Tatte awoke to the sound of creaking wood and the faint smell of smoke. His shoulder throbbed, bandaged in rough cloth, and his body lay on a straw mat inside a small hut. The walls were patched with timber and clay, sunlight filtering through cracks to paint shifting lines across the floor. For a moment, he thought he was still in the Ulta Forest, trapped in a nightmare—but the air here was gentler, touched with the scent of tilled earth.
He pushed himself upright, wincing at the pain, and staggered to the doorway. Beyond the hut stretched a field of dark soil, freshly ploughed. An old, heavyset man moved slowly behind a wooden plough, his broad back bent, his hands gripping the reins of a weary ox. His round belly strained against his tunic, and sweat glistened on his brow, but his movements were steady, practiced, almost ritualistic.
Tatte stepped forward, voice hoarse.
"Sir… thank you. You saved me."
The man stopped, turning with a puzzled look. His face was round, cheeks flushed, eyes small but sharp beneath bushy brows. He shook his head, chuckling softly.
"Saved you? Boy, I've done no such thing. I'm Mario Rogers. This is my land, my hut. The one who dragged you out of that cursed forest was my nephew—Helm Rogers."
Tatte blinked, confusion mixing with relief. "Your nephew…?"
Mario nodded, wiping his forehead with a rag. "A stubborn lad, that one. Brave, too. He found you half-dead among the roots, bleeding like a stuck pig. Hauled you here on his back before the forest swallowed you whole. If not for him, you'd be bones for the crows."
Tatte's chest tightened. The memory of steel flashing in the forest returned, the cloaked man's blade descending. He swallowed hard. "Where is Helm now?"
Mario's gaze drifted toward the distant hills. "Gone to the cliffs. Said he had business there. He's always chasing shadows, that boy. You'll find him if you follow the northern path."
The old man's tone carried both pride and worry, as though Helm's courage was a gift and a curse. He turned back to his plough, muttering, "Best you rest before you go running off again. The forest doesn't forgive twice."
But Tatte's resolve burned brighter. His father's letter weighed in his satchel, and now another thread had been woven into his journey—Helm Rogers, the stranger,
who had saved his life. He bowed his head to Mario.
"Then I owe your nephew my life. I'll find him, and thank him myself."
Mario grunted, half-smile tugging at his lips. "See that you do. And mind yourself, boy. Legends have teeth."
Tatte stood at the edge of the field, the morning sun warming his face. The path ahead was clearer now: beyond the cliffs lay the ruins, and somewhere along that path, Helm Rogers—the man who had pulled him back from death.
The forest breathed like a living beast, its shadows curling around every branch. Helm Rogers moved silently through the undergrowth, his long sword gleaming faintly in the fractured light. His eyes scanned the twisted paths, searching for the cloaked man who had struck down the wounded traveler.
Every step was measured, his boots sinking into damp soil. He expected to find tracks, blood, or the whisper of steel—but instead, he stumbled upon something else. In the clearing where Tatte had nearly died, the body was gone. Only a smear of blood remained, dark against the roots.
Helm's grip tightened on his sword. "So he's not finished," he muttered. Yet as he turned, he saw something that froze him: a symbol carved into the bark of the colossal tree. A spiral, etched deep, glowing faintly as though alive. It was not the mark of any bandit or soldier—it was something older, something tied to the legend itself.
Helm's breath caught. "The milk… Miss Mia…" His hunt for the cloaked man had led him to something far more surprising.
Meanwhile, in the quiet fields, Mario Rogers leaned on his plough, watching Tatte with narrowed eyes. The boy's satchel, the scars of battle, the way he had stumbled from the Ulta Forest—it all told a story.
"You were roaming the Ulta Forest," Mario said slowly, voice heavy with suspicion. "Tell me straight, boy. Are you a milk hunter?"
Tatte blinked, confusion flashing across his face. "Milk… hunter?"
Mario spat into the soil, shaking his head. "Aye. Men chasing the legend of Miss Mia's milk. Eternal vitality, they say. Eternal madness, I say. Many have gone into those woods seeking it. Few return."
The words struck Tatte like a hammer. He thought of his father's letter, of the promise that had cost him everything. His lips parted, hesitant, but resolve hardened in his chest.
"Yes," he said at last. "I am searching for Miss Mia… and her milk."
Mario's eyes narrowed further, studying him as though weighing his soul. Then he chuckled, low and bitter. "Then you've chosen a path that eats men alive. Pray you're stronger than your father was."