Chapter 2 — Whispers of the Wailing Forest
Alana Mercer
The Wailing Forest loomed ahead like a living thing, its skeletal trees standing sentinel under the ashen sky. The wind howled through the twisted branches, carrying a mournful, almost human-like wail that clawed at the edges of Alana’s sanity. Each step into its shadowed depths felt like crossing an invisible threshold, the air thickening with an oppressive weight that pressed down on her chest.
The snow at the forest’s edge gave way to boggy, uneven ground as she ventured deeper, her boots sinking with each step. The path—or what little remained of it—was choked with glowing fungal blooms, their faint blue light casting an eerie shimmer across the gnarled roots of the trees. A sharp chemical tang mingled with the damp, earthy scent of decay, and Alana wrinkled her nose, her grip tightening on the worn handle of her knife.
Her amber eyes darted to every flicker of movement in the shadows, every rustle of unseen predators. The forest seemed to close in around her, its twisted branches reaching like skeletal fingers toward the steel-gray sky. Her left arm throbbed faintly, the dull ache a constant, unwelcome companion. She adjusted the strap of her pack, focusing instead on the crunch of her boots and the faint whistle of the wind as it wove through the trees.
The Wailing Forest was no mere wilderness. It was a place of exile and despair, a natural barrier no sane being dared cross unprepared. Stories of travelers swallowed whole by its depths weren’t just tales—they were truths etched into the memories of those who lived on its fringes. But Alana had no intention of heeding warnings. She was here for the Ruined Lycanthian Temple and the relic Rurik had spoken of: the Skull.
Her breath misted in the biting cold as she pushed deeper into the forest’s maw. The twisted trees seemed to lean closer, as if conspiring to keep her from turning back. It wasn’t long before the whispers began.
At first, they were faint, like the sigh of the wind through the brittle branches. Indistinct. Easy to dismiss. But as the forest tightened its grip, the whispers thickened, brushing against her mind like cobwebs. Words she couldn’t quite decipher tangled at the edge of her hearing, tantalizing and maddening all at once.
She shook her head sharply, trying to will them away, but they clung to her, growing louder with every step. Her pulse quickened, and a prickle of unease crawled up her spine.
The hallucinations came next.
A flicker of movement to her left made her whirl, knife raised, only to find nothing but the faint glow of the fungi and the skeletal trees swaying in the wind. She forced herself to take a calming breath, though her chest heaved with tension. When she turned back to the path, her blood iced over.
A figure stood there, shrouded in mist and shadow. Their features were obscured, but something about the figure pierced her.
“Rurik?” she called, her voice hoarse and unsteady.
The figure didn’t respond. It lingered for a moment, impossibly still, before dissolving into the mist.
Her breath hitched, and her knife trembled in her grip. She swallowed hard and forced herself forward, her resolve hardening even as her heart pounded against her ribs.
The forest mocked her determination.
Another flicker of movement caught her eye, and this time, she saw them clearly—faces she couldn’t forget. Her packmates. The ones she’d lost.
They stood among the trees, pale and silent, their hollow eyes fixed on her. Their faces were etched with an otherworldly light, their expressions unreadable but heavy with accusation.
The memory surged, raw and blinding.
The hunt. The snarling beast. The snap of bone and the unrelenting pain as its jaws crushed her arm. She clutched her mangled left limb reflexively, as if the moment replayed itself in her body. The sharp sting of humiliation burned deeper than scars. The whispers had followed her then too, her packmates’ murmurs of judgment. The way they averted their eyes. The weight of her exile.
Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. The faces blurred and shifted, melting into the shadows.
“Enough,” she growled under her breath, her voice cutting through the cacophony like a blade.
The whispers retreated, fading to a dull hum, but her heart still raced. She forced her thoughts to the present, focusing on the faint path carved into the muck, on the glowing fungi, on every twisted root she stepped over. Her knife gleamed faintly in the dim light, her only constant in this living nightmare.
A sharp crack shattered the quiet—a twig snapping under weight.
This time, it wasn’t a hallucination.
A low growl rumbled from the shadows, vibrating through her chest. Alana turned slowly, knife raised, as a pair of glowing eyes emerged from the gloom.
The creature stepped into the light of the fungi, and her stomach clenched.
It was a wolf—or what had once been a wolf. Its patchy, matted fur barely clung to its grotesquely elongated limbs. Black veins pulsed beneath its pallid skin, radiating from its chest like a web of corruption. Its eyes burned with an unnatural, malevolent light.
It wasn’t alone.
Three more creatures emerged behind it, their movements graceful yet sickeningly wrong, like predators warped by something far worse than nature.
Alana tightened her grip on the knife, her pulse thundering in her ears. Her left arm throbbed mercilessly, but she pushed the pain aside, locking her stance as the lead wolf lunged.
Its jaws snapped inches from her face as she twisted to the side, her knife slashing across its flank. It barely registered the wound, rounding on her with a snarling ferocity that sent chills down her spine.
She danced backward, her movements quick but stiff. The wolves circled her like vultures around a dying thing, testing her defenses. One darted in, teeth grazing her thigh before she drove her blade into its neck. It let out a strangled yelp before crumpling to the ground.
Another wolf lunged, its claws raking across her shoulder. Pain flared, white-hot and searing, but she turned the momentum to her advantage, plunging her knife into its side. The creature stumbled back with a pained howl, but the others didn’t relent.
Her breath came in gasps, her vision swimming with fatigue and pain. Blood seeped from her wounds, her strength waning with every moment.
The lead wolf lunged again, and she met it head-on. Her knife sank into its chest, and this time she twisted it, the wolf’s snarls fading into a wet gurgle as it collapsed.
The final wolf hesitated, its burning gaze flicking between her and its fallen packmates. For a moment, Alana thought it might retreat.
Then it charged.
She sidestepped its initial attack, her knife slashing through its side. The creature let out a final, pitiful whine before crumpling to the ground.
Alana staggered back, chest heaving as the adrenaline ebbed, leaving only exhaustion and pain. Her knife slipped from her bloodied fingers.
The forest fell silent.
Her gaze drifted to the twisted bodies at her feet, their black-veined flesh glistening faintly in the fungi’s glow. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to her feet. The scent of blood would draw more predators soon. She couldn’t afford to linger.
Each step was agony as she stumbled through the trees, her surroundings a blur of shadow and glowing blue light. She didn’t stop until she reached it—a massive, hollowed-out tree with roots twisting like claws into the earth.
The Whispering Oak.
Collapsing inside, Alana leaned against the rough bark, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Her body screamed for rest, but the forest didn’t allow peace. Its presence pressed against her mind, a constant, suffocating weight.
Sleep came slowly, fitful and filled with shadows. Her dreams were no respite.
In the darkness, a figure emerged. Its silver eyes burned cold and piercing, anchoring her in its presence.
“Deeper,” it whispered, its voice a low, haunting caress. “You must go deeper.”
When Alana awoke, the forest was still. The faint glow of the fungi pulsed outside the oak’s hollow, a reminder of the curse that plagued this land.
But the shadow’s voice lingered in her mind, chilling and resolute. Her journey had only just begun.
