At the edge of an ancient, dark, misty forest sat the village of Isanthan. It was not a small village, nor a sprawling city, but just large enough to be a place where many travelers heading to the capital would stop to trade their wares or rest at the inn. What those travelers did not know, or even suspect, was that the village’s prosperity—its fertile lands and flourishing farms—was bought with an old pact. It thrived far more than most of the other villages on the road to the capital, and all because of a dark secret.
For that ancient, dark, misty forest housed an equally ancient spirit. It was a spirit that slept for twenty years at a time. A deal was struck upon the founding of the village some hundred years ago with its founding fathers—a group of thirty settlers, mainly farmers and tradesmen, who had set out from the capital to find a place to make a home for themselves and their kin.
When they first found the land Isanthan sits on now, it was a warm mid-summer’s day. The settlers discovered a strong river flowing from deep within the forest, the surrounding land was fairly flat, and resources like timber were easy to harvest. So, they set out to build their new home, chopping and sawing the trees at the edge of the woods.
With resources in abundance, the carpenters and masons made short work of building their homes and village walls, taking exactly three years. It was a modest settlement at the time: just a few homes, a few barns and warehouses, and a town hall. On the last day of the third winter in their new village, just as spring was encroaching, a faint light flickered deep within the forest. It glowed with an eerie blue aura, slowly making its way through the trees and the thick mist.
One of the volunteer guardsmen, who was walking the wall closest to the forest, spotted the glow just as the last winter sun set behind the forest’s canopy. He called to the other guard to come and see the light slowly moving through the trees. As they watched in awe, a figure began to take shape in the center of the glow.
It began to take the form of a woman. She had long black hair that draped along the forest floor behind her, and she wore a long, silvery gown that seemed to blend into the ground itself. As she approached the village wall, she looked up at the two guardsmen. A look of shock, or perhaps disbelief, was etched onto their faces; either way, they were frozen in place, staring down at her.
She stood there for a moment, staring deeply into the two guards’ eyes. She reached out with one hand towards the wooden wall, gently running her fingers along the grooves of the bark still attached to the timber. “I knew this tree,” she said softly. “I planted her, nourished her, spoke with her often… Now, she is silent.”
She looked up again at the two guards, who were now leaning over the wall to watch her. “Did you ask if she wanted to be turned into a wall?”
The guards looked at each other, and then one looked down at the woman. “We did not know this forest was owned by anyone, M’lady,” he shouted down to her.
She continued to caress the wall, slowly heading towards the main gate. She watched her fingers rise and fall over the bark of the trees, until her fingers ran over a trail of soft resin. She followed it up the wall with her eyes to an iron spike nail that had been hammered into the wood. The sap trickled down like blood from a cut.
She looked up at the two guards as they followed her movements. Her eyes began to glow red, and the once-soft blue aura about her began to pulsate with a crimson heat. The guards looked at each other and placed their hands onto the handles of the swords at their waists.
Before their steel could clear the leather sheaths, a gust of freezing mist slammed into them. The first guard went down hard, the air knocked from his lungs as the woman suddenly was on top of the guard, pinning him to the wooden walkway. She had one hand on his chest and the other upon his throat. She looked up at the second guard, her gaze piercing into his soul and freezing him in place. His hand trembled violently on the hilt of his sword.
“Who said you can hurt my children!” she growled, tightening her grip on the guard’s throat until he made a choking, gurgling noise.
“We… we… we did not know they were your children,” the other guard stuttered, watching in sheer terror as the woman choked his companion.
She looked down at the guard in her grasp, feeling his pulse racing under her fingers. “Go. Tell whomever you call your lord and master that Gatlera of the Deep Forest has awoken, and retribution must be paid. If your people wish to live and prosper in my lands, then a debt must be settled.” She rose, towering over the fallen guard. “The heart of an innocent must be given to me! If in four days this debt is not paid with the heart… My children will nourish the land with the blood and flesh of every villager in these walls!” she foretold, walking to the edge of the wall.
She turned back to the two guards, watching the one help his companion to his feet. “Four days. Do not test my wrath!”
The guards looked up at Gatlera as she stood with her arm outstretched, a long, bony finger pointing directly at them. A thick mist began to form at her feet, slowly swirling around her. Just as it engulfed her fully, the words of her warning echoed once more, and then she vanished. The mist flowed silently back toward the forest.
