Sleep, when it finally came, was a strange, disjointed affair. I’d expected the forest to be quiet, but it was anything but. It pulsed with a life that was both alien and deeply ancient. The gentle burble of the stream was a constant, but it was layered with the soft chimes of unseen flora, the distant, mournful call of a bird I couldn’t name, and the rustle of leaves that seemed to be whispering secrets just beyond my hearing. It was like trying to sleep in the middle of a New Age spa retreat designed by someone on a serious acid trip.

  I shifted on my bed of woven moss and fragrant leaves, my hand instinctively going to the wooden pendant tucked under my tunic. It was still warm, a smooth, constant heat that felt less like residual body heat and more like a tiny, self-contained ember. Kaelen was a silhouette against the dappled moonlight, sitting with his back straight, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Of course, he wasn’t sleeping. Knights probably had some sacred vow against REM cycles.

  “You know, for a guy in exile, you’re awfully good at the whole ‘stoic watchman’ thing,” I whispered into the dark.His head turned slightly.

  “Some habits are hard to break. Besides, one of us should remain vigilant.”

  “Right. Because the all-powerful magical cat who is definitely going to let something sneak up on us.”

  I gestured with my chin toward the doorway. Bartholomew hadn’t moved an inch. His purr had deepened into a rhythmic, bass-heavy rumble that vibrated through the very ground. If anything, the local fauna was probably giving our camp a wide berth, assuming a small, furry earthquake had taken up residence.

  “The Warden has his ways,” Kaelen allowed, a sliver of a smile in his voice. “But he is particular about his exertions. It is best not to rely on them.”

  “Particular is one word for it,” I muttered, turning onto my side. “I’m pretty sure he called me a ‘menial facilitator’ for not fluffing his moss correctly.”

  Kaelen’s quiet chuckle was lost in the sound of the forest, and I eventually drifted off, the warm leaf against my chest a silent anchor in a sea of psychedelic nature sounds.

  Morning arrived not with a sunrise, but with a gentle, pervasive brightening of the air itself, as if someone had slowly turned up a celestial dimmer switch. The light filtered through the canopy in shifting patterns of emerald and gold, and the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and honeysuckle blossoms. The Sylvans, moving with their characteristic silent grace, offered us breakfast: a bowl of berries that shimmered with an internal light and a type of flatbread that tasted faintly of morning dew and cinnamon. It was the best weird thing I’d ever eaten. Bartholomew, naturally, was served his salmon mousse on a large, concave leaf, perfectly chilled. He inspected it for a full minute before deigning to take a delicate bite.

  Bellies full and gear packed, we were led by the Elder down a winding path that spiraled around the bases of the great trees. The air grew cooler, more humid, and the ever-present sound of the stream grew into the rush of a river. We emerged onto a bank of smooth, grey stones, where a sight awaited that made my communications-major brain short-circuit.

  Lined up along the shore were three long, slender boats, carved from the same pale wood as our pendants. They looked a bit like canoes, if canoes were designed by elves with a flair for minimalist art. But that wasn’t the weird part. The weird part was that they weren’t in the water. They were hovering a good six inches above it, casting wavering shadows on the river’s surface. They didn’t bob or drift. They just hung there, perfectly still, defying gravity with an infuriatingly casual elegance.

  “Okay,” I said to no one in particular. “Hovercraft. Sure. Why not?”Kaelen was staring, his usual stoicism replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated awe.

  “The legendary Skiffs of the Sylvans. I’d only read of them in the Royal Archives.”

  “Aesthetically pleasing, I suppose,” Bartholomew sniffed from my fee. “Though the lack of velvet cushions and a proper sunshade is a glaring oversight in design. Entirely impractical for a being of my delicate complexion.”The Elder smiled, his bark-like face crinkling.

  “They will carry you swiftly and silently down the Silverwood River, to the edge of the Gloomwood. Your steeds have already been guided through the forest paths. They will await you there.”Kaelen’s head snapped around.

  “Our horses? You took them?”

  “They would not fare well on the river,” the Elder said calmly. “And the paths we use are not for mortal men. Fear not, Knight of the Gryphon. They are safe. The forest provides.”I patted Kaelen’s arm.

  “See? It’s like magical valet parking. Don’t worry about it.”

  We exchanged our final thanks. The Elder placed a hand over Kaelen’s gryphon pendant, then mine.

  “Let these be your guide when sight fails you,” he murmured. “Trust the wood’s warmth. Trust the Warden’s wisdom.” He gave Bartholomew a deep, respectful bow.Bartholomew flicked his tail in acknowledgement.

  “Indeed. It is a pity the same cannot be said for my companions’ common sense. Do try to keep up.”

  A young Sylvan with silver hair braided with living flowers gestured for us to board. I stepped into the nearest boat, expecting it to rock. It didn’t. It was as firm as stepping onto solid ground. Kaelen followed, settling in the front, while I took the middle. Bartholomew leaped in with practiced ease, immediately curling up on my pack and closing his eyes. The Sylvan stepped onto the stern, holding a long, slender pole that didn’t quite touch the water.

