The canopy of the Arsh forest did not so much filter the light as it did devour it. Even after the torrential downpour of the morning had tapered off into a rhythmic dripping, the air beneath the giants remained heavy, silvered with a mist that tasted of ancient loam and crushed pine needles.
Norwan adjusted the grip on his recurve bow, his palms slightly slick despite the leather wrappings. To his left, Marl moved with the practiced grace of a predator, though even he looked small against the backdrop of the Arsh. These were not merely trees; they were the pillars of the world. Their trunks, wider than three men standing arm-to-arm, rose straight and unyielding for hundreds of feet before a single branch dared to sprout. The bark was a deep, charcoal grey, ridged like frozen waves, and often slick with the bioluminescent moss that thrived in the damp shadows.
"The rain helped," Marl whispered, his voice barely a ripple in the humid air. He pointed a gloved finger toward a patch of disturbed ferns. "Softened the floor. We aren't crunching through the dry rot anymore."
Norwan nodded, his eyes fixed on the mud. "But it washes away the scent. We have to rely on what we see."
The Coming of Age Hunt was the threshold of their lives. To return with a common buck was respectable; to return empty-handed was a shame that lingered for years. But they weren't looking for respect. They were looking for a legend.
The Arsh forest was silent, save for the occasional plink of a heavy droplet hitting a broadleaf. The stillness was deceptive. In the Arsh, things lived in the heights—predators that never touched the ground—and things lived in the roots. Norwan kept his gaze moving, scanning the vertical lines of the trees.
Then, he saw it.
It wasn't a movement, but a break in the color palette of the woods. In a world of deep greens, charcoal greys, and muddy browns, there was a patch of impossible, blinding ivory.
Norwan froze. He reached out and caught Marl's shoulder, his fingers digging into the tunic. Marl went still instantly.
Fifty yards ahead, framed between two massive Arsh roots that curled like the ribs of a buried giant, stood the White Deer. It was a stag of immense proportions, its coat so pale it seemed to glow against the dark, wet bark. Its antlers were not the brown of bone, but looked like polished salt, branching out in a complex, deadly crown.
"The Spirit of the Arsh," Marl breathed, his eyes wide. "I thought the elders were just spinning yarns to keep us focused."
"It's real," Norwan said, his heartbeat drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "And it's moving."
The stag turned its head. Its eyes weren't the usual panicked black of a prey animal, but a startling, pale blue. It sniffed the air, its nostrils flared, and then, with a flick of its tail, it vanished into a thicket of silver-ferns.
"We can't lose it," Marl said, already stepping forward.
"Wait," Norwan cautioned, his voice low. "The wind is shifting toward the ridge. If we follow directly, he'll catch our scent. We have to go wide, through the hollows."
They began the pursuit. This was the true test of the Arsh. The ground was a labyrinth of fallen logs—corpses of ancient trees that had rotted over centuries, creating bridges and pitfalls hidden by thick moss. Norwan led the way, stepping only on the exposed roots or the firmest patches of earth. He moved with a focused intensity, his mind narrowing down to the damp earth and the distant white flicker ahead.
The forest seemed to close in. The mist thickened, turning the spaces between the Arsh trees into white voids. They tracked the stag by the occasional hoofprint in the soft mud—deep, sharp impressions that spoke of the animal's weight.
At one point, they reached a clearing where the sun briefly broke through the clouds. The light hit the lingering moisture in the air, creating a shimmering veil. Through it, they saw the stag again. It was standing on a rise, looking back. It didn't look scared; it looked expectant.
"He's leading us deeper," Marl muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "The elders said the White Deer leads the unworthy into the Heart-Rot."
"Do you feel unworthy?" Norwan asked, checking the fletching on his primary arrow.
Marl grinned nervously. "I feel like I'm about to become a man or a ghost. Let's finish this."
They tracked the stag for another hour, their legs burning from the constant climbing over the Arsh's sprawling roots. Finally, the terrain leveled out into a natural amphitheater. A small stream, swollen by the morning rain, cut through the center, the water rushing over black stones.
The White Deer stood at the edge of the water, lowering its head to drink.
"This is it," Marl whispered. He started to raise his bow, but his hands were shaking. The adrenaline of the long trek was taking its toll.
Norwan placed a hand on Marl's bow arm, gently lowering it. "Let me. My breath is steady."
Marl nodded, stepping back to give Norwan the space.
Norwan stepped behind the trunk of a younger Arsh—barely a century old and only the size of a chimney. He drew a long, slow breath, smelling the ozone of the rain and the sweetness of the sap. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, the steel head glinting dully in the low light.
He nocked the arrow. The string felt like an extension of his own nerves. As he pulled back, the world narrowed. The rushing stream became a distant hum. The towering trees blurred into a dark frame. All that existed was the point of his arrow and the patch of white fur just behind the stag's shoulder.
The deer lifted its head. It sensed them. It turned its majestic neck, those pale blue eyes searching the shadows.
Now, Norwan thought.
He released.
The thrum of the bowstring was the loudest sound in the forest. The arrow crossed the clearing in a blur of gray feathers. It struck with a heavy, wet thud.
The stag reared up, its salt-white antlers thrashing against the low-hanging branches of an Arsh. It let out a cry—not a bleat, but a high, haunting bell-like sound that echoed through the woods. It took three stumbling steps, its hooves splashing in the stream, before its legs gave out.
It collapsed onto the moss, its white coat quickly staining with a brilliant, shocking crimson.
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the dripping of the trees seemed to stop.
Norwan and Marl emerged from the shadows, approaching the fallen creature with a mixture of triumph and reverence. As they reached the bank, the stag gave one final, shuddering breath and went still.
Marl knelt by the head, running a hand over the incredible antlers. "Norwan... they're going to talk about this for three generations. No one has brought back a White Deer since the time of our great-grandfathers."
Norwan didn't speak immediately. He looked up at the Arsh trees, their heights lost in the returning clouds. He felt a strange weight in his chest—not of guilt, but of a heavy responsibility. He had taken something ancient from the forest. He knelt beside the deer and placed his hand on its flank. The fur was softer than anything he had ever felt.
"We have to carry it back," Norwan said, his voice finally returning. "All of it. Not just the head. The forest gave this to us; we don't leave a scrap behind."
Marl looked at the size of the animal and then at the long, treacherous path back through the giants. He gave a weary laugh. "It's going to be a long night, isn't it?"
Norwan looked at the blood on his hands and then at the towering trees that had watched the whole thing. "The longest. But we're going home as men."