Groveller's Pass

A distant owl’s hoot pierced Estaria’s sleep. His mind drifted in that hazy space between dreams and waking, registering the usual nighttime sounds - crickets chirping their steady rhythm, the soft rustle of canvas in the breeze, the occasional shuffle of the night watch’s boots against packed earth.

Something else stirred beneath those familiar sounds. A whisper of movement too deliberate to be wind. Too careful to be casual.

A twig snapped just outside his tent.

Estaria’s eyes flew open to find Silas’s face hovering above him, the scout’s hand already reaching to shake him awake. The dim light from outside cast deep shadows across Silas’s features, making his expression impossible to read.

“Get dressed,” Silas whispered, his voice barely audible above the ambient noise of the camp.

The command sent ice through Estaria’s veins. He pushed himself up on his elbows, letting the blanket fall away. The night air bit at his skin, unusually cold for this time of year. His clothes lay in a neat pile where he’d left them, but something about Silas’s rigid posture made him hesitate.

“What’s going on?” Estaria asked, keeping his voice low to match Silas’s whisper. The familiar weight of unease settled in his stomach, the same feeling he’d had leaving Appledale that last time.

The silence from Silas spoke volumes. Estaria grabbed his shirt, the rough fabric catching on his calloused fingers as he pulled it over his head. The scout’s footsteps retreated, leaving only the whisper of canvas as the tent flap fell back into place.

His hands shook slightly as he fumbled with his boot laces. The leather was still warm from being near his bedroll all night. Something about Silas’s urgency made every second feel precious, yet his fingers refused to work faster.

Finally dressed, Estaria pushed through the tent flap into the night air. The assault on his senses was immediate and overwhelming. Pine resin hung thick in the air, mixed with the earthy scent of deep forest loam. The smell hit him like a physical thing, making him realize how gradually it must have built up during their approach to the pass. He’d been too preoccupied with watching Orin and Silas’s tensions to notice the changing landscape.

The evergreens in the pass, that yesterday felt big, tonight revealed themselves to be enormous. As they approached them, the scale of their enormity took his breath away, even in the darkness.

The familiar sounds of the camp seemed muffled here, as if the forest itself absorbed them. A cool breeze carried more of that pine scent, along with something older, something that reminded him of the depths of his father’s wine cellar - all stone and age and secrets.

Before he could take another breath, strong fingers clamped around his upper arm. Silas materialized from the shadows beside him, his grip uncomfortably tight. Without a word, the scout began pulling him away from the safety of the camp, toward the darkness in the pass.

Estaria tried to plant his feet, to resist, but Silas’s momentum was unstoppable. The scout moved with the surety of someone who knew exactly where they were going, even in the near-total darkness.

The smells grew stronger with each step - pine, yes, but also moss and mushrooms and something else, something he couldn’t quite name. Under different circumstances, he might have found it pleasant, might have wanted to explore these ancient woods at his own pace. But Silas’s iron grip on his arm made every step feel like a step toward danger rather than discovery.

“Silas,” Estaria whispered, trying to keep his voice steady despite his racing heart. “Where are we-”

The scout’s grip tightened painfully, cutting off the question. The message was clear: silence.

Estaria relaxed his resistance, matching Silas’s urgent pace through the darkness. Fighting would only drain energy he might need later. The scout’s grip remained firm but loosened slightly as Estaria fell into step beside him.

The broad clearing of Groveller’s Pass opened before them, a stretch of relatively flat ground carved between towering mountains. Moonlight filtered through scattered clouds, casting strange shadows across the landscape. Behind them, the caravan’s campsite huddled beneath ancient oaks, their leaves rustling in the night breeze. Ahead, massive pine trees lined the pass like silent sentinels, their tops lost in darkness.

“Silas,” Estaria whispered, his breath coming in controlled bursts as they jogged. “What’s happening?”

The scout’s face remained fixed forward, giving no indication he’d heard the question. His jaw clenched tight, tendons standing out in his neck.

“Is everyone alright?” Estaria tried again, keeping his voice low. “Did the Queen’s scouts find us?”

Silas’s continued silence felt deliberate rather than distracted. Whatever drove this midnight journey, he clearly had no intention of explaining it. His hand steered Estaria around obstacles Estaria could barely see in the darkness - bushes that leaned away from the pass, their roots breaking above the earth trying to trip him up, and boulders the size of houses that warned of surprise rock slides.

The air grew cooler as they moved deeper into the pass. Estaria’s shirt clung to his back with sweat despite the chill. His legs burned from maintaining the quick pace over uneven ground.

