I awoke suddenly, my eyes, drawn by Bartholomew’s subtle shift in focus, snapped to the figures surrounding us. A dozen figures circled our small camp, as still as statues carved from bark, bristling with arrows held in drawn bows and silver-tipped spears. They were now shifting, their movements fluid and unnerving. Their faces, etched with a primal severity, were turned towards us, their spears held at the ready. The moonlight, filtering through the dense canopy, cast long, distorted shadows that danced like wraiths.

  My hand shot to the hilt of my sword, ready to draw the blade and leap into action. I looked to Kaelen, who held out his hand, gesturing for me to stop. I slowly removed my hand.

  Ser Kaelen, his hand now held empty in front of him, finally broke his silence.

  “We are travelers passing through the Gloomwood and mean you no harm.” He spoke in that same clipped, formal cadence I was familiar with, but I could hear the tension in his voice.

  “Uh…” I interjected, trying to inject a sliver of my old self into the suffocating atmosphere, though it felt as thin as cobwebs, “Who are our new… friends?”Ser Kaelen ignored my attempt at levity, his gaze sweeping over the creatures that surrounded us.

  “Sylvan warriors. We are near the borders of their land.” He muttered.

  The Sylvans looked roughly human, if humans were four feet tall and had moss-green skin. Their eyes were huge. Like anime eyes the size of dinner plates with silver irises. They had goblin-esque pointed ears as well, but that was far less unsettling than their pointed teeth and antlers.

  “So,” I said, my voice lower now, stripped of its usual sarcasm, “What do we do? Sing them a lullaby? Offer them a peace treaty with a strongly worded letter?”Ser Kaelen’s jaw tightened.

  “They do not answer to the sensibilities of men. This must be handled with discernment.” I looked between the knight and the cat, feeling a growing sense of unease. Bartholomew’s continued silence was unsettling. One of the Sylvans said something in a weird language and prodded at me with a spear.

  “Discernment?” I echoed. “You mean… try to explain ourselves? In Elvish?”

  “Not exactly. Just do as I do.” Kaelen muttered.

  Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand failed diplomatic missions, Ser Kaelen moved. It wasn’t a sudden, aggressive action. It was a fluid, deliberate sinking to the ground. He went down on one knee, bowed his head so his hair fell forward, and placed his right fist over his heart. He stayed there, a statue of deference carved from steel and leather.I stared.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whispered, more to myself than to him. “We’re surrendering? To a bunch of angry garden gnomes?”

  The Sylvan prodding me jabbed my kidney again, harder this time, and uttered a sound like stones grinding together. My options, I quickly calculated, were: A) Maintain my modern-world dignity and get turned into a kebab, or B) Play along with Sir Broods-a-lot and maybe live to see another sunrise. It wasn’t a tough choice.

  With a groan that scraped the bottom of my soul, I knelt. The wet moss soaked through my breeches instantly, a cold, unpleasant sensation. I mimicked Kaelen’s posture, bowing my head and pressing a fist to my chest. It felt ridiculous. Theatric. Like I was auditioning for a low-budget renaissance faire.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bartholomew. The cat, with a look of profound and utter disgust, performed the most graceful bow I had ever seen. He lowered his furry head, curled his tail neatly around his paws, and settled into a perfect, regal posture of submission. He managed to make kneeling look like an act of supreme authority, as if he were merely humoring them. Narcissistic furball.

  Our captors chittered amongst themselves. The pressure of the spear points at our backs lessened, but they didn’t disappear. One of them, its antlers adorned with small, iridescent beetles, gestured with its weapon. The message was clear: Get up. Move.

  We were herded through the woods until I realized that we were, somehow, in the middle of a village. And it was, against all odds, breathtaking. The word ‘village’ was an insult. It was a living city, grown rather than built. Massive, ancient trees formed the foundations, their trunks wider than my old apartment. Bridges of woven, living vines arced between them, glowing with a soft, internal light. Houses were hollowed-out burls and hollows in the wood, their windows framed with phosphorescent fungi that cast ethereal blue and green light onto the mossy ground. The air smelled of damp earth, night-blooming jasmine, and something ancient and green and full of slumbering power. It was the most beautiful place I had ever been held captive, though, admittedly, that was a short list.

