The fire crackled low, the kind that doesn't promise warmth so much as it bargains for it. Smoke coiled upward, chasing the stars through the pine boughs. I stirred the embers with a stick that used to be a spear shaft and watched the sparks drift like lost fireflies.
"See, that's the thing about beasts," I said.
The squirrel on the log didn't answer. It just blinked, tail flicking, crumbs of my dried bread clutched in its paws like treasure.
"They don't kill for glory. Don't write songs about it afterward. They kill because the world says eat or be eaten." I leaned back against my pack, the leather creaking. "Most men like to think they're better than that. I stopped pretending a long time ago."
I gazed up at the stars. "Beasts are easier to understand anyway. Nothing beats the simple things like this." I gestured at the forest around me. The squirrel twitched, staring like it understood. Maybe it did. Out here, everything listens eventually.
"My name's Samsquen Thornegrip," I said. "Just a Thuumar who's seen more things that'll kill a man in a day than most do in their life."
It sniffed at the air, tail flicking. I tossed another crumb.
"Don't look at me like that. I ain't proud of it."
The squirrel chittered, maybe agreeing. Maybe asking for more crumbs. Hard to tell with the chatty ones.
"Every creature's got a truth. Some whisper it in the dark. Some carve it into you." I tossed another scrap its way. "That's why I write it down. Not for them. For me. Because the day I stop remembering what they teach me—"
The wind shifted. The trees hushed because they were listening.
"—that's the day I join 'em."
The fire spat, and the squirrel vanished into the brush. I stared at the empty space it left behind and sighed.
"Guess that makes two of us."
I exhaled and reached for my journal, the one bound in old hide and bad memories. The ink glowed faintly blue when it touched the page.
Morning came thin and gray, the kind that seeps through every seam of your coat. The fire had given up sometime before dawn. I kicked dirt over what was left, shouldered my pack, and listened.
Nothing. No birds, no river chatter, no branch-crack gossip between trees. Just quiet—the wrong kind. Forests breathe. This one was holding it in.
The path north cut through damp ferns and soft mud. Fresh tracks. Deer mostly, a boar or two. Hooves that sank deep and lifted clean, stride long enough to make a horse blush. Whatever made them wasn't running. It walked like it owned the ground.
Note to self: Green Zone, Verdant Wilds. Hoof radius four inches, stride eight feet. Territory marker? Confidence that big gets you killed or praised. Maybe both.
By midday I smelled smoke. Fernvale sat where the river forked—thatch roofs, a sawmill, and enough stillness to make a hunter nervous. From the ridge, it looked almost painted.
Fields combed straight, fences without sag, and chimneys letting out the same thin threads of smoke. All rising at the same lazy angle like they'd rehearsed it.
Closer, I saw why it felt off. The colors were wrong. Greens too even, wood too clean, river too clear. Life without the noise of living. The air carried the scent of wheat and yeast, but it hung flat—no spice of sweat, no dogs barking, no children bickering in the distance.
The main road was tidy enough to shame a king's court. Cart tracks etched into perfect grooves, wheel ruts polished smooth as stone. Every house looked like its neighbor had copied it from memory and gotten most of it right but not all. Same shape, same door hinges, same crooked weathervanes that all pointed west though the wind came from the east.
Even the birds avoided it. They flew around Fernvale, not over.
The villagers moved like they'd been wound up that morning and set loose. Smiles were steady, steps careful, eyes too bright. A woman drew water from the well and spilled none. A man stacked wood in precise columns that leaned at the same angle as his neighbor's pile across the street.
It was perfect in the way graves are perfect—neat, quiet, and final.
A woman by a fence waved. "Welcome, traveler!" She said, her voice bright enough to hurt.
I nodded and kept walking.
She said it again. Same tone, same blinkless smile. "Welcome, traveler!"
