Chapter 15: The Eldertree Forest

The four boys pressed forward, stepping over the threshold where sunlight gave way to the bright cathedral world of the Eldertree Forest. Oren paused first, head tipped back, breath escaping in a soft whistle as he tried to take in the full height of the nearest tree. Its trunk, pale as milk-stone, was mottled with lichen and age, roots webbed across the forest floor like the knuckles of ancient hands. Above, the canopy soared, so impossibly high it threatened to swallow their voices, their very thoughts, leaving only wonder in its wake.

Tavik craned his neck until it hurt, a grin spreading across his face. "Could see the sea from up there if I climbed all the way up!"

Bran snorted, picking his way over the tangle of roots, but his eyes stayed skyward, wide as a child beneath the stars. "You'd turn into a bird halfway up. Or break your leg falling."

"Worth it," Tavik muttered.

Nix, still pale from the Pogonariel meadow, moved in Bran's wake, one hand trailing along a silvery trunk. The bark felt cool and damp, pulsing with the slow, ancient life of the Eldertree. He drew careful breaths, keeping himself steady. The forest felt friendly, welcoming even, and he let that ease settle through him without resistance. His green runes flickered gently across his blue skin, reflecting the filtered light.

Through the tether, Tavik sensed the shift in Nix, the way tension had drained from his cousin's shoulders. Safe here. Tavik's hand, hovering near his blade since they'd entered, dropped to his side.

Nix's footsteps were quiet, swallowed by the whisper of leaves and the distant, uncanny echo of birdsong, strange music that sang both near and far, as though the forest itself breathed with them.

Above, shafts of silver and green light spilled through shifting leaves, painting the forest floor in dapples and dancing swirls, revealing clusters of wildflowers on the edge, violet and gold, their colours fading where the deep shade pressed in. Every step was careful, for the roots rose and fell like the ridges of forgotten rivers, their edges softened with moss. The air clung to them, cool and rich with the scent of dew and old wood, carrying whispers of pollen and something older, a promise that thrummed beneath their skin.

Oren let his hand brush a young leaf, its veins shining against the morning. His newly awakened elvish senses caught details he would have missed weeks ago: the subtle temperature shifts where sunlight touched shadow, the faint pulse of sap moving through the trunk. "I never thought trees could be this big. Even in the Sentinel Forest, nothing touches this."

Bran's pointed ears twitched slightly, catching layers of birdsong his previous hearing would never have distinguished. "It's like stepping into a story that's still being written."

Tavik grunted agreement, his warrior's awareness now sharpened by elvish perception. He could track the small creatures moving through the underbrush by sound alone, assess the stability of the ground beneath the moss without testing it first. The exhaustion from the ravines and ridge still sat in his bones, but the forest's peace eased it somewhat.

Nix watched them quietly. His cousins were finally using what they'd been given, finally feeling the world the way he did. Well, not quite the way he did, but closer than before.

They moved on together, the silence enfolding them, the occasional blaze of sky above a reminder that the world beyond still waited, but here, in the shadow of the Eldertrees, they were welcomed as kin. Peace settled around their shoulders, light as breath.

They pressed deeper, breaths synchronising with the steady rhythm of the forest's heart. Dew trembled on every fern and root, scattering the sun's gold in a thousand pinpricks, so the ground seemed strewn with jewels half-hidden in moss. The sunlight above was gentle, filtered and green, draping them in a calm radiance that softened every shadow and quieted their worries.

As they wandered, birdsong blossomed overhead in layered choruses, notes rising, falling, overlapping so that the air rang like music in a vast, vaulted chamber. The boys' footsteps were muted on the soft carpet of leaf litter, the sound absorbed by the forest's depths, broken only by the soothing, water-like rustle of a breeze stirring through the leaves. Bran breathed in, lungs filling with the mingled scents of wildflowers, sap, and rich earth, each step lightening the knot that had lived in his chest for days.

