The season was turning, Second Spring giving way to First Autumn. On the edge of Miir, Rowan Brownleaf stood within his hollowed tree home, clutching the letter that had arrived a week ago. Its words still shimmered in his mind, a summons from Grand Sayer Maple herself, an invitation to ascend Haustrasill and apprentice beneath the World Tree. For one so young, it was an honor almost unheard of.
Hazel, his twin, tore about the house in search of her cloak and staff, her voice sharp enough to cut through Rowan’s reverie. “Are you going to keep staring at that parchment, or help me prepare? Ren and Marcel will be here any moment, and Gellin’s been in the bushes for an hour pretending to be stealthy. I heard him fall. Twice.”
Rowan only smiled, raising the letter as though to read it aloud again. Hazel snatched it from his hands with a groan. “Fifty times, brother. You have read it to me fifty times. I am proud of you, Mother and Father would have been proud too, but if you do not start moving, I will string you up by your tail.”
At last, Rowan shouldered his pack and stepped outside. The rest of their companions were waiting. Marcel, a towering Cynoce wrapped in a dusty red cloak, rested a heavy hammer against his shoulder. Ren, bright-eyed and mischievous, plucked at her lute with practiced ease, her laughter ringing as she leapt onto Marcel’s back to tousle his hair. From the bushes tumbled Gellin, the Tulde rogue, his cheeks flushed from his failed ambush.
Together the five friends studied the map inked on the reverse of Rowan’s letter. It led north, through fields of copper leaves and into the shadowed tangle of Haustfyr.
---The Dampway---
The forest greeted them with whispering boughs and damp earth. After an hour’s march they came upon a yawning cavern in the hillside, its mouth dripping with condensation, the air that spilled out of it cool and heavy with the scent of moss and stone. Pale orbs of light hovered near the threshold, their glow steady and inviting, like lanterns set out to guide travelers home.
Yet as the companions stepped inside, the orbs quivered. One by one they retreated, sliding along the cavern floor with a sound like roots dragging through gravel. Vines glistened in the shadows, the orbs clutched in their tendrils like captured stars. The companions followed deeper, the glow always just out of reach, until the cavern widened into a chamber where a stone tree rose from the center.
The statue’s bark was cracked with age, its roots drinking from a thin pool of water that circled its base. From the ceiling and corners of the room, dozens of orbs pulsed in unison, their light feeding the statue until its etched trunk shimmered faintly with life. Yet the vines writhed in warning, lashing the air whenever one of the friends drew too near.
An inscription carved into the stone read: “Take the brilliance of what is needed, no more, no less. Your judgment yields judgment on being our guest.”
They reached for the orbs, each one warm and alive in the hand. When cracked open, the living light poured like molten dawn into the roots of the statue, spreading through the water until the etched tree on the far door flared bright. But when Rowan’s hand lingered too long, a vine struck, lashing across his arm and leaving a burning gash. He cried out and nearly dropped the orb.
Hazel raised her staff, roots bursting from the ground to hold the vine back. Marcel leapt forward and smashed another tendril with his hammer, the impact shaking dust from the cavern walls. Gellin tried to slip behind to cut the vines free, but one lashed across his chest, ripping through his leather and drawing blood. He hissed through his teeth and retaliated with both blades, severing the tendril clean.
Ren’s chords shifted into a healing refrain, her voice trembling but steady. The cuts on Rowan’s arm and Gellin’s chest closed enough to keep them moving. Together they cracked the final orbs over the statue. The etched tree blazed, light flooding the door until it groaned open, granting them passage deeper.
---Dwelling on the Past---
Beyond lay a chamber dressed in dust and memory. A hearth long gone cold loomed against one wall, its mantle supporting a single portrait of a Karnal woman in a golden dress, her smile frozen in painted warmth. An armchair sagged before the hearth, and in it slumped a skeleton still wearing spectacles and the tatters of common clothes. Around the room lay tokens of a forgotten life: a ring engraved For my dearest Arlo, a pouch embroidered with the name Sire, marbles spilling across the table beside it. The air carried the faint scent of dry rot, but beneath it something almost sweet, like fruit left too long in the sun.
The companions studied the relics in silence. The hearth seemed to echo with laughter once shared here, the portrait’s eyes followed them as though pleading for remembrance. One by one, they gathered the pieces of the story and pressed on.
