Fenwick Thistlewhistle had only been inside Mirrorwood once before. It had not gone well.
He had learned a hard lesson that time, it would be in their best interest to remain on the path, rather than stray off of it.
He didn't speak of it often, mostly because no one asked, and also because it was the sort of memory that curls up in the back of one's mind and hisses when disturbed. But now, with the silver-dappled trees swallowing them in layers of thick, humming silence, he finds his mouth moving of its own accord.
"Did you know," he says brightly, ducking under a low-hanging branch that glistens like glass, "that Mirrorwood has fifty-seven different words for 'fear'? Or maybe it was fifty-eight. I forget which one."
Elara turns slowly, her brows arches. "You're saying the forest has its own language now?"
"Of course," Fenwick says, tapping his walking stick against a root that promptly slithers away with a hiss. "It hums to itself when it thinks you're not listening. I tried to learn it once. Got through the first trial. I almost lost my face in the second."
Moony, perched on Rowan's shoulder like a very judgmental scarf, narrows his eyes. "How does one nearly lose a face?"
"By arguing with it."
Rowan snorts despite himself. Elara gives him a sideways glance, as if slightly impressed. Valen, meanwhile, remains quiet, his gaze sweeping the underbrush like a hound on a scent. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of a curved dagger, but his fingers twitched restlessly, like even his weapons were wary of this place.
Elara slows her pace until she walks beside Fenwick. "You said you survived. How?"
Fenwick's usual grin flickers. For a heartbeat, something hollow passes across his expression.
"I made a deal," he says softly. "Not a smart one. But it got me out."
"With who?"
He hesitates. "That's the tricky part. I don't remember. I just know I left something behind. Something...important."
The forest hushes around them. The wind stirs leaves that hadn't fallen. Their footsteps echo despite the moss.
"This place messes with time, doesn't it?" Rowan says suddenly.
"Yes," Valen confirms. "And memory. And identity. Don't look too long at anything that reflects."
Moony shivers, his fur fluffing out like a disgruntled dandelion. "We're being followed again."
"Still?" Elara asks, voice tight.
"Closer this time," he says. "I heard footsteps two minutes ago. Now? Silence. Like it's holding its breath."
They press on. Every sound feels deliberate. A twig snaps behind them.
All spin around.
Nothing.
Only mist curling like breath. And maybe…a shadow too tall to belong to any of them.
"Could be Veshra," Valen murmurs.
"Could be Rowan's social anxiety manifesting again," Fenwick offers, trying to lighten the tension. "Just saying, according to rumours, the last time he was stalked by an unspeakable horror or so he thought, only for it to be a cursed weasel."
"That was not a weasel," Rowan mutters in his defence.
"Sorry, my bad…it had weasel vibes," Fenwick replies, brushing a leaf out of his hair. "You can't fake weasel energy."
By midday, they reached the first glade. The trees opened into a wide clearing, circled by stone pillars etched with shifting runes. At the centre lay a large perfectly still pool, dark as obsidian, smooth as glass. The sky above shimmered in colours no one could name…blues that hummed, purples that flickered, gold that pulsed like memory.
Their reflections waited in the water. Unmoving.
Elara takes a cautious step toward the edge, but Fenwick grabs her elbow.
"Wait. This is Trial One," he says, voice low and knowingly. "It leads to a path towards the Veil of Echoes."
Valen raises an eyebrow. "A trial of what, exactly?"
Fenwick nods to the pool. "Step too close and it shows you what you've tried the hardest to bury. The pieces you don't admit."
"Fantastic," Elara mutters. "Exactly what I wanted before lunch. A surprise existential crisis."
Fenwick moves toward a low plinth near the pool's edge. Upon it sits a bowl carved from crystal, filled with liquid silver that swirls like smoke in moonlight.
"This is a Memory Basin," he explains. "Old Sylian craft. To cross, each of us must offer a memory. Something real. Something true. Something only we know. The pool listens. If it believes you, it will let you pass."
"So it's a truth toll?" Rowan asks.
"Something like that. And if you lie..." Fenwick trails off, glancing at the water. "Well. Best not to."
They exchange wary looks.
Elara steps forward first. The liquid turns lavender when her fingers touch its surface.
"I was twelve," she says quietly. "I found a bird with a broken wing. I tried to fix it. It died. I buried it in a shoebox and pretended I wasn't sad. But I cried for hours under the rosebush." She hesitates for a moment. "It still hurts. More than it should."
