Riverwood Monday, 21st Stonary 1540
Dawn broke, gray and quiet. The first rays slipped through the slits on the wooden walls, brushing across Finn's straw mattress.
His eyes snapped open.
"Morning already?"
He didn't linger. He stretched, feeling his joints pop, and swung his legs onto the floorboards. The wood was cold and uneven—he knew exactly which board would creak if he stepped on it, so he stepped over it.
The memory of Old Thom's voice was still echoing in his head. About the Ancient Nerus Kingdom. About the Heroes.
A grin tugged at Finn's lips.
"Today's the day," he whispered. "I'm going to explore the forest deeper."
He walked to the corner. The clay water urn was half full. It was enough for today. He splashed the freezing water over his face, the shock sharp enough to wash away the last of his dreams.
He turned to the table.
It was the centerpiece of his life. Rough parchment lay spread across the wood, covered in charcoal lines. Finn had spent countless nights here, hunched over by candlelight, mapping the world as he knew it.
To the north, the Mountain. To the west, the River. To the south, the road to the unknown.
But his eyes went straight to the East. The Forest.
He had charted the outskirts with obsessive detail. Where the wild mint grew. Where the berries ripened in late autumn. The specific tracks of the boars. He believed that if you listened to the land, it would speak to you.
But today, he wasn't looking at what he knew. He was looking at the mark he had made yesterday.
A bold, charcoal X.
It sat just past the safe zone, deep in the trees. The Warriors whispered about that ridge, calling it bad ground. Finn called it a place for him to explore.
He grabbed his stool—the only seat he owned—and pulled it over. When he worked, it was a chair. When he ate, it was a table. He never risked getting grease on his maps.
On the stool lay a chunk of bread and a wedge of cheese wrapped in cloth. Lisa had given it to him.
Finn smiled, a genuine warmth reaching his eyes. Lisa was Thom's daughter, older and wiser. She was the one who had put a book in his hands and taught him that symbols on paper meant words. Without her, these maps would be nothing but scribbles.
"I need to bring her something," he murmured. "Something rare from the woods."
He ate quickly, slicing the cheese with his hunting knife. The blade was old iron, the handle worn smooth by years of grip. It wasn't one of the shining hero-blades from the stories, but it was balanced, and he kept the edge razor-sharp.
He finished, wrapped the leftovers, and shoved them into his leather satchel along with his water flask.
He took a final look around the hut.
It was empty, mostly. A broken shelf held his only treasures: a perfectly smooth river stone, a wooden horse Old Thom had carved for him when he was five, and a bundle of dried herbs curing in the air. On the wall hung a spare shirt and his tools.
Humble things. But they were his.
"Alright," he said, pulling the strap over his shoulder.
He looked at the map one last time. At the X.
"Let's see what's out there."
He tightened his gear, checked his knife, and pushed open the door.
Finn stepped out into the cool morning air, leaving the safety of his hut behind as the village began to wake.
Outside, the village was already moving.
Farmers marched toward the southern fields, baskets and hoes resting on their shoulders like weapons. Fishermen headed west to the Silver River, nets bundled tight, their steps heavy with the morning routine.
Usually, Finn would be with them. He fixed roofs, hauled timber, or cleared rocks for coin. But not today. He had saved enough to buy himself time.
Today belonged to his curiosity.
He took the long path through the center of the village. He wanted to feel the life here before he stepped into the silence of the woods.
"Heading out again, Finn?"
It was Graham, an old farmer leaning over his fence to catch his breath. His back was permanently bent, shaped by sixty years of tilling soil.
Finn slowed down. "Just scouting, Graham. Checking the edge."
Graham wiped sweat from his brow. "Keep your eyes open, lad. The woods aren't as friendly as these fields. The wind smells wrong today."
"I will," Finn said. He felt a knot of nerves tighten in his stomach, but he kept his voice steady. "Thanks for the warning."
He moved on. Two children darted past him, screaming with joy, swinging sticks like swords. One stopped just long enough to wave.
"Find us a treasure, Finn!"
"Maybe I will," Finn grinned. The boy cheered and ran off to slay imaginary dragons.
Finn passed the blacksmith's hut next. The rhythmic clang-clang-clang of iron on steel rang through the air.
Thora, the apprentice, was already at the anvil. She was eighteen, arms corded with muscle, striking a glowing bar of metal. Finn watched her for a second. She was strong, but she was hitting too hard, deforming the metal instead of shaping it.
She caught his eye. She gave a sharp nod, not missing a beat. Finn nodded back. Thora wasn't one for morning conversation.
Near the edge of the houses, a woman swept her porch. She looked up as Finn's shadow passed.
"Don't stray too far," she called out. It was half a warning, half habit.
"I'll keep close," Finn lied politely.
He then make a U-turn. He was walking back toward the east. By the time he reached the road to the East Gate, Riverwood was fully awake. Chimneys smoked. Voices carried. It was peaceful.
How long will this peace last? He wondered.
Finn reached the East Gate.
He stopped for a moment, looking at the defensive wall.
Under the bright sunlight, it was clear that the wall was a mess. Logs of different ages lashed together with hemp rope that was already fraying. Gaps between the wood were plugged with mud and branches. It was enough to stop a wild animal, maybe.
But against something real, like the beast? It was kindling.
Finn looked at the gate. Two guards stood at the gate. Spears planted.
One of them stepped forward—Xabi.
He was a "Warrior"—one of the few trained to fight. He was tall, broad, and considered the strongest of the younger generation. He held his spear across the path, his knuckles white.
"Finn," Xabi said, his voice low. "Don't go deep today."
