The afternoon sun blazed overhead, casting sharp, angular shadows across the broken landscape. Oligar crouched low beside a weathered map, the fabric of his cloak torn and scorched from the wreck. Sweat traced lines down his dirt-streaked face as he studied the chart, his eyes shadowed with fatigue and thought. The ground still buzzed faintly with residual mana—an eerie aftershock of the Starcircle's catastrophic fall.
Haaskin limped over, his steps uneven but his spirit undimmed, the fire of youth defiant in the face of ruin. He knelt beside his master as Oligar dragged a calloused finger along the jagged inked routes. Their downed airship now lay twisted in the distance—a final reminder that the rest of their journey would be taken on foot.
Oligar exhaled slowly, the dust lifting from the earth like smoke from a dying flame.
"A problem, Master?" Haaskin asked, easing down beside Oligar. His voice conveyed a sense of curiosity, accompanied by an underlying hint of concern.
Oligar paused before responding, his gaze fixed on the map as though he were trying to influence its contents. After a moment, he finally spoke, saying, 'Zedah.'
"Zedah?" Haaskin echoed, leaning closer. "What about it?"
"It's shaped like a bowl," Oligar replied, tapping a spot on the map. "A U-formation. Nestled in the cradle of these mountains, around it."
Haaskin squinted. "So it's surrounded on three sides?"
"Exactly," Oligar nodded. "Centuries ago, they carved out a nation in this natural fortress. Built walls where cliffs weren't enough, but mostly… they didn't need to. The terrain did the work." He dragged a finger westward across the parchment. "See these? Narrow paths through the ranges. You can enter from here, here, and here—but it all funnels down to this central plain."
"How big is it?" Haaskin asked.
"A hundred leagues across, give or take," Oligar said. "Open land. No cover. If the Authority's forces hold those entry points—"
"They'll see us coming miles away," Haaskin finished grimly. Oligar gave a tight nod. "This wasn't just a natural blessing. The Traders' Union turned it into a trap."
Oligar's finger moved deliberately to another point on the map, tracing a path eastward. "We arrived through one of the more accessible routes… well, formerly accessible."He cast a sombre look back at the mangled remnants of their airship in the distance. "That possibility is no longer available."
Haaskin's eyes narrowed as he leaned in. "So what's next?"
"The capital lies here," Oligar continued, tapping the far end of the U-shaped outline, "curled deep within the embrace of these mountains. And within it—the palace. That's where they're holding the King. If he's still alive."
Haaskin followed the path with his eyes, lips tightening. "So… a straight shot across the plain, then?"
Oligar's head tilted, eyes hardening. "No. That'd be suicide."
Haaskin blinked. "Why?"
"Between us and the capital lies the Whisperwood."
The name alone seemed to pull a chill from the air. Haaskin's shoulders stiffened. "The tribal lands?"
Oligar nodded. "Yes. The old woods. Twisted paths, thick canopies. And worse—it's not just trees that fill that forest."
Haaskin's voice lowered instinctively. "The ones who release… demana?"
A pause. Oligar studied his apprentice. "You've heard the stories?"
"Only fragments," Haaskin admitted. "Their mana vault possesses a substantial capacity for mana, and the unutilized mana within leads to its corruption, resulting in a transformation into demana."
Oligar didn't deny it. "They call it demana for a reason. Corrupted mana. Most who enter the Whisperwood come out with their mana vault destroyed… if they come out at all."
"And we're going in?"
A beat. Then, Oligar gave a sharp nod. "I don't think we are left with a choice here."
Haaskin swallowed. "Then we'll walk softly."
"No," Oligar said, folding the map with finality. "We'll walk with purpose. The forest senses fear. It feeds on hesitation. We need a plan."
"Our airships are useless in there. The s-mana in their fuel cells... it destabilises when exposed to demana saturation. Not a gradual malfunction—an instant, volatile reaction. Catastrophic."
Haaskin's brow furrowed. "It reacts that violently? I thought fuel cells were insulated—"
"They are. Against normal interference," Oligar cut in. "But the Whisperwood's demana isn't merely passive. It seeps, Haaskin. Through metal, through sigil shielding. It corrodes purpose, not just material."
Haaskin nodded slowly, voice quieter now. "So the terrain itself… the forest, soaked in demana, and whatever creatures have adapted to thrive inside it… even attempting to fly over it is a death sentence."