Estaria’s muscles screamed in protest as Silas pulled him around a particularly massive boulder. His boots scraped against loose gravel, sending small cascades of pebbles skittering into the darkness below. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the stillness of the pass.

The moonlight shifted, breaking through a gap in the clouds, and Estaria’s breath caught in his throat. There, barely visible at the edge of the ancient pines, stood an altar. The weathered stone rose from the earth like a forgotten tooth, its surface etched with symbols that caught the pale light. Some areas of the rock appeared polished smooth, while others remained rough and natural, as if the altar had grown from the ground rather than being carved.

Estaria squinted through the darkness at the altar. A figure stood there, their silhouette barely visible against the deeper blackness of the forest beyond. The moonlight caught occasional glints of movement - perhaps clothing or jewelry shifting in the night breeze.

His first instinct was to help. Someone alone at an altar in the dead of night had to be in trouble, right? He took a step forward, but Silas’s grip became a vice on his arm, yanking him to a halt.

The sudden stop made Estaria’s boots scrape against loose gravel. The sound seemed deafening in the oppressive quiet of the pass. His heart hammered against his ribs as he glanced at Silas, expecting anger or determination. Instead, he found wide-eyed surprise painted across the scout’s weathered features.

Moonlight caught the sheen of sweat on Silas’s forehead. His jaw worked silently, as if chewing on words he couldn’t quite form. The hand gripping Estaria’s arm trembled slightly.

That small tremor sent ice through Estaria’s veins. In all their time together, he’d never seen Silas rattled. The scout had maintained his composure through Queen’s guards, difficult terrain, and internal caravan tensions. But now, faced with this unexpected figure, Silas looked genuinely shaken.

Estaria’s gaze darted between Silas and the altar. The figure hadn’t moved or acknowledged their presence, continuing whatever silent vigil had brought them to this ancient stone. The whole scene felt wrong - the weathered altar, the trembling scout, the mysterious figure existing in a pocket of unnatural stillness while the night breeze stirred everything around them.

His mind raced. If Silas had dragged him out here in the middle of the night, there must have been a plan, a purpose. But the scout’s reaction made it clear - whoever waited at the altar wasn’t part of that plan. They weren’t friend or foe, known quantity or expected obstacle. They were something else entirely, and that uncertainty had even Silas spooked.

Estaria’s throat went dry as he watched the figure by the altar. “Who is that?” he whispered, the words barely audible even to himself.

Silas’s fingers loosened their death grip on Estaria’s arm, then fell away completely. The sudden absence of pressure made Estaria’s skin tingle where bruises would likely form. But Silas remained silent, his body rigid beside Estaria in the darkness.

The moonlight caught the side of Silas’s face, revealing an expression Estaria had never seen on the stoic scout before. His jaw clenched so tight the muscles stood out like cords, and something burned in his eyes - not fear, but a deep, seething fury that seemed to radiate from him in waves.

Estaria turned back to study the figure by the altar. The wind had picked up, carrying fragments of whispered words to where they stood. His heart stuttered in his chest as recognition slammed into him. That precise way of forming words, the particular cadence that had filled his childhood with both comfort and dread - he would know that voice anywhere.

Mother.

The realization hit him like a physical blow. His legs threatened to give out, and he grabbed the rough bark of a nearby pine to steady himself. The sharp scent of resin filled his nose as his fingers dug into the tree’s surface.

Klindon’s voice drifted through the darkness, too soft to make out the words but unmistakably hers. The sound transported him instantly back to countless nights in Appledale, lying awake in his bed, straining to hear his parents’ conversations through the walls. Always plotting, always scheming, always three steps ahead of everyone else.

The cold night air seemed to thicken around him, making each breath a struggle. His mother’s presence here couldn’t be coincidence. Nothing ever was with her. But how had she known? How had she found them? And more importantly, what game was she playing now?

The sharp scent of resin filled his nose as his fingers dug into the tree’s surface. Klindon’s voice drifted through the darkness, not just speaking, but intoning – a low, rhythmic chant that prickled the hairs on Estaria’s arms.

He forced himself to look closer. She wasn’t merely standing by the altar; she was pressed against it, one hand flat on the cold stone, the other tracing symbols that seemed to shimmer faintly even in the poor light. Before her, nestled on the flattest part of the rock, lay a collection of objects Estaria didn’t recognize – polished stones, intricate metal loops, a dark, leather-bound book disturbingly similar to his father’s ledger. She wasn’t praying; she was working.

