The Ulta Forest was a place whispered about in taverns and fireside tales, a shortcut that promised speed but demanded courage. Its trees rose like blackened pillars, their bark scarred and twisted as though the forest itself had endured centuries of torment. The canopy was so dense that daylight fractured into thin, trembling beams, painting the ground in shifting mosaics of shadow. The air was heavy, damp, and alive with the scent of rot and moss. Every step Tatte took sank into layers of leaves that had fallen and never truly died, their decay feeding the roots of giants. Strange cries echoed from unseen throats, sometimes near, sometimes impossibly far, and the silence between them was worse than the sound itself.
Tatte pressed forward, his satchel tight against his shoulder, his father's letter folded within like a heartbeat. He knew the long road around the forest would be safer, but every wasted day felt like betrayal. His father had chased a legend and lost his life; Tatte would not squander time. The cliffs lay beyond this labyrinth, and he would reach them, no matter the cost.
Hours passed. His legs burned, his throat was dry, and his mind swam with fatigue. After three relentless hours of weaving through tangled roots and thorn-choked trails, he stumbled upon a clearing. A colossal tree stood at its center, its trunk wider than a cottage wall, its branches stretching like skeletal arms. Beneath its shade, the air was cooler, and nearby bushes bore fruits the color of fresh blood, their skins glistening as though sweating in the dim light. Hunger gnawed at him, and he plucked one, biting into its tart flesh. The juice stung his tongue, sharp and metallic, but it filled his stomach enough to quiet the ache.
He leaned against the tree, closing his eyes for a moment, listening to the forest breathe. That was when the sound came—a frantic rustle, a crashing through the undergrowth. Tatte's eyes snapped open. From between the trees stumbled a man, ragged and bloodied, his clothes torn, his breath ragged. His eyes were wide with desperation, and his hands reached out as though clutching at salvation.
"Help… please…" the man gasped, staggering toward him.
Before Tatte could rise, a shadow darted behind the wounded figure. A blade flashed, swift and merciless. The cry was cut short as steel pierced the man's back. He collapsed at Tatte's feet, lifeless, his blood soaking into the leaves.
The killer stepped forward—a figure cloaked in black, hood drawn low, movements precise and cold. His eyes glinted beneath the hood, sharp as a predator's.
"You were with him," the man hissed, voice low and venomous. "You'll join him."
The cloaked figure lunged.
Steel clashed against steel as Tatte raised his small knife to parry the first strike. The force jolted through his arm, nearly knocking the blade from his grip. The cloaked man pressed forward, his sword sweeping in arcs that gleamed in the fractured light. Tatte ducked beneath a slash, rolling across the damp earth. He sprang up, thrusting his knife toward the man's side, but the cloaked warrior twisted, catching the blade with his gauntlet and shoving Tatte back.
The forest itself seemed to echo their struggle—birds shrieked and fled, branches rattled as if recoiling from violence. Tatte fought with desperation, his strikes fueled by resolve rather than skill. He slashed at the man's arm, forcing him to step back, then lunged again, aiming for the throat. But the cloaked figure was relentless, his movements honed by experience. He sidestepped, pivoted, and drove his sword downward.
The blade grazed Tatte's shoulder, tearing cloth and flesh. Pain seared through him, but he refused to yield. He kicked at the man's knee, buying a heartbeat of space, then swung his knife upward. The cloaked man blocked with ease, twisting his wrist to send Tatte sprawling.
Breath ragged, vision blurring, Tatte staggered to his knees. His knife slipped from his fingers, clattering against the roots. The cloaked man loomed above him, sword raised, eyes burning with cold judgment.
Darkness pressed at the edges of Tatte's vision. He saw the blade rise, gleaming like a shard of moonlight. He braced for the end. Tatte's last sight before darkness claimed him was the glint of steel, unsheathed and poised for the final blow!