Nix, trailing his fingers along a bowing fern, allowed himself a small smile. The forest did feel like it was singing to them, but he kept the thought to himself, maintaining the calm that both he and Tavik needed.

Tavik stretched, arms wide, letting the filtered sunlight play across his palms. Through the tether, he felt Nix's contentment, and it eased something in his own chest.

Here and there, faint paths wound their way deeper, edged with bluebells and leaves, their direction gentle and inviting, never abrupt. It was as though the forest itself meant them to follow, guiding them inward with invisible hands. Overhead, high in the ancient canopy, occasional flickers of light danced, a starry wink in daylight, reminding them of distant skies beyond the green. There was a sense of safety, a confidence that nothing here would harm them.

Bran, leading slightly, paused as something glimmered ahead, a delicate line of acorns, each suspended in the air at shoulder height, glowing softly. They hung like lanterns in the stillness, gentle and inviting, their light belonging wholly to the calm that held the forest.

"What are those?" Oren stepped closer, eyes narrowing. At over six foot two, he had to duck slightly beneath a low-hanging branch to get a better view.

Bran's curiosity outpaced caution. His hand rose, reaching out before Oren could call him back.

"Bran, wait."

But Bran’s fingers had already closed round an acorn. Its glow dulled but did not darken; it pulsed warmer, almost as if a heartbeat lived inside the shell. "Look," Bran breathed, wonder thick in his voice as Oren, Tavik, and Nix crowded round to look at the acorn in his cupped hands. They gazed at the little acorn lantern, their eyes wide, awe-struck, the soft light reflecting in their faces.

Oren's brow furrowed, his pointed ears tilting back slightly in concern. "Careful. You don't know what they are."

"It's warm." Bran turned the acorn over in his palm, examining it with a healer's eye. "Not dangerous. But like...its living."

Tavik leaned in. Through the tether, he felt Nix's curiosity rather than fear. "Nix?"

Nix's ears were pricked forward, alert but not flattened. "They're friendly."

"Right." Tavik's mouth quirked. “Friendly acorns!”

Unable to resist, Bran reached for a second, the wonder of the moment too great for worry to root. The light pulsed faintly, inviting his touch.

"Bran." Oren's voice carried a warning edge.

Bran slipped the second acorn into his pocket, its warmth lingering against his palm. "They're leading somewhere, Oren. Can't you see?"

"That's what concerns me."

But Bran was already reaching for a third, and the lantern trail seemed to draw farther into the forest, the soft glow beckoning them onward. Each acorn he took pulsed gently in his hands, warm and alive.

Oren moved to intercept, stepping between Bran and the trail. His height gave him advantage as he blocked his younger brother's path. "That's enough. We need to think about this."

Bran met his eldest brother's eyes with the particular patience of someone who'd dealt with this protectiveness his entire life. He had to tilt his head back slightly to meet Oren's gaze. "We came here to find our way through the forest, didn't we? These are showing us the way."

"We don't know that."

"I do." Bran's certainty was quiet but unmovable. "Remember the Root Guardian? This is similar. The forest wants to help."

Oren's jaw worked, frustration warring with the memory. The Root Guardian had been gentle, ancient, trustworthy. "One wrong step and I'll never forgive myself."

"Then I'll take it." Bran's smile was fond but firm. "You can follow and catch me if I fall. Like always."

Tavik watched this familiar dance. "He's going anyway. You know that."

Oren sighed, the sound heavy with reluctant acceptance. "Stay close then. All of you."

Their footsteps fell in time with the deepening chorus of birds, the forest's heart thrumming around them. Small creatures, mice, a red squirrel, paused to watch from the tangled roots and bowing ferns, curiosity bright in their eyes. Bran wandered forward, enchanted by the treasure of glowing acorns, his pockets swelling until at last he stopped, laughing softly, and transferred the precious acorn lanterns to his pack, their light spilling through the seams like bottled dawn.

Tavik fell into step beside him. "Turning into a squirrel are we, Bran?"

