The young warrior

 Beneath the dawn’s mist, a boy stood alone in a field of purple and green. He gripped a 

wooden staff, still too large for his hands, its worn blade gleaming faintly with morning light. 

The silence was deep, broken only by the whisper of the wind through the wild grass.

This place had been his mother’s favorite spot, a sacred grove where old trees twisted 

skyward like ancient guardians. She’d told him stories here once, of heroes and secrets 

buried beneath roots, of spirits bound to the earth by duty and love.

Today, he had come alone. The village had whispered that he was too young to be a warrior, 

too small to protect anything. But as he watched the sunrise burn away the fog, he could 

feel something stir—a warmth like fire in his chest, a hum like an echo from the earth itself.

A shadow flitted across the clearing, silent and watchful. He felt it rather than saw it, a 

familiar presence woven into the trees. *They* had been waiting, the spirits his mother had 

promised would come.

With a steadying breath, he tightened his grip on the staff. His voice, small but certain, 

filled the morning air.

“I’m ready.”

And as the last shreds of mist lifted, he took his first step forward, into the stories he’d once 

been told, now ready to make his own

The Forest Path

 The Forest Path

Evan was not supposed to be there. His mother’s voice had echoed in his head when he slipped out of the backyard, a warning wrapped in gentle words: “Don’t go too far into the woods, Evan. They’re deep, and sometimes even adults lose their way.”

But today was different. The air had a peculiar stillness, as if the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for something. Evan’s small feet tread softly, his every step careful, as if he feared waking the forest. Trees stretched tall around him, their trunks thick with age, branches so high they disappeared into shadows and mist. Shafts of sunlight broke through in patches, but even these looked dull, subdued, almost green.

Evan couldn’t say what he was looking for—maybe a wildflower, maybe a secret. There was something about the forest that made him feel like he was on the edge of finding something magical.

As he walked, he noticed things he’d never seen before: the way ferns curled at the base of the trees, the soft whisper of leaves brushing against one another, the scent of damp earth that seemed almost alive. He spotted a glimmer on a fallen log and bent to pick it up—a small stone, glistening faintly, with a strange marking on its surface. He tucked it into his pocket.

Then, just up ahead, he saw it—a path he’d never noticed before, barely wide enough for him to walk. The trail wound between two enormous trees that seemed almost to lean toward each other, as if they were whispering secrets. For a moment, he hesitated. Something about that narrow trail felt... different.

*Maybe I should turn back,* he thought. But his feet had other plans. Almost of their own accord, they started down the path.

As Evan walked further, the sounds of the world around him seemed to change. The birds stopped calling, the leaves didn’t rustle as much, and even his own footsteps sounded muffled. The silence was thick, like the forest was waiting for him to reach some unseen destination.

Then he saw it—a tree larger than any he’d ever seen, standing in a small clearing. Its bark was dark, almost black, and it was scarred, as if someone had carved strange patterns and symbols into it. Despite its ancient look, there was something lively about it. Evan felt as if the tree was watching him, waiting for him to notice it fully.

Evan took a step closer, feeling the pulse of the forest all around him. Then he noticed the faintest of lights at the base of the tree—a tiny, flickering glow. It was there and gone, like a firefly that had lost its way.

He knelt down and, as he did, saw something strange: a tiny door, barely visible, hidden among the roots of the massive tree. The door was small, no bigger than a mousehole, but it looked intricately carved, with tiny patterns and a brass knob that gleamed, despite the shade.

He reached out to touch it, hesitating only for a moment. His fingers brushed against the wood, and suddenly, he heard a soft, whispering voice.

*“Why have you come?”*

Evan looked around, his heart thudding. No one was there. The voice had been quiet, almost as if the forest itself had spoken.

“I... I don’t know,” he whispered back, feeling a little silly. But as soon as he spoke, he felt a shift, like the forest had been holding its breath and now exhaled.

“Once, we knew of such wanderers. Children who found our path. The ones who are curious, who look beyond what they see.”

Evan’s skin prickled. He wasn’t sure if he was scared or excited.

The voice continued, gentle yet ancient. “There is a magic here, Evan, an old magic that remembers all who pass through. Few find it, and even fewer can carry it back.”

