Gathering Strength
The forest was quiet, unnaturally so. As the group trudged through the dense underbrush, the usual chorus of birds and insects seemed to have vanished, leaving only the soft crunch of boots against leaves and the faint rustle of wind through the trees. The weight of their recent battles clung to them like a heavy fog, dragging their steps and dulling their spirits.
Archer led the way, her sharp eyes scanning the forest for any sign of movement, though she doubted the Shadowbound would be this close yet. Behind her, Branwen walked in near silence, her mind far from the dark woods that surrounded them. The vision still lingered, its shadows twisting in the recesses of her thoughts. The others, unaware of the full depth of what she had seen, followed without question, though their faces carried their own private burdens.
The landscape itself bore scars from the corruption that had crept through the land. Blackened patches of earth, gnarled tree trunks, and twisted roots testified to the battles fought here, yet small signs of recovery had begun to show. New shoots of green life pushed through the ashen soil, tentative but determined, as if the forest itself was fighting to reclaim what had been lost.
Finally, they reached a small clearing sheltered by ancient oaks that had somehow withstood the worst of the corruption. Archer raised her hand to signal a halt, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed the area. "This will do for the night," she said, her voice steady but devoid of its usual spark. It was clear the journey weighed heavily on her as well.
They moved into the clearing with a grim efficiency, each member of the group falling into their roles. There was no need for instruction; they had done this countless times before. Darian and Selene set to work gathering firewood, while Branwen knelt by a patch of earth, her fingers brushing the soil as she murmured a quiet prayer to the land. Even in this small act, she could feel the strain on the earth, the slow, painful recovery it was undergoing. The forest was healing, but like them, it carried scars that would take time to fade.
Lysander, ever the scholar, settled himself near the center of the clearing, pulling one of his many tomes from his pack. He flipped through the worn pages with practiced ease, though his brow furrowed in concentration. Whatever magic Galen had tapped into, it was beyond anything Lysander had encountered before. The weight of their unknown enemy gnawed at him, and he had taken it upon himself to learn everything he could before the final confrontation.
As the group worked, silence stretched between them, heavy and unbroken. Once, there had been camaraderie here—banter and quiet conversation that helped ease the tension before battle. Now, there was only the oppressive quiet, the unspoken weight of their journey hanging over them like a shroud.
It was Archer who broke the silence, her voice calm but missing its usual fire. "We need to be ready for whatever comes next," she said, her gaze sweeping over the group. "This might be our last chance to regroup before we face Galen."
There was no response, but none was needed. Each of them knew the gravity of the situation. They had been through too much, lost too many, to take these final moments lightly. The weight of the battle ahead hung over them like a dark cloud, and though no one said it, they all knew that the coming fight would be their most dangerous yet.
Archer moved to a large boulder at the edge of the clearing and began inspecting her weapons. She ran her fingers along the blade of her sword, feeling its familiar weight. The act of sharpening her blade, of preparing for battle, was one of the few things that brought her a sense of control in the chaos that surrounded them. But even as she went through the motions, her mind drifted to Faelar, the fallen companion whose loss had hit her hardest.
She had led them all this way, made every decision, and yet Faelar was gone. His death felt like a failure she couldn’t shake, a crack in the armor she had worn for so long. She hadn’t said anything to the others about the guilt gnawing at her, but it was there, ever-present, like a weight on her chest. Could she have done something different? Could she have saved him?
Nearby, Darian sat on a fallen log, sharpening his daggers with quiet precision. The rhythmic scrape of metal against stone was the only sound in the clearing, a small comfort in the silence. Darian had always been able to keep his emotions in check, to compartmentalize the fear and the grief that came with each battle. But even he wasn’t immune to the losses they had endured. Faelar’s absence was a constant reminder of the cost of their mission, and though Darian tried to bury it, the feeling of emptiness lingered.
He glanced up at Archer, watching her as she worked with the same mechanical precision. She hadn’t been the same since Faelar’s death—none of them had. But Darian worried most about her. She had always carried the weight of their survival on her shoulders, but now that weight seemed to be crushing her, and Darian didn’t know how to help. He had tried once or twice to reach out, to offer some kind of comfort, but Archer had always been fiercely independent, and he feared that trying too hard would only push her further away.
Across the clearing, Branwen was deep in concentration, her hands resting lightly on the earth as she sought to connect with the land. The energy of the forest was faint, still recovering from the darkness that had swept through it, but Branwen could feel the stirrings of life beneath the surface. The land was fighting to heal itself, just as they were, but it was slow work. Too slow, perhaps, to save Eldergrove.
Her mind wandered back to the vision that had shaken her to her core. She had seen the enormity of the force they were up against, an ancient darkness far beyond anything they had faced before. She hadn’t told the others everything, not yet. There was still so much she didn’t fully understand. But she could feel it—something was coming. Something larger and more dangerous than even Galen.