---Arlo’s Door---
The passage beyond twisted into darkness before ending in a smooth stone door, its surface glowing faintly. Within the door’s glow a specter writhed, a Karnal man with sorrow in his hollow eyes. His clothes matched the skeleton in the room behind, his spectacles glimmering faintly in the ethereal light.
He did not know he was bound to the wood. His voice was soft and cracked, speaking only of his grief. “My wife… I cannot find her. My son… where has he gone?”
The companions spoke the names they had gathered: Arlo, Ria, Sire. At each, the spirit stirred, fragments of memory piercing the fog. “Yes… Ria, the harvest dance… my love, my son…” With the final word, his face twisted with anguish and recognition. The door shook violently, the specter’s howl echoing down the passage as he tore free and rushed upward, leaving the way open.
---The Soulshine---
They followed into a chamber where vines clung to every wall, pulsing with the light of countless orbs. At the center glowed a silhouette of a woman, her shape radiant yet indistinct, a figure woven entirely from light and thorns.
Arlo stood before her, his hands outstretched. “Ria, I have found you at last.”
The figure embraced him, but not with love. Vines snapped forward and pierced his ghostly form, twisting him in agony before drawing his essence into yet another orb upon her thorny body. His cry echoed, then fell silent.
The Soulshine’s radiance shifted, no longer warm but burning, no longer gentle but ravenous. Its body writhed with hunger, each vine ending in jagged thorns that dripped with pale fire. The chamber erupted in searing light, shadows leaping like specters across the walls.
Hazel struck first, her staff glowing as thorned roots burst from the ground and lashed against the creature. Rowan raised both hands, sparks flickering erratically before bursting into emerald fire that scorched the Soulshine’s limbs.
The monster retaliated. A vine slammed Hazel into the wall, knocking the wind from her lungs. Another wrapped around Rowan’s leg, dragging him toward the creature’s glowing core. His nails scraped the floor as he cried out for help.
Marcel roared and swung his hammer with bone-shaking force, crushing the vine that held Rowan. Yet another coiled around Marcel’s torso, thorns digging into his flesh until blood trickled beneath his armor. With a desperate cry, he tore free and smashed the hammer down again, splintering the vine.
Ren strummed a blazing chord, fire cascading from her lute in a sheet of sparks that seared the Soulshine’s body. But a vine whipped her from her feet, hurling her across the chamber. Her head cracked against stone, vision swimming. She forced her trembling fingers to pluck a gentler tune, her voice thin but steady. Healing light enveloped Hazel, closing gashes and easing breath back into her lungs. Rowan staggered to his feet, his sparks steadier now.
Gellin moved like a shadow through the chaos. He darted past whipping vines, blades flashing, slicing weak joints and carving into the glowing body. One tendril caught him across the back, tearing deep into leather and flesh. He gasped, blood running hot, then downed a potion in one practiced motion. Strength surged back into him, just enough to dive forward again.
The battle pressed on, light and shadow colliding in a storm of fury. At last Hazel’s roots bound the creature’s limbs, Rowan’s sparks cascaded into its core, Ren’s final fiery chord blazed across the chamber, and Gellin’s daggers struck deep. Marcel’s hammer fell like thunder, smashing the Soulshine’s body into shards of fading light.
The vines shriveled to ash. The orbs shattered and fell in sparks like dying stars. From the ruin, a stairway revealed itself, curling upward to the surface.
---Underoot Village---
The friends emerged into night at the base of Haustrasill. But instead of the warmth of Underoot Village, they found ruin. Corpses lay scattered across the ground, the scent of blood and rot so thick it choked the throat. Fires smoldered low, casting the wreckage in a sickly red glow.
From the shadows, eyes opened. Red, unblinking, they multiplied until dozens stared from the dark. Shroomps shambled forward, creatures once gentle now snarling, their fungal bodies blackened and warped by corruption. Their guttural growls merged into one dreadful sound.
A heavier echo followed: the thud of boots striking earth. At the gates of Haustrasill stood a Cynoce archer, his body twitching with unnatural spasms, his eyes burning crimson. The uniform of an Arcury ranger clung to his corrupted frame, though whatever loyalty it once symbolized had long been devoured. His gaze found the companions and held fast, void of mercy.
