The Forest

The forest stretched endlessly before them, the canopy of leaves dense enough to blot out the sun in patches. What light filtered through was soft and muted, casting everything in shades of green and gray. Desmond and Alaric walked in silence, their boots crunching against the uneven ground as they followed the narrow dirt path that wound deeper into the woods.

Nathaniel had stayed behind, tucked safely in the villa under Gregor's watchful eye. Desmond had made the decision that morning, reasoning that whatever awaited them in Calla's domain wasn't a risk the youngest of their family needed to bear. Nathaniel had protested, of course, but Desmond's firm tone and Alaric's distraction tactics had finally convinced him to stay.

Now, the two elder brothers carried the weight of the task ahead.

Every step Desmond took was met with the faint rustle of leaves, the crunch of twigs, and the eerie sensation that the trees themselves were leaning closer. The canopy above was so thick that the sun could barely pierce it, leaving the air cool and damp. He adjusted his grip on his poleaxe, keeping it close, and glanced back at Alaric, who was trailing only a few steps behind.

"You all right?" Desmond asked, his voice low.

"Fine," Alaric muttered, though his darting eyes betrayed his unease. "I just hate places like this. It's too quiet."

Desmond nodded in agreement but said nothing. The silence wasn't the peaceful kind; it pressed down on them like a weight, stretching taut with tension. He could feel it too—a subtle wrongness that prickled at the edges of his senses.

"Stay close," he said, his voice steady. "We don't know what's out here."

Alaric smirked faintly, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword. "If something jumps out, I'll let you take the first swing."

Desmond didn't respond. His focus was on the path ahead, or what he could make of it. The dirt trail twisted sharply between thick trees, and the deeper they went, the harder it became to tell where they'd come from.

The first sign of trouble came as a flicker of movement out of the corner of Desmond's eye. He froze mid-step, his hand tightening on his poleaxe as he scanned the trees. Nothing moved.

"What is it?" Alaric asked, his voice sharper now.

Desmond frowned, his eyes narrowing. "Thought I saw something."

Alaric looked around, his smirk gone. "You sure?"

"No," Desmond admitted, though his gut told him otherwise. "Let's keep moving."

They pressed on, but the feeling only grew stronger. It wasn't just the movement—there was something about the air itself, a strange stillness that made Desmond's skin crawl. The trees seemed closer now, their gnarled branches reaching toward the brothers like grasping hands.

"Desmond," Alaric said suddenly, his voice tight.

Desmond turned, his heart skipping a beat when he saw the look on Alaric's face. His brother was staring at something just behind them, his hand hovering near his sword.

"What is it?" Desmond asked, his voice calm despite the tension in his chest.

Alaric didn't answer immediately. He took a step back, his gaze fixed on the shadows between the trees. "I thought I saw…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Never mind. Let's just go."

Desmond frowned but didn't push. He turned back to the path and started walking again, his pace slower now.

But then the voices began.

At first, they were faint—soft whispers that could almost be mistaken for the wind. Desmond barely noticed them, his focus on navigating the uneven trail. But as they walked, the whispers grew louder, more distinct.

"Desmond."

He stopped in his tracks, his blood turning cold. The voice was clear, and unmistakable.

It was his mother's voice.

"Desmond, come here," it said again, gentle and pleading.

"Do you hear that?" Alaric asked, his voice edged with panic.

Desmond turned to him, his heart sinking at the look in his brother's eyes. Alaric was pale, his usual confidence stripped away as he stared into the trees.

"Don't listen to it," Desmond said firmly. "It's just… echoes. Tricks of the forest."

Alaric didn't look convinced, but he nodded.

They continued forward, but the voices didn't stop. If anything, they grew louder, more insistent.

"Desmond," his mother's voice called. "Why are you leaving me?"

His jaw tightened, his steps faltering as the words cut into him like a blade. He hadn't heard her voice since the uprising, since the night she'd—

"Desmond," Alaric said sharply, snapping him out of it.

Desmond blinked, shaking his head. "I'm fine," he said, though his voice sounded far away. "Just… keep moving."

But the forest wouldn't let them.

The air around them seemed to shimmer, and before Desmond could react, the world shifted. The trees melted away, replaced by the familiar stone walls of their villa.

Desmond froze, his breath catching in his throat. The sight before him was impossibly vivid—the warm glow of sunlight streaming through the windows, the sound of laughter echoing from the hearth.

Nathaniel sat by the fire, carving a wooden horse with a look of pure concentration. Their mother stood nearby, her hands busy at the table as she prepared a meal. Their father leaned casually against the wall, his sword resting by his side.

It was perfect.

"Desmond."

His mother's voice broke the spell, drawing his gaze to her face. She smiled at him, her eyes filled with warmth and love. "You're home."

He took a step forward, his poleaxe slipping from his grasp. "Mother?"

But before he could move closer, a hand gripped his arm, pulling him back.

"Desmond, stop!"

Alaric's voice cut through the haze, and the vision wavered. Desmond turned, his heart racing as he saw his brother standing beside him, his face pale and strained.

"It's not real," Alaric said, his grip tightening. "None of this is real."

Desmond blinked, the warmth of the villa fading as he looked back. His mother's smile was still there, but it felt… wrong. Too perfect.

"I know," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The vision shattered like glass, the pieces falling away to reveal the forest once more. Desmond stumbled, catching himself on his poleaxe as the weight of what he'd seen hit him.

"You all right?" Alaric asked, his voice quieter now.

Desmond nodded, though his hands were shaking. "You?"

Alaric hesitated, then gave a weak smile. "Let's just say I've had better walks in the woods."

They both knew better than to ask what the other had seen.

The forest didn't stop testing them. Every few steps brought new flickers of movement, new voices calling to them, new visions that tried to pull them in. But Desmond kept them moving, his voice steady and his presence unyielding.

"Focus on me," he told Alaric when the younger man faltered. "Stay with me. We're not stopping."

And when Desmond stumbled, it was Alaric who pulled him back, his sharp words cutting through the fog of illusion.

By the time the path began to clear, the brothers were exhausted, their steps heavy and their breaths ragged. The sun was low on the horizon now, casting long shadows across the forest floor.

Desmond paused, his hand gripping his poleaxe tightly. "We're close," he said, though he wasn't sure if he believed it.

Alaric nodded, his expression grim. "Good. Because I'm ready for this forest to be behind us."

They stepped forward together, the oppressive weight of the illusions finally lifting. But even as the path brightened, Desmond couldn't shake the feeling that they hadn't seen the last of the forest's tricks.

And somewhere in the shadows, he could still hear his mother's voice.