The Roots of Silence

The ink-like sap on my palms felt cold, a stark contrast to the humid air of the forest floor. I wiped my hands on my leather breeches, but the stain remained—a dark reminder of the Great Cedar's warning. ​“He is coming.” ​In Oakhaven, we were taught from birth that the forest had moods, but never voices. To hear the trees was a sign of the "Sickness," a madness that preceded a disappearance. I stood up slowly, my hand hovering near the small silver sickle at my belt. I was a Harvester, trained to be stoic and reliable, but even the bravest soul in Oakhaven knew when the shadows were shifting the wrong way. ​The village was only a mile behind me, yet the mist made it feel like another world. I needed to move. My satchel was half-empty, and the Elder expected a full quota of Moonshade root by dusk. Failing a quota meant losing your license, and without a license, I was just another mouth to feed in a village that didn't like extra mouths. ​I pushed deeper into the thicket, the thorns clawing at my cloak. The silence here was absolute. No birdsong, no rustle of squirrels. Just the crunch of my boots on dead leaves. ​I found a patch of Moonshade near a jagged rock formation known as The Teeth. I knelt, my breath coming in shallow hitches. As I raised my sickle to make the first cut, I saw it—a scrap of fabric snagged on a low-hanging branch. It was blue, the exact shade of the uniform worn by the village Agents. ​My heart skipped. Agents didn't come this far into the deep woods unless they were looking for someone. Or hiding something. ​I reached out to touch the fabric, but a sudden snap of a twig behind me made me spin around. The shadows between the oaks seemed to stretch, forming the shape of a man standing perfectly still. ​"Who's there?" I called out, my voice sounding smaller than I intended. ​There was no answer, only the sound of the wind beginning to howl through the hollow trunks, sounding suspiciously like a low, mocking laugh.