Branwen inhaled deeply, trying to calm her racing thoughts. The earth beneath her pulsed faintly with magic, an ancient and enduring strength that offered some solace, though not enough to quiet the storm in her heart. Her connection to the land had always been her greatest strength, but now it felt tenuous, fragile. The vision had shown her the depths of the threat they faced, and no amount of druidic magic could stop what was coming if they weren’t careful. Even the forest itself seemed to tremble at the edge of her awareness, its life force flickering like a dying flame.
She glanced over at Lysander, who was engrossed in one of his ancient tomes, his brow furrowed as he studied its contents. His determination to uncover something—anything—that might help them defeat Galen and the dark forces he had aligned with was evident. Yet Branwen knew that even with all of Lysander’s knowledge, there were things they might never fully understand. The darkness they were fighting wasn’t just Galen’s ambition—it was something much older, something that wanted to tear apart the very fabric of their world.
Still, she hadn’t told the others the full extent of her vision. Not yet. She wasn’t sure they were ready to hear it, and she wasn’t ready to face the questions it would raise. They had enough to carry without knowing that Galen wasn’t the true enemy—that he was merely a pawn, being used by forces beyond even his comprehension.
As if sensing her thoughts, Lysander looked up, meeting her gaze with a questioning look. "You’ve been quiet," he said softly, careful not to break the fragile calm that had settled over the camp. "Is everything alright?"
Branwen hesitated, her fingers still lightly touching the soil beneath her. She could feel the hum of life there, faint but steady, like a heartbeat deep within the earth. "I’m just… thinking," she replied, her voice distant. "About everything we’ve seen. Everything we’re about to face."
Lysander nodded slowly, his eyes studying her face as if trying to read the thoughts she wasn’t saying. He knew better than to press her. "I think we’re all carrying a lot right now," he said after a moment, his tone gentle. "But we’ll face it together. We’ve always managed to get through the impossible before."
Branwen wanted to believe that. She wanted to believe that they could face whatever lay ahead and emerge victorious. But the vision had shaken her, shown her just how small they all were in the grand scheme of things. The land had whispered to her in ways she hadn’t fully understood yet, and the more she thought about it, the more she feared that their fight was just one battle in a much larger war.
Across the clearing, Selene sat sharpening her cutlass, the rhythmic scrape of metal on stone a steady counterpoint to the quiet around them. Unlike the others, she seemed almost eager for the next fight, though anyone who knew her well could see the tension in her movements. Selene had always been the one to keep pushing forward, to laugh in the face of danger, but even she wasn’t immune to the weight of what lay ahead.
Her eyes flicked toward the others as they worked, her gaze lingering on Archer. She had always admired Archer’s strength, her ability to lead them through hell and back without flinching, but now she wondered if the burden was finally becoming too much. Archer was a warrior through and through, but even warriors had limits.
"Hey," Selene called out softly, breaking the silence as she rose to her feet and crossed the clearing to where Archer sat with her sword in hand. "You alright?"
Archer looked up, her expression unreadable for a moment before she gave a small nod. "Just getting ready."
Selene raised an eyebrow. "For what? You’ve already got that sword sharp enough to split a hair."
Archer managed a faint smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. "Can’t be too prepared," she muttered, though her voice lacked its usual conviction.
Selene crouched beside her, her sharp gaze assessing. "We’re all feeling it," she said, her tone unusually gentle. "What’s coming. But you don’t have to carry all of this on your own, you know. We’re in this together."
For a moment, Archer didn’t respond. She stared down at her sword, the weight of Selene’s words sinking in. She knew they were true, but it didn’t make the burden any lighter. She had always been the one to lead, to make the decisions that no one else could, and with that came the responsibility for every life that had been lost along the way. Faelar’s death still haunted her, a reminder that even with all her strength, she couldn’t protect them all.
"I know," Archer finally said, her voice quiet. "But someone has to lead. Someone has to make sure we’re ready."
Selene’s eyes softened, and for once, there was no sarcastic quip on her lips, no easy joke to lighten the mood. "And you do," she said. "But don’t forget, you’ve got us. We’ve followed you this far, and we’ll follow you to the end. But you don’t have to carry the whole damn world on your back."
Archer let out a soft breath, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. She knew Selene was right. They had all sacrificed so much to get this far, and they would continue to sacrifice in the battles ahead. But she didn’t have to carry the weight of it alone.
"Thanks," Archer said quietly, glancing at her friend with a small, grateful smile. "I needed that."
Selene grinned, the tension breaking for a moment. "Anytime. Someone’s gotta keep you from turning into a brooding statue, after all."
Archer chuckled softly, the sound faint but genuine. It was a small moment of relief in the midst of the darkness that surrounded them, and for now, it was enough.