Finn frowned. The tone wasn't right. "Why? Did something happen?"
"We heard things early this morning," Xabi said. He glanced toward the tree line. "Noises. Heavy ones. Deeper than the usual wolves."
Finn studied Xabi's face. Xabi didn't spook easily. If he was worried, something was wrong.
"Strange how?" Finn asked.
"Strange like something dragging itself," Xabi muttered. "Just… stay near the edge. It's not worth the risk."
"I see…" Finn murmured. He adjusted his satchel strap. "I'll be careful. Just a quick look."
Xabi hesitated, staring at the dark line of the forest, then stepped aside. "Alright. But keep your knife loose."
"I will. Thanks, Xabi."
Finn walked past him, stepping through the gate.
His pulse quickened as he recalled Xabi's warning. The safety of the village was behind him now. Ahead, the shadows of the Whispering Forest waited, silent and watching.
It was a dark green wall stretching across the horizon. Between the East Gate and the first line of trees lay three hundred meters of open ground.
The villagers called this space as the "Dead Zone."
Not a single hut, shed, or fence broke the emptiness. Old Thom had explained it to him once: You don't give the enemy cover.
If a beast—or something worse—came out of those woods, the guards needed clear lines of sight to bring it down before it reached the village.
Finn walked the dirt path. The grass on either side was tall, swaying in the breeze, dotted with wildflowers that looked innocent against the dark backdrop of the trees.
He scanned the ground as he walked.
Halfway to the edge, his eyes caught a cluster of brown shapes under a leaning rock.
Finn crouched. Oak-cap mushrooms.
He ran a finger over the smooth caps. Firm. No rot.
"Edible," he murmured. "Good find."
He knew this because of the Village Law. For generations, the Chiefs had ordered every Warrior to bring back more than just trophies. They had to bring back knowledge. Maps, sketches, notes on what killed you and what kept you alive. Finn had read every dusty scroll in the village hall twice.
He harvested the mushrooms quickly. A few steps later, he found Fever Leaf growing in a ditch. Good for lowering temperatures. He pulled them up, shook off the dirt, and tucked them into his satchel.
He was close to the tree line now. The air grew colder. That was when he heard the sound.
Snap.
Finn froze. He knew it wasn't the wind. The sound was too sharp. Too deliberate.
His hand drifted to the knife at his belt.
Movement on my right. Low to the ground, he calculated. Rabbit?
The next second, the grass parted. A rabbit darted into view. It wasn't a monster, it was one of the wild animals. But it was large—a wild buck with mottled brown fur and a scar across one ear.
It hissed, clearly startled, baring its yellow teeth.
Finn stopped. He didn't reach for his weapon immediately. He needed to watch first.
"Are you going to attack me or willing to become my food?" he provoked. Somehow, he believed that the animals here understood whatever the human said. "Quick. Let me know your decision."
The rabbit didn't run. Instead, it lowered its head. Its hind legs dug into the dirt, the muscles bunching up under the fur. It was coiled tight, shaking slightly with tension.
It is going to attack, Finn realized. It's going to jump.
He had seen this before with stray dogs and wild boars. When an animal stopped moving and dipped its weight like that, it was committing. It could only move in one direction: forward.
The rabbit launched itself. A brown blur aiming for his shins.
Finn didn't panic. He didn't overthink it. He simply watched the timing.
Now.
He pivoted on his back foot, twisting his torso just enough to step out of the path. At the same moment, his right hand moved.
SWOOSH.
The iron blade caught the rabbit in mid-air.
It was a clean hit. The rabbit hit the ground with a wet thud, rolled once, and went still.
Finn stood there, breathing steadily. His heart was hammering a little, but his hands were steady. He wasn't a Warrior. He hated the drills and the shouting. But he had good eyes and reflex. He noticed the small things—like the way a rabbit tensed before it struck.
He crouched and picked up the carcass by its hind legs.
"Good size," he muttered, weighing it in his hand. "That's dinner sorted."
He made a quick incision to drain the blood—predators could smell a fresh kill from a mile away—and tied the prize to his satchel.
He turned back to the forest.
The first trees rose above him, trunks thick as castle pillars, knotted with age.
Finn crossed the threshold.
The transition was instant. The sounds of the village—the distant hammers, the wind in the grass—vanished. The canopy above was so thick it strangled the sun, allowing only thin, broken beams to touch the forest floor.
The air smelled of damp moss and rotting wood.
Thrum… Thrum…
The leaves rustled with a strange rhythm. It sounded like whispering. Like a thousand quiet voices debating whether or not he was welcome here.
Memorize the path, Finn reminded himself. He glanced back, fixing the shape of the tree line in his mind. Moss on the left. Crooked oak on the right.
He slowed down. His chest tightened.
It wasn't fear, exactly. It was the weight of the line he had just crossed. Behind him was safety. Bread, cheese, Lisa's smile, the uneven floor of his hut. Ahead was the dark. The risk. The unknown.
He stood there, caught between the two worlds.
If I go back, nothing changes, he thought. I'll be the old man telling stories about places I never visited.
He touched the map in his satchel. The bold X he had marked.
A small, wry smile touched his lips.
"Let's do this."
He took a breath, filling his lungs with the cold, damp air. He pushed through a wall of ferns until he found it.
A narrow trail. It was barely visible, swallowed by roots and thorny undergrowth, as if the forest was trying to heal the wound.
"Where do you lead?" he whispered, brushing aside a low branch. "Maybe somewhere new."
He hesitated for only a heartbeat. Then, Finn stepped onto the forgotten trail and disappeared into the shadows.