“What… what do you mean?” he asked, barely able to speak.

“You are on the edge of the old forest. And the old forest has gifts to give. But every gift comes with a price.”

Evan felt his fingers brush against the small stone in his pocket, the one he’d found earlier. Somehow, he knew it wasn’t an ordinary stone. Slowly, he pulled it out and held it in his hand, feeling its weight.

The voice softened, almost wistful. “You’ve already found the first gift. That stone is a keeper of memories, bound to the forest. If you choose, you may leave now, and it will fade from your mind like a dream. But if you stay… the forest will share its secrets with you.”

Evan looked at the stone, then at the door, and then at the towering trees around him. A part of him wanted to turn and run, to go back to the safety of his yard, his house, his mother. But something stronger held him in place—the need to know, to see what lay beyond the edges of what he understood.

“I want to stay,” he said, his voice small but certain.

There was a long silence, and then, with the faintest shimmer of light, the tiny door opened. Beyond it, Evan glimpsed a world like nothing he’d ever seen. Shadows danced across mossy hills, rivers ran with water so clear it sparkled like glass, and creatures flitted between trees that stretched even taller than the ones around him. He could hear the faint sound of laughter, ancient and childlike all at once.

As he knelt there, peering into that world, the voice spoke one last time. “Then you are one of us now, Evan. But remember, the path goes both ways. Walk it with care, and always listen to the whispers of the forest.”

Then, as quickly as it had come, the door vanished, melting back into the roots as if it had never been there at all.

Evan sat back on his heels, the stone still warm in his hand. The forest around him had returned to its quiet state, the shadows and the mist weaving around the trees. Slowly, he stood up, feeling both the same and yet… different.

He turned and began the walk back, his steps slower, more thoughtful. He didn’t know what he would tell his mother or if he’d ever be able to find the door again. But he knew that the forest held its secrets close, and now, he held a piece of them too.

As he reached the edge of the trees, he felt a warmth in his pocket. He reached in and touched the stone, feeling its soft pulse, a reminder that somewhere, deep in the forest, magic waited for those brave enough to look for it.

The Last Pilgrim

 The Last Pilgrim

Thick fog clung to the trees like cobwebs, and the air was damp with the scent of moss and rot. Every step she took sank her deeper into the mire, mud sucking at her boots as though trying to drag her under. But the girl pressed on, eyes fixed on the shadowy structure looming in the distance, half-buried and abandoned, its roof collapsing inward and sides slumping like a wounded beast. The old shrine of the Lostwood, they had called it.

Few dared approach this place anymore. Once, it was a haven, a shelter for travelers and lost souls wandering through the endless forests. Its spires had reached proudly into the sky, capped with gilded finials that caught the sun and made the shrine glow like a beacon. But that was long ago. The forest had reclaimed it, and the magic that once protected the shrine had faded. Now it was a shell, a ruin, whispered about only in ghost stories and drunken fireside tales.

But the girl—known simply as Lira—had no choice. Her village had fallen ill, and all the elders said there was only one place she could find a cure: the Heart of the Lostwood, hidden in the deepest reaches of the forest, where only the bravest, or perhaps the most desperate, dared to venture. She was both.

Lira had heard about the shrine since she was small. “A place for lost things,” her mother had called it, her voice low and fearful. “But some things are best left lost.” Lira had always wondered about those words. Now, standing at the edge of the shrine’s overgrown pathway, she wondered no longer.

The forest was quiet, but not in the peaceful way she was used to. It was a wary silence, like the trees themselves were watching her, holding their breath. Glancing up, Lira spotted faint lights moving in the dark spaces between the trunks—tiny pinpricks like eyes in the night. Her fingers tightened on the hilt of the small dagger she wore at her waist. She’d heard stories of the spirit lights that haunted these woods, lights that lured travelers into the trees, where they wandered until their minds broke, or until the forest swallowed them whole.

But she was close now. The shrine loomed over her, its entrance a dark, gaping maw that led who knew where. Steeling herself, Lira took a step closer, heart pounding. As she reached the threshold, a soft voice seemed to whisper in the breeze.

"Why have you come?"