The joke fluttered between them, easing tension, but Oren's watchfulness never wavered, his elvish hearing tracking every sound, every rustle. He moved closer to Bran's shoulder, ready to pull him back if needed.

All the while, the forest answered Bran's delight. A breeze rose, carrying harmonies through the leaves, and the birdsong grew richer, swelling to fill every hollow and shadow. The lantern trail curved deeper, the light leading them to a place where the canopy parted, and a clearing opened at the foot of a colossal Eldertree. There, half-hidden by moss and petals, stood a door framed by curling ancient runes, its wood shimmering with traces of silver.

Oren caught Bran's arm, voice low and insistent. "We need to be careful. This place is ancient."

"Exactly why we should see what's inside," Bran countered, but his tone held no defiance, only wonder.

Nix stepped forward, ears twitching, pupils dilating slightly as he assessed the door. He could sense magic thrumming beneath the wood, but it carried no threat. Only welcome. With matter-of-fact certainty, he pressed his hand to the door.

"Nix," Oren started.

But the door swung open on silent hinges, and Nix vanished within.

Through the tether, Tavik felt no alarm, only Nix's continued sense of safety. He met Oren's eyes and nodded once. It's alright.

Oren, Tavik, and Bran exchanged quick glances, then followed Nix across the threshold. Inside, they paused to unlace their boots, leaving them in a neat row beside the door, the habit ingrained from childhood. The wooden floor was warm beneath their stockinged feet.

The world beyond the door was aglow. A gentle hearth flickered in the centre, its flames dancing orange and gold upon the walls. Cosiness wrapped around them like a favourite blanket, the air fragrant with dried lavender and thyme that lined the shelves. A woven rug, patterned in leaves and streams, softened their footsteps as they entered, and a sturdy wooden table beckoned with its circle of chairs, inviting rest. Strings of luminous fairy lights twined up the beams and across the ceiling, casting a gentle, magical glow that touched everything with quiet wonder.

Bran let out a soft gasp, his arms still cradling the bulging pack of acorns. "I never knew a tree could hold so much warmth."

His eyes traced the curving staircase that wound upwards to a loft where four beds waited, their covers plump and welcoming. Nix was perched quietly on the steps of the loft, and looked down at his cousins. His runes pulsed gently, reflecting his contentment.

"You're slower than old tortoises," he said, fondness threading his voice. "But you made it."

"Cheeky," Tavik muttered, but he was grinning. Through the tether, he felt Nix's genuine ease, and it loosened something in his own chest.

Drawn by a curious gleam, Bran wandered to a small, round window set deep in the timber, its opening bisected by a carved wooden frame. He stood before it, gazing out upon the woodland of his childhood, the familiar dappled slopes of the Emaris valley, bluebells nodding beside winding streams, the old fallen oak where he'd once hidden childhood treasures.

"Oren, Tavik, come and see!" he called, voice bright with wonder.

Oren approached, scepticism softening into awe as he looked through the window. Instead of the Emaris valley, he saw the quiet meadow where his mother once sang when he was very young, sunlight gilding the grass, and the gentle curve of the Emaris river that ran past his boyhood home.

Tavik followed, and his world through the opening was a moonlit glade, wild with foxgloves, a place of secret meetings and laughter, safe and untouched.

Nix joined them, his hand resting lightly on Bran's shoulder. When he gazed through the frame, his breath caught. Rather than the forest floor, he saw the Sentinel Forest from above, perched high in the tallest pines where he'd learned to run and climb, the mist-wreathed canopy spreading beneath him like a silver-green sea, watched over and wild and safe in the heights.

They stood together, silent, each wrapped in their own memory, yet bound by the gentle magic of the room.

The stillness lingered, sweet and serene.

Tavik broke the spell with a soft laugh. "Knows our hearts better than we do."

Oren nodded. "Perhaps it's meant for travellers like us."

A moment passed. None of them mentioned what had happened on the ridge, what Lisera had told them. The weight of it sat there, unspoken, but for now, the tree house offered respite.

Oren turned away from the window. "We'll stay here for now. Rest. Tomorrow we'll continue through the forest. For today, this is home."