---The Corrupted Battle---
The Shroomps surged forward, their claws raking. One leapt upon Rowan, slashing his shoulder and driving him to the ground. Hazel shouted and sent a spray of glowing leaves that cut into the beast’s fungal hide, knocking it back. She hauled Rowan to his feet as he gasped, sparks leaking from his fingertips like blood from a wound.
Another Shroomp slammed into Marcel, its maw snapping inches from his throat. He jammed his hammer between its jaws and forced it back, then flipped it aside with a roar. His hammer came down hard, shattering its skull in a burst of spores that burned his lungs. He coughed violently but pushed forward, swinging again.
Ren strummed furiously, flames curling from her strings to ignite the corrupted Shroomps. One staggered through the fire and struck her across the ribs, dropping her to her knees. She strummed a softer chord, weaving healing notes that wrapped around her like a shield, closing the wound enough to breathe. Her next note flared outward, searing the Shroomp that had struck her.
Gellin danced between shadows. His blades cut deep into one Shroomp’s legs, toppling it. Yet another slashed across his side, leaving him staggering and pale. With grit he yanked a potion from his belt, swallowing fast before vanishing back into the fray.
Then the Cynoce ranger raised his bow. The first arrow struck Hazel in the thigh, corruption spreading black tendrils through her flesh. She collapsed, her scream sharp in Rowan’s chest. He unleashed a desperate surge of sparks that struck the ranger’s arm, forcing him to drop the bow. Hazel writhed, the corruption spreading, but Ren’s healing chords steadied her long enough for her to rise.
Marcel charged the ranger, hammer clashing against the corrupted blade the Cynoce now wielded. Each blow rang like iron on iron, sparks flying. The ranger’s blade cut across Marcel’s shoulder, drawing a ragged cry, but Marcel pressed on, his hammer slamming into the ranger’s chest and forcing him back.
Rowan and Hazel clasped hands, their twin druidic magic weaving together. Sparks and vines erupted, pinning the ranger’s limbs. Ren’s song rose to its fiercest fire, engulfing the battlefield. Gellin darted low, daggers sinking deep into the ranger’s legs. With one last roar, Marcel’s hammer struck true, caving the corrupted warrior’s chest and silencing him forever.
The last Shroomps faltered. Hazel’s leaves sliced them down, Rowan’s sparks seared them to ash, Ren’s flames consumed their fungal bodies, and Gellin’s daggers finished the rest.
At last the night grew still. The companions stood battered and bloodied, healing magic and potions the only reason they still breathed. Their bodies ached, their lungs burned, but they were alive.
---The Inn and the Letter---
The gates of Haustrasill creaked open. From within emerged a Fivelli scarcely taller than Rowan’s shoulder, his fur pale, his eyes wide with fear. “Thank you,” he said, voice trembling as he surveyed the carnage. “I am Riff, caretaker of the Tree. This must be reported to Grand Sayer Maple at once.”
Rowan stepped forward, the letter clutched in his hand. “She summoned me. I have come for her.”
At the sight of Maple’s seal, Riff’s eyes softened with recognition. “Then you are expected,” he said quickly. “Come, but rest first. The road has tested you enough. Spend the night in the 100 Rings Inn. I will tell Maple you have arrived.”
The companions followed him up the winding paths that curled through Haustrasill’s roots into the living architecture of the Tree. The inn rested on one of the lower levels, its walls warm and curved as though grown rather than built, lanterns glowing with a gentle radiance that seemed to breathe. The barkeep welcomed them without question, guiding them to a sturdy table and setting down mugs of frothy Moonberry Ale.
Rowan, Hazel, Marcel, Ren, and Gellin sat together, their reflections heavy with the journey behind them. The Dampway’s sorrowful spirit, the hunger of the Soulshine, the corrupted waiting at the Tree’s base, all pressed upon their thoughts.
Then, from a nearby table, a quiet chuckle broke the silence. An older Fivelli woman sat there, her feet swinging just above the floor. Her smile was knowing, her presence calm, as though she had been waiting all along.
“That sounds like quite the tale,” she said, her voice gentle yet commanding. “I would like to hear every detail. Tell me, did you bring my letter?”
Rowan’s heart pounded as he rose, the parchment still in his grip. He set it gently before her.
Grand Sayer Maple’s eyes glimmered as she lifted it, the lantern light dancing in their depths. The world outside seemed to fade, leaving only the five friends and the woman whose guidance would shape the path ahead.
