The southern reach of the Whispering Forest breathed in perpetual mist, thick enough to blur tree trunks into ghostly gray shadows. Leon pulled his linen cloak tighter against the damp chill, his boots crunching softly on moss-covered stones as he followed Isabella along Kael's faint trail—marked only by weathered stone cairns half-buried in lichen. They'd walked for two days, the mist growing denser with each step, until the sun vanished entirely, leaving only a muted, diffused glow that turned the forest into a dreamlike labyrinth.
"Leon, wait—my arm!" Isabella's cry cut through the fog.
Leon spun around. Her left sleeve was tangled in a snarl of dark green vines, their leaves glossy and dripping with clear, viscous sap. Where the sap touched her skin, red, blistering welts were already spreading, and the vines twitched like living things, coiling tighter around her wrist. "Stay still," Leon said, drawing the iron knife he'd bought in Sarneth Town. He'd recognized the vines from Eldrin's herb descriptions—mist vines, their sap a mild but painful toxin that could fester if left untreated, and their tendrils strong enough to trap small game.
He sliced through the vines carefully, avoiding the sap, but a drop splashed onto his forearm. Instantly, a sharp, burning itch flared, and his skin reddened. Isabella rubbed her arm, tears pricking her eyes. "It hurts. What do we do?"
Leon scanned the underbrush, his mind racing. Eldrin had taught him a cardinal rule: nature often held antidotes to its own poisons. In the mist-shrouded undergrowth, he spotted clusters of silver-leaf ferns—their fronds shimmering like moonlight, even in the fog. "Silver fern," he said, dropping to his knees to dig up the roots. "Eldrin said its sap neutralizes plant toxins. It's safe—he used it to treat wolfroot burns."
He crushed the fern roots between two smooth stones, squeezing out a clear, viscous juice. Applying it to Isabella's welts, he watched as the redness faded slightly. "It's working," she breathed. But Leon knew they needed more—enough to treat future exposure, and something to keep the vines from touching them as they pressed on.
That evening, they set up a lean-to with fallen branches and moss, the mist curling around them like smoke. Leon boiled the remaining fern roots in a clay pot he'd carried from Acorn Village, then mixed the cooled juice with camellia oil—stored in a small jar, a precious reserve from their wooden press. The mixture thickened into a waxy paste, its scent sharp and earthy. "Purification paste," he told Isabella, spreading it on their exposed skin—forearms, necks, hands. "It'll block the vine sap. Nothing gets through if we reapply it every hour."
But the vines still blocked the trail ahead, weaving a tangled barrier across their path. Leon tore strips of linen from his spare tunic, coated them thickly with the paste, and wrapped them around his hands. "Gloves," he explained. "We'll push the vines aside without touching them. You do the same—make sure every inch of the cloth is covered."
Isabella copied him, her small hands clumsy but determined. Together, they approached the vine wall, the paste's coolness protecting their skin as the tendrils brushed against the linen. Leon led the way, pushing the vines apart gently to avoid breaking them—broken vines oozed more sap—and Isabella followed close behind, her eyes wide but steady. By dawn, they emerged into a small clearing, the mist thinning just enough to let faint sunlight filter through the canopy. Leon checked his arm—no new welts. The paste had held.
As they packed their gear, Isabella touched the jar of paste softly. "You always know what to do," she said.
Leon smiled, tucking the jar into his pack. It wasn't luck—it was Eldrin's lessons, Kael's journal, and the stubborn need to adapt. The forest didn't care about courage, but it rewarded those who paid attention. And in this mist-shrouded land, attention was the difference between survival and ruin.