"Indeed," Oligar said. "Any aircraft trying to cut across the central plain would fall from the sky before reaching even the midpoint. The only viable aerial alternative would be to circle the entire curvature of Zedha's mountain cradle—riding the outer rim of the U."
"How long would that take?"
"Four, maybe five days," Oligar said. "And even then…"
"The tribes," Haaskin said flatly, picking up the thought, his tone sharpening. "They're hostile towards humans. Because of the old logging expeditions, the settlements… the expansion."
"Encroachment," Oligar corrected gently. "Call it what it was. The settlers, humans, pushed too far. Even the Trader's Union built trade towers just outside their sacred boundaries. They view the sky as sacred, Haaskin. To them, anything descending from it uninvited is a trespasser."
"And they retaliate?" Haaskin asked.
Oligar nodded grimly. "Relentlessly."
"How? I've heard the stories, but…"
"They launch projectiles."
"Arrows?"
"No," Oligar replied, his expression darkening. "Axes."
Haaskin blinked. "Axes? You're serious?"
"They are crafted from ore extracted from the demana veins of trees, which contribute to the overall ecosystem of the forest. In addition to the corruption of mana caused by human activities, the local environment is also a great contributor." Oligar explained. "Heavier than steel, but charged with that same twisted resonance. They throw them with such precision, such force, they can cut an airship's engine clean off mid-flight. I've seen it."
Haaskin swallowed hard, suddenly feeling very small. "So even the long route isn't safe."
"Safer," Oligar said, "but slower. And we don't have time. The King may already be undergoing... correction. Or worse."
There was a long silence as both of them stared towards the walls of the plateau covering the looming treeline on the horizon. The Whisperwood resides behind this wall, swaying with a wind that neither of them felt.
"And so…" Haaskin said slowly, "we walk. Into the forest."
"It's our only choice," Oligar said. "For landwalkers, it's perilous. The terrain will resist us. The tribes may watch. Some may engage. Others will test us with illusions, traps… or simply let the forest do its work."
"Our mana won't function properly in there, will it?"
"It won't function as we know it," Oligar said. "You may try to manifest fire and instead taste smoke in your mouth. Try to heal, and the pain may transfer to someone else. You don't cast in the Whisperwood. You bargain. You survive."
A long pause. Then Haaskin's mouth twitched into a crooked grin. "Two days, you said? That's all?"
"Two days," Oligar confirmed, raising an eyebrow at the boy's boldness. "On foot. No backups. No air cover. No signal to the outside."
"I've been pushing my limits in training," Haaskin said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "My strikes are faster. My concentration—sharper. Maybe this is the test I've been waiting for."
Oligar gave a faint smile. "I don't doubt your growth, Haaskin. But brute strength means little where the rules are… rewritten."
"Then what do we rely on?"
"Caution. Patience. And leverage," Oligar replied. "There might be abandoned trader vehicles atop that plateau." He pointed to the rising ground ahead. "They were stationed to monitor the border, back when diplomacy still meant something. If we're lucky, one might still work."
"And if not?"
"Then we hike the long way in," Oligar said. "With our eyes wide open."
Oligar stood, "Whatever lives in there… it's not waiting to be understood. But if the King is alive, then our time is running short."
Haaskin took a deep breath and straightened. "Then let's get moving, Master. Before the time turns it's back on us."
Master and student stood at the base of the towering plateau wall, its craggy face stretching high above.
"We're climbing that?" Haaskin asked, eyeing the vertical stone.
"No time for trails," Oligar said. "Pressure-bind. You've practiced it."
Haaskin nodded. "On temple walls. Not cliffs."
Oligar raised his palm. A soft hiss signalled the forming of an air-mana seal, anchoring his hand to the surface. "Same principle. Negative pressure under the hands and feet, remember create a suction between hand and surface and you good to go. Steady flow, no bursts."
Haaskin smirked faintly. "Got it. No showing off."
"Good. Don't fall."
They moved. Soft whumps echoed with each step as mana-bound palms and soles clung to the rock. Wind tugged at their cloaks, and pebbles trickled down from below Haaskin's boot as he slipped briefly.
"I'm fine!" he muttered.
Minutes later, they crested the ridge. Oligar pulled Haaskin up, both breathing hard.
"There," Oligar said, pointing to a low structure in the distance. "Trader vehicles might still be parked. If we're lucky."
Haaskin wiped dust from his brow. "Let's hope they left one with a full tank."