Folk repeat themselves when they're nervous, but this wasn't nerves. This was a pattern. I walked on. The air smelled of bread and wet lumber—homey smells, but they didn't reach deep. Everything stopped at the skin.
A man near the mill swung his axe through nothing. No log on the block. Just the rhythm of it.
"Fine day, isn't it?" he said.
"Aye," I answered.
"Fine day, isn't it?" He said again, and the axe kept falling.
I've seen eyes like his on snared wolves, alive, but the light's looking somewhere else.
Two kids ran past chasing a hoop. One tripped, bloodied his knee, then stared at it like he'd never seen red before. The other just laughed the same laugh twice. I took a step back.
The whole town was wrong. Every fiber screamed to get out, but if I did that I wouldn't learn what's going on here.
Entry One: Observation: Population shows shared memory loss. Speech loops. Motor control intact. Magic residue faint but steady near the well. Hoofprints fresh on western path. Bells heard at dusk, source unknown.
A small boy tugged my sleeve. Couldn't have been more than six.
"Mister, if you see my daddy, tell him I love him," he said.
Before I could answer, he blinked slow and said it again. Same words in the same breath.
I nodded. "I'll tell him." He smiled before running off, and I already felt the details slipping—hair color, eyes, the pitch of his voice. Gone in seconds.
I drifted down the lane, slow enough to watch their eyes follow me but never quite focus. Every few steps someone repeated a greeting, or half a prayer, like their tongues had forgotten what came next.
Near the well, I found a rope worn smooth but damp with no bucket on the end. When I leaned over, the water didn't ripple like it should have. It stared back, a flat mirror. My reflection moved a heartbeat late. When I blinked, it didn't. I backed away and felt the air grow colder around my shoulders.
A notice board stood by the square. Empty parchment nailed in perfect rows, no writing. Every page smelled faintly of ash, though none were burned. Someone had drawn a stag in the corner, antlers like roots. The charcoal smear still fresh enough to mark my thumb.
An old man stood by the path with a burlap sack already stuffed full of herbs. He kept plucking more from the same bare patch of dirt, fingers trembling, dropping each invisible sprig into the sack that couldn't hold another leaf.
"Busy day?" I asked.
He smiled wide, his eyes unfocused. "Harvest season," he said.
"Looks like you've done enough."
He nodded, still reaching for plants that weren't there. "Harvest season," he said again.
I left him to it before he started again.
I left before dusk. By then the sun had started bleeding down behind the trees, turning the rooftops gold. For a breath it almost looked alive again. People moving through the light like memories trying to remember themselves. Then the bells came and the color drained away, leaving only the echo.
Towns like that chew up the mind if you linger. The forest was waiting anyway. The river ran quiet beside me, but when I looked down, the water showed stars and trees—no moon. I looked up. Moon was right there.
That's when the bells started, soft and far. Not church bells, too clean and hollow. Three chimes, then silence. The air after them tasted of iron and old dirt. Even the moss felt colder under my boots.
I made camp on a ridge above the valley. Wrote what I could remember before it slid away. The ink shimmered blue when it hit the page, like the words were fighting to stay.
Linen woman–gray eyes, constant smile.
Boy–maybe seven. Maybe eight.
I remember them but not the things we spoke about. Memory has already started fading mere minutes since leaving. That's memory for you, always wanting to forget the bad parts. I capped the bottle and looked toward the trees.
Antlers. Pale, thin, glinting like bone. One blink and they were gone.
Could've been moonlight. Could've been the thing that eats it.
I leaned back against my pack, letting the silence settle.
"Alright then, stag," I muttered. "Let's see what you've come to take."
Entry Addendum: Hoofprints lead west through the Verdant Wilds. No sign of grazing, bedding, or dung. Unnatural behavior for herbivores. Trees along the path show mysterious burns, faint but pulsing under bark. The ground forgets where it's been stepped on. Prints fade within the hour.
Possible entity: spirit or corrupted echo. Remember the bells.