The morning mist hung low that day — thick enough that the village seemed to float in it.It made everything quieter.Even the usual chatter of the builders was dulled to muffled echoes, as though the fog itself wanted to listen.
Sylvara called it "a forest's hush."I called it nerves.
Breakfast was silent, which was unusual. Normally, Borgu would complain about the portion sizes, Lorian would scold him for it, and someone — usually me — would break the rhythm with dry humor. But today, spoons just scraped bowls, and eyes drifted toward the mist-drowned edge of the woods.
I caught Lorian staring at it for too long."Something on your mind?" I asked.
He blinked, then forced a small smile. "Just… listening. I swear I heard something earlier."
"Animal?"
"Maybe."
But he didn't sound convinced.
After breakfast, we split up as usual — Borgu and I checked the palisades while the others tended to the new crop plots. The soil had been good lately, softer than before, rich after the last rain. Sylvara said it was "a blessing." I wasn't sure if blessings came with bootprints.
Borgu swung his club at a stubborn root, splitting it with a grunt. "You still thinking about the tracks?"
"Hard not to."
He nodded, then spat into the dirt. "Forest's watching again. I can feel it."
"You always say that."
"This time I mean it."
I looked toward the tree line.Maybe he wasn't wrong.
Something about the woods felt different now.Not hostile.Just aware.
By noon, the mist burned away — but the unease stayed.
Lorian approached me near the field, holding a bundle of herbs. His hands were trembling slightly, though he tried to hide it. "Kael, found this growing near the north fence. Didn't plant it. Don't recognize it either."
The herbs were dark, almost black, their stems thick and oddly warm to touch.
Sylvara joined us, frowning. "Not natural. These don't grow here."
Lorian shifted uneasily. "Could be wild."
"Or placed," I said.
We buried them deep that afternoon.
And though no one said it aloud, every glance toward the forest from then on carried the same silent question — who left them there?
The next few days blurred together.No new tracks.No movement in the woods.But every night, we'd hear faint sounds beyond the treeline.
Rustling that wasn't wind.Cracking that wasn't branches.
Sometimes it was distant. Sometimes close enough to make even Borgu lower his voice.
We tried to keep the days normal — tending crops, repairing huts, arguing about tools — but the laughter always ended too quickly, like everyone was afraid to be too loud.
It wasn't fear yet. Just tension.The kind that sits under your skin, waiting for something to happen.
Two nights later, the fog returned.Denser.Thicker.
It rolled over the fences like breath from the earth, swallowing the fires until only faint glows remained.
I was on watch duty with Gareth that night. He didn't speak much — didn't need to. The man had a way of hearing silence like it was a language.
"Feels like before a storm," he murmured.
"Yeah," I said. "But no thunder this time."
He nodded slowly, eyes narrowing toward the trees. "Maybe the storm just hasn't found us yet."
A sudden thud cut through the stillness.
We both froze.
Then another.
Something heavy, moving fast, just beyond the perimeter.
Borgu's shout followed, low but sharp — the kind that came from an orc who wasn't panicking, but readying.
We rushed to him, weapons drawn, mist curling around our boots.
By the time we reached him, the noise had stopped.
Borgu stood near the fence, breathing slow, eyes scanning the dark. His club dripped with mud.
"Animal?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No sound after I hit. No blood either."
"Then what did you hit?"
He looked at me, unsure. "Felt… like hitting air."
We checked the area for an hour. Found nothing. No prints. No broken branches. No trace of what he'd swung at.
Eventually, Gareth ordered us to rest.
But that night, no one really slept.
I lay in my hut, listening. The sound of rain, faint in the distance. The occasional creak of wood. The whisper of leaves brushing the wind.
And under it all — something else.
A rhythm.Slow. Measured.Like footsteps far, far away.
When morning came, everything looked the same.The mist was gone.The village stood quiet and whole.Everyone moved with the same tired routine, trying to pretend nothing had happened.
Sylvara handed me a bowl of stew. "You didn't sleep."
"Neither did you."
She smiled faintly. "Guess we're all waiting for something."
"Yeah," I said quietly, eyes drifting toward the forest.
"And it's getting closer."