  The Sylvans moved with a deeply unnerving silence. Their bare feet made no sound on the mossy paths. Dozens of them emerged from their arboreal homes to watch us pass, their huge, silver eyes following our every move. There were no children, or at least, none that I could see. Just scores of near identical, watchful faces, their expressions unreadable.

  We were led to the heart of the village, a massive clearing dominated by a colossal, silver-barked tree that seemed to scrape the very stars. Its branches were heavy with glowing, fruit-like lanterns, and its roots, thick as pythons, writhed across the clearing floor, forming a natural dais.

  Seated upon this throne of roots was a Sylvan who made the others look like saplings. It was ancient. Its mossy skin was darker, cracked like old bark. Its antlers were vast and complex, a crown from which hung tiny, tinkling crystal chimes. And its eyes… its eyes were not just silver dinner plates. They were pools of liquid moonlight that seemed to hold the memory of millennia. When they landed on me, I felt a jolt, as if it had read the entire sordid history of humanity in my soul and found it deeply, deeply wanting.

  The ancient Sylvan spoke. Its voice wasn’t just sound; it was a sensation. It was the rustle of a billion leaves in a sudden wind, the groan of deep roots shifting in the earth, the whisper of pollen on the breeze. Kaelen stiffened beside me, a sign he understood at least some of it. I, on the other hand, understood nothing except the tone. And the tone was one of absolute, unwavering authority.

  Kaelen took a step forward, but before he could speak, the ancient one raised a long, three-fingered hand. The chimes on its antlers tinkled. Silence fell over the clearing, heavy and absolute. The Sylvan King—or Queen, or Elder, or whatever it was—turned its massive, luminous gaze from Kaelen, past me, and settled it squarely on the gray Persian cat sitting at my feet.

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  The clearing held its breath. The Sylvan Elder’s gaze intensified, a look of profound concentration on its bark-like face. It tilted its head, and for the first time, its expression shifted from stern authority to something else. Confusion. And then, a dawning, incredulous awe.

  “It cannot be,” the Sylvan Elder’s voice echoed, not in its rustling, alien tongue, but in perfect, unaccented English that resonated directly inside my skull. The words were not heard with my ears, but felt in my mind. “A Warden. Here. After so long.”

  Kaelen’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with shock. My own jaw went slack. All this time, Bartholomew’s refusal to speak hadn’t been about caution. It had been about hiding what he was.

  Bartholomew, who had remained silent and still, finally moved. He lifted his head, meeting the Elder’s gaze without an ounce of fear. The air around him seemed to shimmer, to thicken with an unseen energy. When he finally spoke, his voice was not the verbose, fussy tenor I was used to. It was a resonant, multi-layered baritone that vibrated in my bones, a voice that held the weight of ages and the gravity of a dying star.

  “Elder,” Bartholomew intoned, his voice washing over us all. “You have forgotten the old pacts. Your children harass travelers who walk under the boughs of the Gloomwood.”

  A collective gasp, like a sudden breeze, swept through the assembled Sylvans. They recoiled, their silver eyes wide now not with suspicion, but with fear. The Elder on the root-throne actually flinched, its massive antlers trembling, setting the chimes to frantic, panicked music.

  “Forgive our ignorance, great Warden,” the Elder projected, its mental voice now laced with a desperate, pleading tone. It began to slowly, painstakingly, lower itself from its throne, its ancient limbs creaking in protest. “The Shadow’s touch has blinded us. It poisons the deep roots, sows paranoia in the sap. We have not seen one of your kind since the Shattering. We thought you were all lost to myth. Memories carried on the wind.”Bartholomew flicked an ear, the very picture of condescending grace.

  “Myth is merely history that has been denied its witnesses. I am here. And these,” he said, the attention of every being in the clearing now falling on me and Kaelen, “are with me. They are clumsy, loud, and remarkably fragile, but they are under my charge. You will not harm them.”

  The Elder was fully off its throne now, prostrating itself on the mossy ground before a fifteen-pound house cat. Every single Sylvan in the clearing followed suit, dropping to their knees and bowing their heads in a wave of silent, terrified reverence. The spears that had been leveled at us were now pressed tip-down into the earth.

  I stood there, soaked breeches forgotten, staring down at Bartholomew. The over-dramatic, nap-obsessed cat who complained if his water bowl wasn’t fresh was a figure of myth to an ancient, powerful race of forest beings.

