Brealoth Woodheart's Arc

Chapter 1 of 4

Brealoth Woodheart knelt in the mud and cut a fawn free from thorns, though the stag-spirit was watching to see if he would. He wanted its trust more than he wanted breath. The ancient stag crowned only one guardian of the wood, and the test had begun. But a cry pulled him deeper into the trees, and he could not hunt for a spirit while a creature screamed. He found the little deer twisted in dark roots. Its white fur was fouled with blood. Two thin dragon wings beat against the snare and only cut it worse. The trap was no ordinary rope. Its thorns curled like they had grown from the ground on purpose, black and wet and cruel. Brealoth drew his dagger. He worked slow, one thorn at a time, so the barbs would not tear the fawn further. The creature shook under his hands. When the last root snapped, it collapsed against his chest. He gathered it up and ran for home. Allisandra met him on the steps of their treehouse, where sung branches curved into a roof. She was his wife, and she knew the wood the way he knew his own hands. She heard whispers others missed. One look at the deer, and her face went hard. "Set it by the fire," she said. She pressed crushed leaves to the wounds and hummed low. The bleeding slowed. Brealoth held the fawn still while she worked. He laid the ruined snare on the floor between them. Allisandra stared at the thorns. She lifted one and turned it in the light. "These vines don't grow near us," she said. "They come from the deep hollow. The dark part of the wood." Brealoth's jaw tightened. "Poachers, then. Working close to the black roots." The deer stirred. Its blue eyes found Allisandra. She went very still and bent her ear close, as if listening to something under its breath. Her hand rose to her mouth. When she straightened, her voice was quiet. "It's not just poachers," she said. "The little one says men are cutting into the deep hollow. They're pulling something up from the roots. The animals are fleeing it. That is why the traps have crept so near." Brealoth looked down at the healed fawn, then at the snare. He had saved one creature. He had also learned the wound went far deeper than one trap. "The stag tests my heart," he said. "But the wood is bleeding at its center. If I don't stop what's in the hollow, there will be no wood left to guard." Allisandra met his eyes. "Then you go where the vines come from." He cleaned his blade and stood. The fawn breathed easy now, safe on the hearth. Outside, the deep hollow waited, and whatever the poachers had unearthed there waited with it.