Silas shifted beside him, a low growl rumbling in his chest. The sound, or perhaps some subtle shift in the night, finally broke Klindon’s concentration.

She straightened abruptly, turning not with surprise, but with sharp, possessive annoyance. Her dark eyes, usually so controlled, held a feverish gleam. Loose strands of hair had escaped her normally immaculate arrangement, plastered to her temples with sweat despite the chill. She looked wired, energized by an internal fire that bordered on mania.

Her gaze swept past Silas as if he were no more than a bothersome insect, landing squarely on Estaria. A flicker of something – not maternal warmth, but cold assessment, maybe even resentment – crossed her face.

“So,” Klindon breathed, her voice tight with impatience. “The stray lamb finally catches up. Did you think I wouldn’t find the path, Estaria? Did you think this power was waiting for you?”

She gestured vaguely towards the immense darkness of the forest beyond the pass, the unseen bulk of the mountains. “It’s close. Can’t you feel it? Streacresh doesn’t want frightened boys or superstitious fools.” Her eyes flicked contemptuously towards Silas. “It wants strength. It wants vision.”

Silas stepped forward, bristling. “This is sacred ground! You perform… this… desecration–”

Klindon cut him off with a dismissive wave. “Sacred? This rock is a key, you ignorant zealot. A doorway. And I intend to open it.” Her gaze snapped back to Estaria, sharp and demanding. “Before he stumbles into something he doesn’t deserve.”

The implication hung heavy in the air. She wasn’t just here by chance. She was racing him. Racing him to the heart of whatever power resided in the Streacresh Forest, convinced it was her right, her destiny. The obsession burned in her eyes, raw and undeniable. This wasn’t just about ambition anymore; it felt like something had broken loose inside her.

The moonlight caught Klindon’s face as she turned back to Estaria, highlighting the sharp angles of her cheekbones. Her lips curved into that familiar smile - the one he’d seen countless times when she’d outmaneuvered someone in Appledale. But there was something different in her eyes now, a feverish intensity that made his skin crawl.

“But I beat you,” she said, each word precise and crisp, dripping with satisfaction.

She spun back to the altar, her movements jerky and uncontrolled - so unlike her usual measured grace. Her voice rose, echoing off the stone faces of the pass. “Open! I command you to open!” The words twisted into something between a demand and a scream. “I’ve done everything right! I’ve made the sacrifices! I deserve this power!”

The air changed.

Estaria felt it first as a pressure against his skin, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. The massive pines creaked, their branches swaying against the wind rather than with it. The rich scent of earth and decay intensified until it nearly choked him.

Movement caught his eye - something dark and sinuous emerging from the shadows between the trees. At first, he thought it was a trick of the moonlight, but then he saw another, and another. Vines, thick as his arm, slithered across the ground with terrifying purpose.

Klindon saw them approaching and yelled in victory, anticipating the way opening before her.

The vines struck with impossible speed.

The first one wrapped around her ankle, yanking her feet out from under her. She barely had time to cry out before more shot forward, encircling her arms, her waist, her throat. They lifted her into the air as if she weighed nothing.

“No!” The word tore from her throat, high and desperate. “I am Klindon Valens! You can’t-”

The vines tightened.

The sound that came from his mother would haunt Estaria’s nightmares. It started as a scream of pure terror, then transformed into something wet and horrible as the vines contracted. Bones cracked. Flesh gave way. Blood sprayed across the weathered altar stone.

It happened so fast. One moment she was there, struggling and screaming, and the next… the next there was only pulp and fragments dropping to the ground as the vines retreated. They slithered back into the darkness between the trees with the same purposeful movement, leaving nothing but dark stains on the earth and altar.

The pressure in the air vanished. The pines stopped their unnatural swaying. Even the wind died down, leaving an awful silence broken only by Estaria’s ragged breathing.

He couldn’t move. His legs had locked in place, his mind unable to process the violence he’d just witnessed. The scent of blood mixed with pine and earth, making his stomach heave. But still he stood, staring at the spot where his mother had been just moments before.

Her final scream echoed in his ears. Not her usual commanding tone or careful manipulation, but raw fear. In those last seconds, she’d been stripped of all her careful control, all her schemes and plans. In the end, she’d just been scared.

Silas’s iron grip into Estaria’s arm as he dragged him toward the blood-stained altar. The scout’s ragged breathing filled the space between them, matching the pounding of Estaria’s heart. His boots scraped against loose gravel, catching on roots and stones as Silas pulled him forward.