  With no words, no command, he pushed the pole against the air itself.

  The boat slid forward, silent as a thought. The acceleration was instantaneous and utterly jarring. My stomach lurched as the stone bank vanished behind us and the trees along the river blurred into a seamless ribbon of green and brown. There was no sound of a motor, no rush of a current, no splashing of water. The only sound was the whisper of wind past my ears. It was like being on a speedboat with the mute button on.

  “Holy crap!” I yelped, grabbing the sides of the skiff. “No warning? A little ‘please keep your hands and arms inside the magical hovercraft at all times’ would have been nice!”

  Kaelen had a white-knuckled grip on his own seat, but a wide grin was plastered across his face. The wind whipped his dark hair back, and for the first time since I’d met him, he looked less like a haunted knight and more like a kid on the world’s best rollercoaster.

  “Sylvan river-magic!” he yelled over the wind. “It is said they sing the water into submission and command the currents with their will!”

  “This isn’t commanding a current, this is breaking the sound barrier!” I shouted back, my own grin starting to form despite myself.

  The river twisted and turned, but the boat navigated it with impossible precision. We shot through narrow gorges where waterfalls crashed into mist on either side of us, and glided over wide, placid pools that reflected the sky like perfect mirrors. The Sylvan at the back was a statue of concentration, his pole making tiny, imperceptible movements that sent us careening around bends and over shallow rapids without ever slowing down.

  Bartholomew, of course, was completely unbothered. He opened one green eye and yawned, a flash of pink and tiny, sharp teeth.

  “A rudimentary application of resonant frequency manipulation coupled with a minor kinetic charm,” he declared with an air of profound boredom. “It creates a frictionless cushion of displaced air. A kitten could manage it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, this velocity is playing havoc with my digestive preparations for luncheon. Do alert me when we’ve ceased this undignified forward propulsion.”

  He tucked his nose under his tail and was instantly asleep.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  I leaned back, exchanging another look with Kaelen. The absurdity, the magic, the sheer, unadulterated weirdness of it all washed over me. One minute I was drowning in student debt, the next, I was in a silent, magical speedboat with a stoic knight and a pompous talking cat, on our way through a place called ‘the Gloomwood’.

  The warm leaf pendant pulsed gently against my skin. The journey was fast, and the destination sounded ominous, but for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t just scared or confused. I was, against all odds, having the time of my life.

  The light began to change first. For hours, we had been plunged in the perpetual twilight of the Gloomwood’s canopy, a world of deep greens and mossy browns, broken only by the white slash of the river. But now, golden shafts of unfiltered sunlight lanced through the thinning trees, illuminating dust motes and making the mist from the waterfalls glitter like scattered diamonds. The oppressive weight of the ancient forest began to lift, replaced by the scent of open air and warm stone.

  The river, our chaotic highway, widened. Its frantic rush slowed to a determined surge, and then, with an almost audible sigh, it spilled us out into a breathtaking expanse of water. We had crossed the Gloomwood.

  Before us lay a lake so vast its far shore was a hazy, blue-green line against the horizon. The water was a sheet of polished glass, disturbed only by the gentle ripples of our skiff as the Sylvan guided us from the river’s mouth. The impossible speed vanished, replaced by a silent, graceful glide. The change in velocity was so sudden it felt like the world had stopped holding its breath.

  “I believe the undignified forward propulsion has ceased,” I said, nudging the ball of grey fur with my boot.

  Bartholomew uncurled with a theatrical groan, stretching one leg at a time with the painstaking deliberation of a bomb disposal expert. He blinked his emerald eyes at the vast, sun-drenched vista and sniffed the air.

  “Ah, an end to the sylvan flume ride. Thank the lesser deities,” he sighed, his tone suggesting he’d just survived a near-death experience. “The constant agitation was threatening to churn my pre-luncheon gastric acids into a most regrettable froth. Where, pray tell, have we been deposited now?”

  “Looks like a lake,” I offered. “A big one.”

  Kaelen, who had finally relaxed his grip on the side of the boat, pointed toward a crescent of white sand nestled against the distant shore. “There. That’s our destination.”

  As we drew closer, two figures resolved from the landscape. They were Sylvans, like our pilot, clad in muted greens and browns that made them seem a part of the forest’s edge. One stood near a small, smokeless fire on the beach. The other was knee-deep in the crystal-clear water, a longbow held loosely in one hand. He was utterly still, a predator carved from wood and patience.

  I watched, mesmerized, as the Sylvan in the water tensed. His bow came up in a single, fluid motion. There was no grand draw, no dramatic pause—just a flicker of movement, the quiet thwip of the bowstring, and an arrow slicing into the water with barely a splash. A moment later, he raised the arrow. A large, silver-scaled fish, a good two feet long, writhed on the end of it.

  “Holy crap,” I breathed. “That is some next-level, artisanal, free-range… everything. That’s one way to avoid the checkout line at the fish market.”