The liquid stills.
The black pool shimmers and from its centre, a glowing path of translucent crystal rises into view, stretching across the mirrored surface. Runes flicker beneath like blinking stars.
She takes her first step. Her reflection blinks…then smiles, distant and regal, before fading into darkness.
Moony hops up next, placing a paw dramatically on the edge of the basin. "I once tried to eat a cursed mouse. It insulted my ancestors on the way down. I had indigestion and an identity crisis."
The liquid flares. The path welcomes him.
"Brave," Valen says under his breath.
Valen follows. His fingers hover over the basin before touching it. "I begged someone to stay. They didn't." No more.
The liquid pulses briefly. Then another step of the path appears.
Rowan approaches the basin slowly. He doesn't look at the others. "I broke a promise I made at a grave," he says. "And I still wear the blade I swore I wouldn't.""
The liquid darkens, then turns clear. The path accepts him.
Fenwick steps forward last, placing his full palm in the basin. "I lashed out at everyone," he says, "even though I knew they only wanted to help."
The liquid does not ripple or move.
And yet, the final stretch of the path appears.
Together, they cross.
More reflections appear, dancing beneath them…some familiar, others wrong. Elara glimpses a version of herself dressed in thorns and light, eyes glowing, mouth curled into a smile that didn't belong to her.
Rowan reaches for her hand. "Don't linger," he says gently.
She doesn't let go of his hand.
Behind them, the crystalline bridge melts back into the still water, as they all step off it.
Then Fenwick clears his throat. "Well, that was deeply unpleasant. Shall we carry on before the trees ask us to unpack our entire childhoods?"
Moony flicks his ear. "Too late. I think the moss just whispered my birth name."
They don't speak. They don't need to.
Further in, the trees lean closer, curling like ribs around a dark heart. Light grows fickle…blinking through a glassy bark, pooling in wrong places. Thorns brush their shoulders, whispering names only they should know.
They pass a tree shaped like an hourglass, its sap dripping upwards. Runes shimmer faintly along its trunk, pulsing in the ancient language of a Sylian Enclave.
Elara brushes her fingers along them, shivering.
"What does it say?" Rowan asks beside her.
She furrows her brow. "While I was working at the Library, I came across a Sylvan book. I think it says... 'Here is the path to unmaking. Step with care, for your shadow keeps count.' Or something equally unsettling."
"Charming," Fenwick mutters. "It reminds me again of why I left the desert. It was dry, predictable, and the cacti didn't try to psychoanalyse me."
They press on. As the shadows deepen, they stop for a rest beneath a crooked tree that looked suspiciously like it was listening.
They take turns keeping watch, but it was Fenwick who jerked upright first, eyes glowing faintly in the gloom.
"The figure is following us," he whispers. "It's not behind us anymore."
Rowan stiffens. "What?"
"It's ahead. Waiting."
Valen curses softly.
Elara paces, heart racing. "Is it someone we know?"
Fenwick looks at her. "I don't know."
Moony slinks closer to Rowan, fur fluffed up. "If something attacks, I want to be next to the tall built tank, with murder in his eyes."
They move on. Whispers trail them…drifting like smoke between the trees.
They speak in familiar voices.
Elara hears her mother's lullaby, long forgotten.
Rowan hears his brother's last dying breath, catching in the wind.
Valen hears his own voice, pleading in vain.
Fenwick clutches his ears, muttering, "Don't answer. Don't answer. Don't…"
Moony bats at a talking fern. "It says my tail is stubby!"
"Tis not!" Elara declares fiercely.
Moony glares at the fern until it droops in shame.
The forest breathes, bending reality like mist. Trees bloom upside down. A squirrel in a cravat offers Fenwick a riddle about clocks and pinecones, which he declines politely but firmly.
And still…they are followed.
A shape. Familiar. Or perhaps not.
The Shard is close.
But first, the forest will reveal what lies within them.
And who they might become.
Mirrorwood has a flair for dramatics.
As they walk, Elara glances at Rowan. He notices, his lips curving in a slight smile.
"What?" he asks.
She shakes her head. "Nothing." Then, after a pause, "Just...glad you're here."
His gaze softens. "Me too."
The trees sigh around them, as if eavesdropping on something sacred.
And ahead, the Veil of Echoes awaits.