She froze, pulse hammering in her ears. The voice was everywhere and nowhere, as if the forest itself were speaking to her.

“I… I seek the Heart of the Lostwood,” she stammered, glancing around, hoping to find some source of the voice, but seeing nothing beyond the eerie mist. “My village is ill. People are dying.”

Silence answered her. Then, just as she thought she might be safe, that same voice drifted through the air, mournful, almost amused.

"The Heart you seek has a cost. Are you willing to pay it?"

Lira swallowed. She knew enough of magic to understand that nothing came without a price. “I am.”

A chill ran through her as she felt a shift in the air, a prickling awareness, like fingers brushing her skin. Shadows shifted inside the shrine, and suddenly, she felt an irresistible pull, drawing her into the darkness. She couldn’t tell if she moved willingly or if something invisible was guiding her steps. The only sound was the soft trickle of water, as if a distant stream was flowing beneath the floor.

The shrine’s interior was in ruins. Wooden beams rotted and splintered, dust caked every surface, and vines twisted like veins along the walls. Lira’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, and she saw it—a small altar, in the center of which sat a stone basin. Inside, shimmering with a faint inner light, was the Heart of the Lostwood. It looked nothing like she had imagined; it was not a precious gem or crystal, but a knot of roots and earth, pulsing faintly, like it was alive.

Hesitating only a moment, Lira reached forward. The moment her fingers brushed the Heart, a wave of energy surged through her, bringing with it flashes of images, memories that weren’t her own. She saw the shrine in its glory days, watched as pilgrims came with offerings, listened as the forest accepted their prayers. She felt the joy of a thousand hopeful souls…and the sorrow of those who had come too late, their pleas unanswered.

Then she saw them—the spirits. Twisted, shadowy figures moving through the trees, drawn to the shrine like moths to a flame. She understood now why people feared this place, why her mother had called it a place for “lost things.”

“You understand now,” the voice murmured, no longer faint. It was close, almost at her ear.

Lira closed her eyes, feeling the weight of her choice settle over her. This was the cost: to take the Heart, she would have to join the forest, become one of its guardians, forever bound to the shrine.

But her village was dying. She couldn’t go back empty-handed.

With a deep breath, she cradled the Heart of the Lostwood in her hands and turned toward the door. As she stepped away from the altar, a strange warmth filled her, a silent acceptance. Her skin prickled as the forest’s magic seeped into her, changing her, binding her to this place.

The forest stirred, and the whispering voices faded, replaced by a sense of calm. She had paid her price. She was no longer just Lira; she was now a part of the Lostwood, its newest guardian, its last pilgrim.

As she left the shrine, the Heart in her hands, she felt the spirits watching, no longer threatening but simply…observing. Somewhere in the village, the sickness would lift. Her people would be safe. And in the heart of the Lostwood, a new light would glow, guiding the next lost soul who came searching for answers.

When that time came, she would be waiting.

The Lost Path

 The Lost Path 

 

Amid the towering, ancient trees and the mist that swirled like ghosts over the damp earth, Elara stood, small and still, swallowed by the shadows of the forest. She wore a thick, violet cloak that hung heavy over her shoulders, the edges brushing against the mossy ground. The air was thick with the scent of damp wood, earthy and cold. Sunlight barely reached the forest floor, casting weak beams that twisted between the branches above. Elara felt the weight of silence pressing on her from all sides, a hush that seemed alive, waiting for something. 

 

She had come here by accident, at least she thought so. One minute, she’d been standing in the small garden behind her grandmother’s cottage, picking wildflowers and listening to the distant rush of the river. Then, drawn by some unseen thread, her feet had carried her toward the tree line, her steps light and unaware. The world had changed the moment she stepped past the first line of trees, a quiet transformation that felt like slipping into a dream. 

 

Now she was here, alone, with no memory of the path she’d taken or how to return. 

 

She clenched her fists, trying to remember the stories her grandmother had told her about the forest—stories that warned children to keep close to the village, to avoid the places where the trees grew thick and dark. There were whispers of hidden spirits, creatures that lurked in the shadows, and paths that could change at will. But Elara wasn’t afraid. Not yet. She took a small step forward, her shoes pressing into the soft earth, and watched as faint ripples spread over a shallow puddle by her feet. The water shimmered, catching the meager light, and for a moment, she thought she saw something move within it—a glimmer of silver, like a fish darting through the depths. 