Tavik let out a low whistle, glancing at the golden bands of sunlight painting the floor. "It's barely afternoon."

Oren managed a rueful smile, shrugging one shoulder. "After all we've endured, even the sun must forgive us a few unhurried hours."

The warmth in his tone was a balm, drawing a ripple of agreement between them.

The brothers began to drift, curiosity guiding their steps through the gentle glow. Nix, ever quiet and drawn to higher places, slipped softly up the winding staircase to the loft. There, the beds lay in an inviting row, their patchwork covers promising solace. He chose one and lay down on top of the covers, closing his eyes. He focused on steadying his breath, on maintaining the calm that flowed through the tether to Tavik. Minutes passed, his breathing deepening, and soon meditation gave way to sleep. He stretched out along the bed, his small frame barely filling half its length, surrendering at last to the comfort he had so longed for.

Below, Bran rummaged through the hand-carved cupboards, the air scented with herbs and wood. His hands found bundles of dried mushrooms, jars of golden honey, and a loaf of dark nut bread wrapped in cloth. He pulled out a plump squash and a handful of root vegetables, spreading them on the table as he began to muse over a meal hearty enough to feed them for days. The soft clatter of jars and the earthy aroma of sage and thyme whispered of comfort to come.

Bran poured the softly glowing acorn lanterns into a smooth wooden bowl, which was just the right size for all the acorns he had collected. Their gentle light enhanced the enchanting atmosphere of the small room.

Oren wandered to a narrow bookcase tucked between the beams. He trailed his fingers across the spines, his elvish senses catching the subtle variations in texture, the age of each binding. His eyes widened at the curious titles that inhabited this hidden place. He read aloud, voice coloured with wonder.

"The Bell Voiced Talanooks: Cities Beneath the Roots by Eira Mosswhisper." He pulled the slim volume free, examining its worn cover. "Haven't heard of Talanooks before."

"What else?" Tavik asked, pausing in his slow circuit of the room's perimeter. Old habits died hard.

Oren's fingers continued along the spines. "Skyward Kin: The Æthelweave of the Eldertree by Aldred of the High Boughs." He chuckled softly. "Hearth of the Burrowbacks: Recipes for Sanctuary by Bramble Quillroot."

"Recipes." Bran's voice brightened from across the room. "I'll want that one."

"The Turning of the Canopy: Seasons of the Eldertree by Olis the Scribe." Oren paused, finger resting on the spine. "Olis. The one we're meant to find."

"Writes about the forest?" Bran moved closer, interest piqued.

"Seems so." Oren pulled the book free, leafing through its pages. "Detailed observations. Beautiful illustrations of the seasons here."

Tavik grunted. "Might tell us where he lives."

"And here's a strange one," Oren continued, returning his attention to the shelf. "Time's Scar in the Southern Reaches by Thalen Rootbinder."

A beat of silence.

"Time's Scar," Bran repeated slowly. "Like what Nix did? When he tore through time?"

"Could be different," Oren said, but his voice carried doubt.

"Worth reading." Tavik's hand finally dropped from his blade. Through the tether, he could feel Nix's deep sleep above them, peaceful and safe.

Each title seemed to shimmer with promise, stories and secrets waiting behind faded covers.

Tavik, restless in body but lightened in spirit, climbed the creaking steps to the loft. He paused on the landing, gazing at Nix's peaceful form. The tether between them hummed contentedly, no thread of fear or pain running through it, just the deep calm of genuine rest.

Watching his younger cousin's chest rise and fall in the dappled fairy light, Tavik felt something settle in him. The four of them, bound by blood. Oren and Bran below, Nix sleeping above, and Tavik himself caught between, keeping watch as he always did.

He sank down onto the stairs, content to keep vigil, his gaze drifting between Oren lost in his books and Bran pondering his ingredients.

For the first time in ages, the tension around his heart eased, and he let the harmony of the Eldertree's refuge fill the quiet spaces inside him.