The Weeping Forest – Border Clearing
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The forest did not remember faces.
Only footsteps.
Only warmth.
Only names whispered too carelessly.
It remembered—and it waited.
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The moment they crossed the treeline, the world narrowed.
The golden light of Aurevelle fractured against the dense canopy above, reduced to thin, dying shafts that barely kissed the earth.
Mist crawled between the roots, rising in thin, greedy threads.
The silence was suffocating.
Not empty, but watchful.
Heavy, as if the trees themselves listened—and judged.
Every branch stretched toward them.
Every tree leaned closer, as though remembering something it had not forgiven.
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They halted before a shattered stone archway, long devoured by vines.
A shrine to something the forest had already consumed.
Dantes crouched low, lighting a small fire.
The flames fought the damp, casting fractured shadows that crawled like wounded things across the moss.
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Francesca broke the silence first, her voice barely more than a whisper.
"You know the story, right?"
Cornelius exhaled sharply, as if weary of riddles.
"Which one?"
Francesca turned her dagger in her hands, the blade flashing once in the dim light.
"The girl who sang to the trees.
They say the forest stole her name—and her voice."
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Dantes gave a dry scoff, stirring the fire with a stick.
"And what, left a 'thank you' note?"
Francesca did not smile.
Her gaze lingered on the mist beyond the archway.
"She didn't disappear.
She forgot.
Her name. Her path.
She walks still, bark for skin, her mouth stitched silent—
singing for others to lose their way."
---
The fire snapped, spitting sparks toward the mist.
Alberta swallowed the unease rising in her chest.
"What happens to her?" she asked, almost afraid to know.
Francesca tilted her head, listening to the invisible chorus among the trees.
"She sings.
And if you mock her fate...
you join her."
---
A silence deeper than death settled over them.
Even Dantes hesitated before speaking.
"If I get claimed by a tree ghost, I expect at least a few dramatic statues in my honor."
Cornelius, voice dry as stone:
"Plaque at best.
'Here Lies Dantes: Ambushed by His Own Stupidity.'"
---
(A low creak.)
(A tightening whisper.)
Without warning, vines lassoed from the canopy—
two bodies vanished upward with a snap and a crash of leaves.
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Above them, Dantes and Cornelius swung upside down, tangled in bramble and disbelief.
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Francesca gasped—then dissolved into helpless laughter.
Alberta rushed forward, barely containing a smile.
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Alberta (gently):
"Are you hurt?"
---
Dantes twisted lazily in the air, answering with grave dignity.
"Emotionally? Scorched.
Physically? Betrayed.
Philosophically? Reevaluating all life choices."
Cornelius struggled and snarled:
"GET. US. DOWN."
---
Francesca clambered up the tree, moving like a shadow.
A flash of her dagger—
a sharp THWIP—
and they plummeted like stones.
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Cornelius staggered upright, cursing under his breath.
Dantes remained facedown in the moss, muttering promises of revenge against gravity.
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Cornelius (gritting his teeth):
"We never speak of this."
Dantes (raising a finger weakly):
"I'm commissioning an epic poem.
'Ballad of the Betrayed Branch.'"
---
Francesca's laughter echoed through the trees.
Alberta smiled faintly, but her hands trembled as she gathered her cloak.
Because somewhere above,
woven in mist and moss,
something had listened.
Something had learned.
And the forest had a new name to sing.
Alberta.
---
(Final voices fading into the mist.)
Dantes:
"If this ends up in a song—"
Cornelius:
"We break the bard."
Dantes (murmuring):
"Vicious but fair."