 

“Elara…” 

 

A voice, soft as the breeze, seemed to brush past her ear. She turned, her heart quickening, but there was nothing there. Only the trees, their trunks gnarled and twisted like ancient hands reaching for the sky. 

 

“Elara…” 

 

The voice called again, more insistent this time. It was a child’s voice, familiar but distant, like an echo she couldn’t quite place. She felt a pull, a gentle tug at her heart, urging her deeper into the forest. She knew she should ignore it, should turn back and try to find her way home. But something in the voice sounded lonely, sad even, and the curiosity tugged at her heart. 

 

She stepped forward, moving carefully around the roots that jutted up like bones from the forest floor. With each step, the world grew softer, quieter, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath. A strange feeling settled over her, a mixture of wonder and unease, as if she were balancing on the edge of a dream. 

 

After what felt like hours, she reached a clearing, a small circle where the trees parted, and the sunlight broke through in a single, pale beam. In the center of the clearing was a stone, round and smooth, with carvings etched into its surface. Elara knelt beside it, brushing her fingers over the lines. The symbols were strange, twisting and looping in patterns she couldn’t decipher. But as she traced them, the air around her seemed to grow warmer, and the faint hum of a melody reached her ears. 

 

It was the same song her mother used to hum to her before bed, a lullaby of rivers and stars and gentle summer nights. She closed her eyes, letting the melody fill her mind, and felt the tension ease from her shoulders. For the first time since she’d entered the forest, she didn’t feel lost. 

 

“Elara…” 

 

The voice was closer now, right behind her. She spun around and gasped. Standing at the edge of the clearing was a figure—a boy, no older than herself, dressed in clothes that looked like they belonged to a different time. His hair was dark, his eyes a piercing shade of green that seemed to hold the entire forest within them. 

 

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. 

 

The boy tilted his head, studying her with a quiet intensity. “I’m lost, like you,” he said, his voice soft and echoing with something ancient. 

 

“Lost?” Elara echoed. “How did you get here?” 

 

The boy shook his head. “I don’t remember. I’ve been here… a long time, waiting.” 

 

“Waiting for what?” 

 

“For someone to help me find the way home.” 

 

A shiver ran through her as she realized what he meant. He was like one of the spirits her grandmother had spoken about—a soul lost to the forest, wandering the hidden paths, searching for a way back to a world that had long since moved on. 

 

Elara swallowed, a strange resolve building within her. “Maybe… maybe I can help you.” 

 

The boy’s face softened, a flicker of hope passing over his features. He stepped closer, extending a hand toward her. She took it, feeling a warmth that surprised her. It was as if his touch anchored her, like a lifeline in the vast silence of the forest. 

 

Together, they retraced her steps, moving through the dense trees, following the faint traces of her path. The forest seemed to shift around them, branches bending away, shadows lifting to reveal glimpses of the sky. They walked in silence, the only sound their soft footsteps and the occasional rustle of leaves. 

 

As they neared the edge of the forest, the boy’s hand tightened around hers, and she felt him hesitate. 

 

“This is as far as I can go,” he whispered, his voice tinged with sadness. 

 

Elara turned to face him, her heart sinking. “But… you said you wanted to go home.” 

 

He nodded, his gaze drifting toward the trees behind him. “I think… I think I already am. Thank you, Elara.” 

 

Before she could say another word, he released her hand and stepped back into the shadows. His figure blurred, dissolving into the dappled light, until all that remained was the faint shimmer of his presence in the air, like a fading memory. 

 

Elara stood there for a long moment, her hand still warm from his touch. A gentle breeze stirred the trees, carrying with it the distant echo of a lullaby. She closed her eyes, letting the song wash over her, and when she opened them again, she was standing at the edge of the forest, her grandmother’s cottage visible in the distance. 

 

With one last glance at the trees, she turned and walked back toward the light, carrying with her the memory of a boy lost to the forest and the bond they’d shared in a world just beyond her own.