This was the village’s first encounter with Gatlera. With heavy hearts, the village sent their first offering: the son of one of the farmers was sent into the forest. His parents wept, cursing Gatlera’s name as they watched their son fade into the mist.
For a century, every twenty years, the village elders select at random one family to provide one child to venture into the woods. It is now the year for the village to select a child to head into the mist once again.
The elders had chosen Darin Blackhammer’s son, Adilos. Darin, who had raised his son alone since the passing of his wife during childbirth, was approached by Henrik, the current governor of Isanthan.
“Darin, I am here to advise you that in two days… Adilos is to venture into the woods,” Henrik said with a solemn tone, placing a hand onto Darin’s shoulder.
Darin turned toward Henrik’s voice, tears swelling in his eyes. “Have I not given enough to this village, Henrik? My wife, my sight, now you ask me to forsake my only child to death?”
Darin had lost his sight in a freak blacksmith accident when Henrik’s son, working as his apprentice, dropped a bucket of water too close to the open furnace, sending scalding steam into his face, burning his eyes and taking his sight.
“Darin, I am sorry,” Henrik said, sitting down beside him. “The elders pulled your name from the box of names. Everyone’s name is in that box, even mine.” He rested his hand on Darin’s shoulder once again. “Maybe, you should prepare Adilos,” Henrik whispered as a few fellow villagers passed by. “The guards will be back in two mornings to guide him to the woods’ edge… Maybe…”
“Enough, Henrik! Leave me! Tell me no more of what you think I should do with my son that the elders chose to sacrifice!” Darin growled as he stood up and slammed his walking stick to the ground with a heavy thud.
“Very well, Darin… I will leave you be. My condolences again, my friend,” Henrik mournfully said as he stood up and left Darin’s porch.
Darin could hear the thudding of Henrik’s footsteps slowly moving away from his porch. He gripped his staff, squeezing it so tightly that his knuckles turned white as the blood was forced from his skin. He sat there, the midday sunlight warming his face. “I cannot… Nay, I will not sacrifice Adilos to that witch!”
It was now the second morning, the day for Adilos to venture into the woods. He was the youngest child to be sacrificed for Gatlera’s debt. The guards knocked on Darin’s door, their slow, heavy thuds echoing through the silent house. They beckoned for Darin to bring Adilos out.
Darin opened the door, blocking the guards from entering as he stood in the doorway. Trying to stop his son from leaving, he felt Adilos’s hand gently rest on top of his own.
“It will be fine, father… I will see mother soon, and the village will be safe,” Adilos said softly. He gently moved Darin’s hand from the frame, opened the door wider, and walked outside.
Darin tried to hide the pain, the sadness, and the breaking of his heart, but it was too much. Listening to the sounds of Adilos’s boots walking out of their home, down the porch, and down the steps, each thud felt like a nail being hammered into his chest. Unable to bear it, he collapsed in the doorway.
Adilos stopped just at the edge of the pathway from their home. He turned and saw his father sitting on the floor in the doorway, his head held low as he leaned against the frame, one hand on the floor in front of him and the other holding his walking stick up.
“One day, father, you will see me and mother again… We will always be with you,” Adilos shouted as the guards gently guided him back toward the road and toward the main gate.
Darin sat there for a while, tears dripping onto the wooden floor with silent splashes. The morning sunlight, just breaking over the village walls, sliced through the fading misty morning air and shone down onto him. He could not sit there any longer; he could not let his son be so resigned to this fate. He pulled himself up with his walking stick, turned back into his house, and slammed the door shut.
Adilos stood before the dark misty forest, for a young man of only fourteen, he was braver than most men twice his age. He heard the stories growing up of the witch in the woods, that a child of the village will have to venture into her dark, misty, woodland home. Never to be seen or heard from again. He always told everyone that if he was chosen, he would go into the woods and slay the witch. He would set the people of the village free of her dark pact.
He looked back at the village gates, a few of his friends stood there with their parents and the guards. One of the guards had slid a small dagger into Adilos’s hand as he passed through the gates, “So you don’t have to go alone.” he whispered. As he turned back towards the woods, he held the dagger out into the sunlight, its silvery blade glinted in the light. There just at the base of the blade, just above the hilt, an engraving could be seen.
“D.B.” Adilos whispered, “Father…” He tightened his grip around the hilt, took a deep breath, stood up tall, then began his lonely march into the misty woods.
