The Serpent's Coil

The forest floor, usually a carpet of damp leaves and moss, was disturbingly bare here, scuffed and churned as if by a herd of panicked beasts. Azuron’s boots crunched on loose gravel, the sound unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence. He adjusted the grip on his father’s hammer, its familiar weight a small comfort against the gnawing unease that had settled in his gut since he’d found the tracks. These weren’t the claw marks of goblins or the clumsy prints of a wild boar. These were boot prints, dozens of them, and they led deeper into the shadowed heart of the Whisperwood.

He’d taken the quest to clear out a nest of shadowcats near the old logging trail, a simple, copper-rank task. But the deeper he went, the more the signs pointed away from felines and towards something far more organized, far more dangerous. The air grew heavy, thick with a scent like old, damp earth and something acrid, like burnt metal. Azuron, his heart thrumming a nervous rhythm against his ribs, pushed aside a low-hanging bough, revealing a small clearing.

A rough-hewn table stood in the center, littered with scraps of parchment and a half-eaten hunk of dried meat. Two figures, cloaked and hooded, hunched over the table, their voices a low murmur that Azuron strained to decipher. He flattened himself against the rough bark of an ancient oak, the hammer held ready, its polished head gleaming dully in the filtered sunlight. He could make out fragments of their conversation: “… delivery… Stonehelm… before the next moon…” and “…the Master… demands swiftness…”