No sunrise gilded the sky — only the gradual lightening of the fog-choked horizon, softening the edges of basalt spires and making the blackgrass shimmer with dew. The air smelled of salt, wet stone, and something older… something like memory.

  The Troupe was already stirring.

  Wagons creaked. Cooking fires sparked. Children’s laughter pierced the quiet like birdsong. But beneath it all was the low murmur of expectation.

  Today, Lyra had called for council.

  And that meant decisions.

  They gathered in the tarp-covered ring at the center of the camp — an open space shielded by the three Conestoga wagons and several vardos pulled into a half-circle like walls. The floor was tamped earth covered in flattened reed mats and canvas padding.

  At the center, a brazier burned low, heat wafting from shimmering coals tinted faintly blue by Prolix’s salvaged fuel stones.

  Lyra stood waiting, wrapped in a cloak of faded indigo with silver-stitched moons along its trim. Her posture was upright, but a tiredness clung to the set of her shoulders — the wear of someone who had kept watch long into the night.

  As others arrived, she gestured for them to sit or crouch on the mats.

  Kaelthari took position to her right, bardiche across her lap, eyes alert but calm.

  Marx leaned back on a folded pack, one knee up, absentmindedly tossing a carving knife from hand to hand.

  Ralyria sat cross-legged with a soft whirr of gears, crystal light flickering in the cavity of her chestplate.

  Nara, Jintri, and three senior Fennician kin leaders formed the second circle. Prolix arrived last, settling beside Ralyria, still smelling faintly of burnt crystal and chalk.

  The murmurs ceased.

  Lyra raised her voice — not loud, but firm.

  “We were promised Baigai.”

  A quiet rustle of agreement met her words.

  “But instead, we stand on the shores of the Lunar Empire — a name thought lost, a land absent from maps, but not from old stories. And stories here are living things.”

  Her eyes swept the group.

  “We do not know how long we’ll be here. We do not yet know if we were brought here by accident… or intent. What we do know is this: we are no longer unseen. This land has noticed us.”

  She turned her gaze to Prolix.

  “You’ve gone further inland than any of us.”

  A nod.

  Prolix stood.

  He kept it succinct, but not vague. He described the dormant dungeon beneath the terraces. The puzzle trials. The memory chambers. The second altar to Dedisco. And finally — PillowHorror.

  The name sent a ripple through the room, half recognition, half unease.

  “They are a player,” Prolix finished. “Quang. High-level. Charismatic. Dangerous, but not overtly hostile. They seem invested in this land’s awakening — and in my involvement with it.”

  Marx’s brow furrowed. “Did they threaten you?”

  “No. But I’d be lying if I said I trusted them completely. They know more than they share. And they’re watching.”

  A heavy silence followed.

  Then Lyra spoke again.

  “We have food for another nine days if we stretch it. Materials for repair. The ship is gone, and no replacement is coming. We need to decide: do we remain here, trying to build a stable enclave—risking deeper entanglement with forces we don’t understand—or do we push inland in search of new trade paths, other ports, or a way to leave this coast?”

  Kaelthari rumbled. “PillowHorror may not be hostile, but this land might become so.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Ralyria’s voice clicked gently. “Remaining here is tactically vulnerable. We are hemmed by cliff, sea, and mana saturation. In the event of escalation, we lack high ground.”

  Nara folded her hands in her lap. “But we cannot uproot the children again without certainty. We’ve had too many false roads. We must know where we are going.”

  Lyra looked at Prolix once more.

  “If we sent a small group inland… could you guide them?”

  Prolix hesitated — then nodded.

  “Yes. I saw signs of more ruins further east. Terraces. Pathways. Possibly inhabited structures beyond the blackwood treeline. The dungeon path might even intersect with old infrastructure.”

  Lyra nodded slowly, then looked to the group.

  “We vote. Not just as leaders, but as kin. Remain and fortify, or scout and move.”

  No voices rose. But one by one, hands did.

  First Kaelthari. Then Ralyria.

  Then the rest.

  Lyra raised hers last.

  And the decision was made.

  They would scout inland.

  And the Lunar Empire would reveal whether it hungered for guests, allies — or prey.

  Mist hugged the soil as dawn bled lavender across the crystalline shoreline. The Vermillion Troupe’s procession wound its way inland, carts creaking along uneven paths flanked by iridescent bramble and vines that shimmered like starstuff. Moon-gilded leaves trembled in silence as if resisting the breeze. Above, massive tree canopies shimmered with translucent foliage, letting down beams of soft, otherworldly light in pulsating hues.

  At first, the beauty of the Lunar Isle forest was disarming.

  Birdsong had no place here—only the occasional low warble of some unseen amphibious creature, or the crackle of bioluminescent fungi splitting open under cart wheels.

  ProlixalParagon rode beside Ralyria, his tail stiff with unease. A few children from the troupe leaned out of their wagons, trying to catch floating spore motes in their hands—until Marx snapped at them with a hushed warning. The motes reacted oddly to touch, leaving faint burns on skin that faded as quickly as they appeared.

  Ahead, Lyra stood atop the lead wagon, veil pulled back, her silver-furred ears perked. The first signs of strangeness had begun.

  Trees twisted inward unnaturally, forming curling arches above the trail like ribs of a slumbering giant. On some trunks, alien glyphs—neither Fennician nor Goblin—pulsed faintly in time with the rising sun, though no one had carved them. A vardo wheel split clean in half when it rolled over a deceptively soft patch of glowing lichen.