As Adilos faded into the mist, the silence of the onlookers broke. His friends and their parents turned back towards the village, whispered words of relief, and how happy their child was not chosen, were exchanged as life in the village seemed to return to everyday life.
Except before them stood Darin, he had heard their whispers of relief and excitement that their children were spared. Though he could not see their expressions, he could feel the unease in the air. “I am happy for you all, Adilos saved you and your kith. My son, may be gone from me for now, will be more brave, more caring, and more noble than any of your offspring and their offspring.” With those final words Darin pushed through the people who he once called friends.
Tapping his walking stick on the dirt path he made his way to the gate. The guard who slipped Adilos his dagger reached out and grabbed Darin by his arm. “Darin, I gave Adilos the dagger you made for my son. I could not let Adilos take this task alone, you may not be with him physically but know you are with him in the spirit of steel.” he whispered.
Darin placed his hand over the guard’s hand on his arm. “Thank you, Felton… Thank you for giving my son a glimmer of hope on his dark path,” he whispered, before continuing toward the gate.
“Where are you going, Darin?” Felton asked, finally noticing the travel pack slung over the blacksmith’s broad shoulders.
“There is nothing left for me here, my friend,” Darin called back, his voice steady as he stepped past the threshold and down the dirt path leading away from Isanthan. Felton watched until Darin’s silhouette disappeared over the horizon. He understood, nodded quietly, and returned to his post.
Deep within the forest, Adilos moved through the mist as silent as a butterfly’s wing. His boots made no sound as he weaved through the dense undergrowth, minding every step, disturbing nothing. He moved with the calculated grace of a seasoned hunter stalking his prey.
Then, a faint blue glow flickered in the distance, hazy in the fog, slowly dimming and brightening.
“Ah, I can feel you out there, young one. Come to the light. There is no need to hide in the darkness of my home,” a voice broke through the silence. Gatlera’s voice was soft, warm, and welcoming. A false warmth washed over Adilos, mimicking the feeling of being wrapped in a heavy winter blanket. “Come now, child. Step out so I can see you.”
Adilos’s heart pounded against his ribs like a trapped bird, but his grip on the dagger remained absolute. He crept closer to the blue glow.
“Ah, there you are… Such a handsome young soul,” Gatlera hissed as her form solidified. Her long black hair whipped through the air like dancing serpents, and her eyes burned with a deep, fiery red glow. “Kneel, child. I will make this painless and quick… Your blood will slake the hunger of my children.”
Adilos stood tall in the mist, staring directly into her crimson eyes. “I will not kneel before a monster,” he whispered. In the dead quiet of the woods, his words roared like thunder.
Gatlera snarled, lunging forward in a gale of freezing wind and sharp mists designed to break his resolve. But Adilos didn’t flinch. He didn’t scream.
He threw himself forward, slipping beneath her reaching clutched fingers, and drove the silver blade straight into the pulsating crimson light at her chest.
The dagger sank to the hilt. The engraved D.B. flashed with blinding, furnace-hot heat.
The curse of Isanthan ended not with a cataclysmic explosion, but with a sharp, gasping intake of air. Gatlera’s form unspooled, her red eyes shattering into soft, harmless blue sparks before melting entirely into the damp moss. Around him, the suffocating weight lifted. The ancient mist unraveled from the trunks, letting bright, ordinary sunlight pierce the forest floor for the first time in a century.
The next morning, the village of Isanthan awoke to a clear horizon. The eternal fog was gone. In the town square, Henrik and the elders gathered in frantic, sweating huddles, terrified that the missing mist meant Gatlera was preparing a terrible reckoning. The villagers clutched their children, trapped in a prison of their own cowardice, waiting for a wrath that no longer existed.
They would spend the rest of their lives hoarding their gold and guarding their walls against a dead ghost. They did not deserve the peace of the truth.
Miles away, well beyond the sight of the village walls, Adilos stepped out of the sunlit tree line and onto the open road to the capital. Waiting on a stone by the wayside was Darin.
Hearing the familiar, light tread of his son’s boots, the blind blacksmith stood up, a profound smile breaking across his weathered face. Adilos slipped the clean silver dagger back into his belt, walked up, and took his father’s hand. Together, in perfect, beautiful silence, they turned their backs on Isanthan and walked into the morning sun.