The metallic scent of blood mixed with pine needles and earth turned Estaria’s stomach. Dark stains marked where his mother had… where she’d… His mind shied away from the image, refusing to process what he’d just witnessed. The violence. The suddenness. The final, terrible sound.

“Move,” Silas growled, yanking harder when Estaria’s feet dragged.

Estaria’s legs felt like lead. Each step toward the altar brought him closer to the reality of what had happened. Klindon. His mother. The woman who’d shaped his entire life through manipulation and control. Gone. Just… gone.

Relief warred with horror in his chest. She’d hurt so many people. Tolomy. The forced trades. Angel… But she’d also taught him to read, sitting patiently beside him as he struggled with difficult words. She’d made his favorite apple tarts when he was sick. She’d been proud when he learned to manage the farm’s accounts.

His vision blurred. Tears? Or shock? He couldn’t tell anymore.

“She deserved it,” Silas muttered, more to himself than Estaria. “The forest knows. It always knows.”

The words barely registered. Estaria’s mind kept circling back to that final moment. The look in her eyes when she realized she’d lost control. Had she thought of him? Of his father? Of all the schemes and plans that would die with her? Or had there only been room for fear at the end?

Moonlight caught the symbols carved into the altar stone as they drew closer. Some areas gleamed wetly in the pale light. Estaria’s gorge rose. He tried to pull away, but Silas’s grip was relentless.

Estaria’s head swam as Leona’s voice cut through the night. Each word seemed to come from far away, muffled by the rushing in his ears. His mother’s broken body lay scattered mere feet away, and his stomach lurched at the coppery scent of blood mixing with pine.

“Don’t Silas. You don’t have to do this.”

Leona emerged from the shadows like a ghost, her shoulders slumped in defeat. Moonlight caught the silver in her hair, making it shimmer as she moved. Her usual warmth had vanished, replaced by something raw and desperate.

“Not him too. He’s more than the others were.”

Others? Estaria’s mind latched onto the word, trying to make sense of it through the fog of shock. How many others had there been? How many had Silas dragged to this altar in the night?

Silas’s grip tightened painfully on Estaria’s arm as he whirled to face Leona. Rage contorted his features into something barely human. “It doesn’t matter if he’s different!”

The scout’s free hand swept toward the bloody ground where Klindon had stood moments before. “She was obviously unworthy! We have a duty, and Streacresh will not be denied by the pleas of the weak!”

Estaria’s legs nearly gave out as Silas yanked him forward again. The altar loomed closer, its ancient stone reflecting dull red in the moonlight. His boots scraped against loose gravel, sending small cascades of pebbles skittering into darkness.

Memories of warm bread and gentle conversations in Leona’s bakery clashed with the horror of the present moment. She’d known. All along, she’d known what waited at the end of this journey. Each kind word, each shared meal - had it all been preparation for this?

The familiar scent of yeast and flour still clung to her clothes, incongruous with the violence surrounding them. That same scent had once meant safety, comfort. Now it twisted his stomach as brutally as the blood-soaked earth before him.

Silas resumed dragging him toward the altar, each step bringing them closer to whatever fate had claimed his mother. The weathered stone seemed to pulse in the darkness, hungry for more sacrifice. More blood. More death.

Movement behind Leona drew Estaria’s attention. Orin materialized from the darkness, his weathered face grave in the moonlight. He placed a calloused hand on Leona’s shoulder, and she clasped it, turning to face him with tears in her eyes.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you too.” Orin’s voice was rough with emotion as he bent to kiss her.

Something about their tender exchange cut through the fog of horror in Estaria’s mind. As Orin strode toward them, determination straightened his spine. He wouldn’t die here, not like his mother. Not like this. Estaria thrashed against Silas’s grip, no longer paralyzed by shock.

They stood at the foot of the blood-stained altar now, its ancient stone seeming to pulse with malevolent hunger. Orin reached them in three long strides, his presence solid and reassuring. Without ceremony, he pried Silas’s fingers from Estaria’s arm and turned the younger man to face him. With one powerful shove, he sent Silas stumbling backward.

Fury twisted Silas’s features, but he made no move to fight. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides as he glared at Orin.

“You don’t understand what we do, boy,” Orin said, his eyes fixed on Estaria. “The Creshers’ duty is to hear Streacresh’s words, but it can’t speak to humans. Not normally.” He gestured toward the dark stains on the ground. “We bring those who won’t be missed, those who might serve a greater purpose as Streacresh’s mouthpiece.”

The implications of his words hit Estaria like a physical blow. How many had died here? How many had the Creshers sacrificed in their quest to hear Streacresh’s voice?

