeed, you will find the one you seek. But beware—sometimes the forest remembers things better left forgotten."

Trill's gaze darkened. "I'm ready for whatever it is. But I want my reward."

The Dryad nodded, her voice becoming cold once more. "You will have your answers, assassin. If you can do what is required."

Bren eyed the Dryad warily. "And what exactly is required?"

"The heart of the forest must be healed. Its corruption removed, its balance restored. But to do so, you must first face what lies at the core of the sickness," the Dryad said cryptically. "The creatures you have faced are but a taste. The true enemy lies deeper still. You will find it beyond the Veins."

Trill looked at Bren, his thoughts shifting. This wasn't a simple task—he had known that from the start. But the reward was tantalizing, too tempting to refuse.

Bren's eyes narrowed. "So, you'll give us a guide, right?"

The Dryad nodded again, and from the shadows of the trees, two smaller figures stepped forward. Their forms were draped in vines, their faces hidden by leaves, but the sense of power that radiated from them was undeniable.

"These will guide you," the Dryad said. "They are of the forest. They know the way."

"Fine," Bren said, turning toward the figures. "But we're not doing this for charity, and I expect to be paid well for the trouble."

The Dryad's gaze lingered on them both, and for the first time, there was something almost sad in her eyes. "Perhaps the price is not one you are ready to pay," she whispered. "But it is the only one there is."

As the Dryad faded into the shadows of the forest, Trill couldn't help but feel that they were standing on the edge of something far darker and more complicated than he could have imagined. But for the first time in days, a glimmer of hope stirred within him. The answers he sought were within reach.

The question was whether he was willing to face them.