  Kaelen slowly rose to his feet, his expression a mixture of awe and utter bewilderment. He looked from the prostrated Sylvans to the cat, then to me, as if seeking confirmation that this was all really happening.

  I just shrugged, a weak, helpless gesture.

  “Well,” I said, my voice a hoarse, shaky whisper that felt sacrilegious in the sudden silence. “I guess we didn’t need the lullaby after all.”

  The Elder, a creature of bark and moss with eyes like ancient amber, remained on the ground, its gnarled hands still pressed in supplication. The silence was thick, punctuated only by the occasional twitch of Bartholomew’s tail as he surveyed his newfound devotees with an expression that clearly stated, Yes, I know. It’s quite something, isn’t it?

  I couldn’t help but snicker. Kaelen shot me a look, a silent plea for decorum, but even his stoic facade was cracking. His gaze kept flickering back to Bartholomew, then to the surrounding Sylvans, his brow furrowed in a way that suggested he might be contemplating the very fabric of reality.

  The Elder finally stirred, a slow, creaking movement that still held immense grace.

  “Forgive our ignorance, Great Warden,” it rasped, its voice echoing with the rustle of leaves. “We have not seen your kind in centuries. The whispers of your power had become legend, a cautionary tale sung to young saplings. And you are accompanied by mortals.” The Elder’s gaze, now steady, fixed on Kaelen and me.

  “They are my companions, Elder,” Kaelen said, finding his voice. He stood straighter, the awe slowly giving way to his inherent knightly bearing. “We have come to you seeking aid, and information. The Shadow Lord’s darkness spreads, and we must reach the capital with all haste.”

  The Elder nodded slowly.

  “The shadows deepen. His blight is a sickness upon the land. We have felt its tendrils, even here, in our sanctuary. But to face him requires more than strength. It requires understanding. And perhaps, a touch of the ancient ways.” It gestured towards a nearby cluster of glowing fungi. “We have brought sustenance and rest. You shall partake. The path to the capital is not easily traversed, and haste can be a fool’s companion.”

  As if on cue, several Sylvans emerged from the shadows, bearing platters laden with roasted roots, glistening berries, and what I could only assume were some kind of magically enhanced nuts. Another group brought forth ornate flagons filled with a fragrant, golden liquid that smelled faintly of honey.

  “You are honored guests,” the Elder continued, rising to its full, imposing height. “My children will prepare your path. The Warden’s companions are always honored. For your service to the Great Warden, and for your courage in facing the encroaching darkness, accept these gifts.”

  From a pouch at its side, the Elder produced two small, intricately carved wooden pendants. One, a stylized gryphon, was offered to Kaelen. The other, a delicate, swirling leaf pattern, was presented to me. How they’d had time to carve them was beyond me.

  “These will offer protection and guidance,” the Elder explained. “Wear them always. And now, rest. The night is long, and the dawn will bring new challenges.”

  Kaelen accepted his pendant with a solemn nod. I took mine, the wood warm against my palm, the carving surprisingly detailed. It was beautiful, in a way I’d never expected to appreciate.

  “Thank you, Elder,” I managed, my voice still a little shaky. I glanced at Bartholomew, who was now meticulously grooming a paw, utterly unconcerned by the reverence being showered upon him. “And thank you for the hospitality.”

  Bartholomew’s ear twitched.

  “Hospitality is a bourgeois affectation,” he murmured, without looking up. “Adequate provisions and a comfortable lounging surface are merely the baseline expectation for any being of my stature. Do ensure the salmon mousse is served chilled.”

  I exchanged a look with Kaelen, a shared, silent understanding passing between us. This was Eldoria. This was just another part of our supremely weird quest. As the Sylvans bustled about, preparing a surprisingly comfortable-looking sleeping area for us near a gentle stream, I couldn’t help but wonder what other absurdities Eldoria had in store. I tucked the wooden leaf pendant into my tunic, its warmth a small comfort. Bartholomew, curled up on a mossy knoll, a perfect circle of fluffy gray. He was already emitting a soft, rumbling purr, the sound strangely comforting in the heart of this mystical forest. Or perhaps, I thought with a wry smile, it was just the sound of a very satisfied, and very powerful, house cat.