  Then came the voices.

  At first, it was just ambient sound—like wind caught between crystals. But then Prolixal heard it, too: his name, or something close to it, whispered in the rustling canopy.

  "Prooo-lix’al... Prooo-lix... Paragon’nn..."

  He turned abruptly, tools jangling at his belt, mana sense flaring to life.

  Nothing behind them.

  No visible source.

  But Lyra’s gaze was already fixed on the heart of the forest. Her voice rang out low and calm:

  “The isle tests newcomers. Don’t answer what whispers. And don’t stray from the path—not even to relieve yourself.”

  Ralyria shivered. “I feel like the trees are watching.”

  “They are,” Lyra replied.

  By midday, the forest deepened. Crystalline outcrops burst from roots like jagged bones, humming faintly with resonance. A path that had been narrow and earthy now gleamed with a strange slick sheen, as if the forest wept liquid glass. Insects scuttled beneath the surface, trapped, yet somehow alive.

  A single tree, gnarled and hunched like an old monk, grew in the path’s center.

  Its bark bore the unmistakable shimmer of a moonstone. Embedded in its trunk was a jagged black spear, half-dissolved as if absorbed over time. Around its base lay withered husks—small, humanoid forms desiccated into twisted fetal curls. Their skin was translucent. Cracked crystals bloomed where their skulls should have been.

  “Patala,” Marx whispered, voice tight. “Failed ones.”

  The Troupe made camp near a creek that burbled unnaturally—rising and falling in pitch like breath. Ralyria and a few others went to collect water, but returned within moments, pale-faced and empty-handed. The stream didn’t reflect their faces—only unfamiliar shadows.

  That night, none of the campfires crackled. The wood burned cold and blue. The troupe sang no songs.

  Even the stars above pulsed to a rhythm none of them recognized.

  The deeper they traveled, the quieter the forest became.

  Gone were the chirping insects and distant hoots of feathered things. Only the occasional crackle of bioluminescent moss stretching across branches broke the hush. Trees here stood like ancient sentinels, their bark veined with faintly glowing fissures, as if the land itself breathed slow and uneasy. Phosphorescent fronds draped low over the path, brushing against the troupe’s shoulders like curious spirits.

  Ralyria clicked her tongue once—an old signal for caution—and the group slowed. Even the mules had begun to behave oddly, ears pinned back, nostrils flared at scents too subtle for the rest of them to detect. ProlixalParagon tightened his grip on the side of the vardo, knuckles pale beneath his fur. This place felt tilted, like reality might slip sideways if you blinked too long.

  “We should not linger here,” Marx muttered, eyeing a cluster of bulbous, throbbing mushrooms that seemed to pulse in rhythm with their footfalls.

  “Agreed,” Lyra rasped, her voice like wind skimming dry leaves. “But keep your wits, everyone. This is sacred ground.”

  Just then, a rustle to the left.

  Then silence.

  Then—

  A figure dropped from the canopy with no more sound than a falling leaf. It landed in a crouch, amphibious skin slick with moisture, limbs perfectly balanced on splayed, webbed feet. The creature stood with reptilian poise, tall and sleek, long tail curling slowly behind it. Its smooth, scaled face was devoid of ears, nostrils flaring as it took in the scent of the group. Thin frills behind its jaw flexed and relaxed with measured breath.

  The Quang scout rose, its golden, slitted eyes scanning the troupe. A soft rasp emanated from its throat—not a hiss, not quite—but a sound both warning and inquisitive.

  “Travelers,” the Quang said, its voice low and reverberating, “you tread near the Whispering Pools. Few walk this path without purpose.”

  Lyra stepped forward, posture calm but respectful. Her tail arched downward slightly, a Fennician sign of caution and humility. “We mean no harm. Our route bends westward—we seek safe passage to the sunken ridge.”

  The scout tilted its head, membranous jaw-frills fluttering slightly. Its gaze lingered on the children in the wagons, then passed over the Goblins and Fennicians before halting—inevitably—on Marx.

  It stepped forward just slightly, tail tip twitching.

  “You travel with one of warm blood and iron scent,” it murmured. “That one burns bright.” Its gaze slid toward Kaelthari next. “And this one is flame wrapped in bronze—a scent of old debt and shattered covenants. She walks loudly even in silence.”

  Kaelthari met the gaze unflinching, her cataphractan helm under one arm. “I have no quarrel with your people,” she said. “We seek only safe passage.”

  The Quang said nothing at first, only blinking its nictitating membranes in slow sequence. Then it gave a small dip of its head—a motion neither deferent nor dominant, but balanced.

  “You carry the scent of moonsilver, the salt of drought lands, and old sorrow. The forest will not strike unless provoked.” It paused. “But the breathing stones are ahead. Step wrongly, and they will remember.”

  Ralyria muttered something dark in Goblin-tongue, and several of the younger troupe members drew in tighter.

  ProlixalParagon took a cautious step forward, careful not to make sudden moves. “May we know your name, guide?”

  The scout’s gill-slits twitched in what might have been amusement.

  “You may call me Slipscale, until the forest gives you a name of its own.”

  With a fluid turn, Slipscale began moving, their stride smooth, nearly silent over moss and loam. The troupe followed behind, vardo wheels creaking softly, the strange glow of the undercanopy casting dancing shadows on all their backs.

  The forest ahead thickened with pulsing flora and stones that seemed to hum underfoot.

  And behind them, something in the trees breathed.