“But you’re different.” Orin’s expression softened as he glanced back at Leona, who wept openly now, her tears gleaming in the moonlight. His gaze hardened again when it landed on Silas, who still seethed with barely contained rage.

“I will protect you,” Orin declared, his voice firm with conviction. “Just make sure you make it all worth it, okay?”

Estaria’s heart pounded as Orin squeezed his shoulder, the older man’s weathered hand steady and warm against his cloak. The gesture felt final, like a father’s farewell to a son. Orin turned away, his boots crunching on loose gravel as he approached the blood-stained altar.

“Streacresh,” Orin called out, his voice clear and strong in the night air. “Take me instead of the boy. I offer myself freely.”

The pressure in the air returned, but different this time. Instead of the violent storm-front feeling that had preceded Klindon’s death, this felt like a gentle summer breeze. The pines swayed softly, their needles whispering secrets to the night.

Vines emerged from the darkness between the trees once more, but these moved with an almost reverent grace. They approached Orin like old friends, wrapping around his arms and legs with delicate care. Where they had crushed and torn Klindon, they now pierced Orin’s skin with something approaching tenderness.

Orin’s scream shattered the quiet night. The sound drove daggers into Estaria’s heart - not just for the pain it conveyed, but for the sacrifice it represented. The vines manipulated Orin’s body with gentle precision, turning him to face Estaria.

Behind them, Leona collapsed. Her legs gave out and she crumpled to the ground, her sobs echoing off the stone faces of the pass. The sound of her grief mixed with the whisper of pine needles and the soft rustle of vines.

Then came the voice.

It emerged from Orin’s throat, but it wasn’t his voice. It wasn’t any voice that should exist in the natural world. It scraped against Estaria’s ears like metal on stone, yet somehow carried the softness of falling leaves. It rang with the depth of ancient caves and sparkled like sunlight on morning dew. It was everything and nothing, beautiful and terrible all at once.

“Resonant one. You may enter the forest.”

The vines lowered Orin’s body to the ground with the same gentle care they had shown in claiming him. They laid him before the altar, arranging his limbs with dignity, before retreating back into the darkness of the forest.

Leona’s grief filled the sudden silence. Her sobs had transformed into keening wails that seemed to come from the depths of her soul. The sound cut through Estaria’s shock, reminding him that this sacrifice - this gift - had cost more than just one life. It had severed a bond of love that had weathered decades of hardship and secrets.

The air still hummed with the echo of that impossible voice, but now it was just the night, the pines, and the sound of a woman’s heart breaking beneath the cold light of the moon.

Estaria’s chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing. The night air felt thick, almost suffocating, as his mind raced to make sense of his mother’s final words. “I beat you.” The phrase bounced around in his skull, a puzzle piece that refused to fit.

He lifted his gaze to the dark forest looming before him. Those words - “Resonant one” - stirred something deep within him, a pull he’d felt but never understood. The forest called to him, had been calling him all along. His mother had somehow known, had raced here thinking… what? That she could claim whatever power waited in those depths?

A memory ambushed him: his mother’s fingers smoothing his hair back from his forehead, her voice humming an old lullaby as she tucked him in. The gentleness of that touch contrasted sharply with the violence of her end. His throat tightened, but he forced the memory away. He couldn’t afford to feel that now. Not here. Not yet.

His hand drifted to the ledger, its familiar weight a constant reminder against his chest. The green cover held so many secrets - trades, disappearances, and now this connection to the Creshers. It all linked back to Streacresh somehow. His mother had known about the Creshers, had known what they did here in the dark.

The sound of Leona’s grief drew his attention, and he turned. His eyes caught movement a hundred paces or so back toward the caravan. Silas. His anger evident even from behind, at this distance.

His eyes shifted toward Leona kneeling in the blood-soaked earth next to Orin, her shoulders shaking with sobs. When she raised her face to his, moonlight caught the tears streaming down her cheeks. Her anguish was real, raw - but so was her betrayal.

Estaria’s mouth opened, words forming on his tongue. But what could he say? Every warm moment in her bakery, every shared smile and gentle conversation, had led to this altar. To Orin’s sacrifice. To his mother’s death. The weight of that deception crushed whatever words he might have spoken.

His shoulders slumped under the burden of too many betrayals. His head dropped, unable to bear the sight of what remained of his mother, of Orin’s carefully arranged body, of Leona’s grief-stricken face. Without another word, he turned away from it all and walked into the waiting darkness of Streacresh Forest.

The pines swallowed him whole, their ancient shadows welcoming him into their embrace.