  Kaelen shot me a look that was part confusion, part weary acceptance of my strange commentary. Our Sylvan pilot steered the boat with a final, subtle push of his pole, and its nose scraped gently onto the white sand. He gave Kaelen a single, solemn nod before stepping out and melting back into the trees he’d emerged from, his task complete. No goodbyes, no ‘have a nice trip.’ Apparently, the Sylvan Express was a strictly professional service.

  The archer waded ashore, his catch in hand, and passed it to his companion by the fire, who took it with an equally silent nod. With practiced ease, the second Sylvan gutted and scaled the fish, skewered it on a greenwood branch, and set it to roast over the glowing coals. The air filled with the delicious, savory scent of cooking fish and woodsmoke. My stomach, which had been in a knot of adrenaline and anxiety for most of the morning, rumbled in appreciation.

  Bartholomew hopped delicately from the boat, his paws leaving no prints in the damp sand. He approached the cooking fire with an air of immense skepticism, circling the roasting fish and sniffing critically.

  “Hmmph. A lake trout, if my olfactory senses do not deceive me. A passable specimen, I suppose, though tragically lacking in proper seasoning. A pinch of rock salt, a whisper of wild dill and mustard, perhaps a squeeze of sun-lemon… to simply expose its flesh to naked flame is an act of culinary barbarism. It is a wonder you people ever evolved beyond gnawing on raw roots.”

  The Sylvan cook, who was turning the fish with a focused intensity, didn’t even glance at him. He just continued his work, his movements economical and precise.

  Kaelen ignored the cat’s critique. “They have our mounts ready,” he said to me, gesturing towards a thicket of trees where two horses stood tethered. Argent, his silver charger, grazed casually in the shade while Steve the Wonder Pony, my mount, pulled against his halter, leaping at crabapples that were easily four feet above the pinnacle of his range.

  “Dammit, Steve, you’re not that tall. Calm your tits.” I shouted at him. He paused to stare at me and nicker defiantly before resuming his futile efforts. I just shook my head.

  When the fish was cooked, its skin crisp and golden, the Sylvan slid it from the skewer onto a large, clean piece of bark and set it between us. There were no plates, no forks. We just tore off chunks of the hot, flaky white meat with our fingers. It was, without a doubt, the single most delicious thing I had ever eaten in my life. It tasted of clean water and open sky, seasoned by nothing more than smoke and salt from the air. Even Bartholomew, after a show of deep reluctance, deigned to accept a piece I offered him, devouring it with a series of efficient, sharp-toothed bites before commencing a meticulous post-meal grooming session.

  We ate in a comfortable silence, the only sounds the lapping of the lake against the shore and the distant cry of a bird. It was an oasis of peace in a journey defined by chaos. For a few minutes, there was no Shadow Lord, no crumbling kingdom, no terrifying magic. There was just sun, water, and perfectly cooked fish.

  When we had finished, the Sylvan archer finally spoke, his voice like the rustle of dry leaves. He looked directly at Kaelen.

  “The paths are quiet. For now. The capital is a day’s ride north. Stay to the low road; the ridges are watched.”|Kaelen nodded, wiping his hands on his trousers.

  “Our thanks for your aid.”

  The Sylvan simply inclined his head. His duty done, he and his companion gathered their meager belongings. Like our boatman, they didn’t say farewell. They turned and walked to the abandoned skiff. A moment later, they were gone, back across the lake with impossible speed.

  “Okay, so customer service isn’t really their strong suit,” I muttered, brushing flakes of fish from my tunic.

  “The Sylvan value efficiency over pleasantries,” Kaelen said, already moving towards the horses. “They have aided us. That is what matters.”

  He untied the steeds, passing me the reins to one.

  “Right. Horses. Of course,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. My rear still ached from all the riding we had done. While the boat seat hadn’t been soft, it was better than a horse.

  I approached Steve, who huffed a gust of warm air in my face and eyed me suspiciously. I patted his neck awkwardly. It felt like a very large, muscular, and characteristically judgmental piece of furniture.

  “Just hold on and try not to fall off,” Kaelen advised, swinging himself into his saddle with an effortless grace that was frankly just showing off. Bartholomew leaped up behind him, settling onto a saddlebag as if it were a throne custom-made for his dimensions.

  With a grunt of exertion that was far from dignified, I eventually managed to haul myself into the saddle. The world looked even higher from up here. I gripped the reins like they were the only thing keeping me from plummeting back to the student-debt-filled reality I’d left behind.

  Kaelen nudged his horse into motion, and mine followed suit, its gait a slow, swaying walk. We left the pristine beach and the silent lake behind, entering a trail that led up into rolling, sun-dappled hills.

  The capital. A day away. For the first time, our goal felt real, tangible. It was no longer some abstract destination at the end of a terrifying forest. It was a place we could actually reach. A place that might hold answers, or allies, or more likely, a whole new menu of creative and unpleasant ways to get killed.

  I risked a glance back at the lake, a final look at our moment of peace. Then I turned forward, adjusted my grip on the reins, and urged my horse into a slightly faster walk, trying my best to look like I knew what I was doing. One day. Whatever was waiting for us, we’d be there in one day. Against all odds, I couldn’t wait.