– Herb intakes – left stack. Records on magical items – right one. If it bites, put it in a separate box, – Ellie spoke without looking up, filling out another sheet. – If you don't know what it is, don't shove it in someone's face. I've already suffered from your last "discovery."
The seeker chuckled, mumbled an apology, and put away the glass jar.
Ellie finished the record, stamped it, pushed the sheet aside, and took the next one.
That was how her days passed.
Even. Precise. Without surges.
Every morning she was the first to arrive, sat at the front desk, recorded, sorted, received, verified.
The guild had gotten used to it. She – almost too.
Almost.
He appeared without a sound.
Without an announcement.
Simply stood at the counter when she looked up.
Tall. Hair dark blond, tied back behind his head, clothes that seemed to have absorbed the colors of the forest themselves: greenish-gray, faded ochre, a blend of moss and dry branches.
And the smell – strange. Not unpleasant. But as if he hadn't come through the streets, but stepped straight out of the woods.
– Are you Ellie? – he asked, his voice carrying something… enveloping. Not honey, not poison. Like warm moisture in the air. Like the forest itself had whispered.
– Depends who's asking, – she replied, pushing aside a stack of papers.
He nodded, as if that was a good answer.
– Syres Velon. Pathfinder. I've brought a report on the trail between Villim and the southern edge of the Forgotten. Some markers… are disappearing. Not just physically. As if no one ever placed them. The map loses the path.
– It happens. If the markings are bad.
– I know how to mark. It's not them vanishing. It's like… they're being washed away.
He laid down a map.
Parchment – soft, smelling of herbs.
Ellie looked – the lines were broken, and in the corner her eye caught a note: "the route structure behaves unnaturally: points A and B overlap on return, though visually different zones were passed."
– Your report on the water spirit, the Nereid. I read it. In the archives.
A pause.
– It was… very precisely written. With no intent to be a hero. Just observation. Honest. That's what we need now.
– Thank you, – she said simply.
He smiled slightly.
– I'm forming a group. Taking only three. We're not going far. Not yet. But I need someone who sees cracks before they're cracks.
He looked up at her.
– I'm not offering you a "job." I… want you to come see where the road goes if you walk too long.
And if it leads nowhere – you'll see it first.
Ellie looked at him for a long time.
Her hand gripped the edge of the desk.
– I can't promise I'll be useful, – she said.
– I'm not asking you to be useful. I'm asking you to be – there. Where things change.
He didn't wait for an answer.
Just nodded and left.
And at the edge of his map, right at the fold, was drawn a symbol: a branch with three dots. On such routes, markers usually die.
But not all of them.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
No scratching pen. No rustling papers. Even the mouse in the corner seemed to have decided not to break the silence.
Ellie sat on the floor, leaning against the bed, Syres' map spread before her. The paper trembled gently in the breeze coming through the window. At the edge – a faded mark: a branch with three dots.
– A forest where the map loses memory, – she muttered. – Great.
In her hand – her own report. Rewritten, sealed. On Moroi.
She reread one of the conclusions:
"Subject cannot be classified by the standard scale of astral manifestations. Presumed structure – parasitic, immaterial, feeding on memories and emotions."
She set the page aside.
Removed her glove.
Ran her finger along the inner side of her forearm – where the faint trace of a burn still remained. Lydia's light. It saved her. But did not leave without a mark.
She stood up.
Opened the chest.
The armor smelled of dusty metal.
The leather straps had stiffened slightly.
The potion bag was coated with residue.
She took them out one by one. Laid them on the bed. Wiped the metal. Checked the clasps.
Tried on the pauldron. It pressed. It used to fit better.
– Yeah, – she exhaled, looking at herself in the mirror. – A dusty museum relic. Or a half-broken map.
But then she pulled on the gloves.
Walked to the desk.
Took her journal – old, with a scorched edge.
Flipped a few pages – to the one with the entry made after meeting the Nereid. Crossed out. Rewritten. Crossed out again.
Below – a new line:
"If this forest eats me too – let it choke."
She closed it.
Tucked it into her bag.
She approached the mission board. Among the new routes – a familiar symbol.
Forgotten Forest. Guide: Syres V.
She didn't say anything. Just took the route sheet. And signed her name. Clearly. Confidently.
Ellie F.
Researcher.
The horses trudged along the worn path, kicking up light dust.
The grass at the sides – sun-bleached, patchy, already tinged with autumn. Ahead loomed the dark line of trees – the Forgotten.
Ellie rode slightly behind, letting Syres lead. He carried himself loosely, not like soldiers or mercenaries. More like someone who knows where the path ends – and where something else begins.
– There used to be a mill here, – he said suddenly. – Burned down fifteen years ago. Now the trees grow like they want to take the place back.
– Like they want to? – Ellie raised an eyebrow.
He smirked slightly.
– The forest always wants. The question is whether you give it a reason.
She filed that away in her mind.
Not as wisdom – as a symptom.
– I thought you were just a guide, – she said. – Navigate, hold direction.
– That's what they all think. Then the trail vanishes, the compass goes mad, and they start looking at me like a shaman.
A pause.
– I'm no shaman. But I… listen.
– To the forest?
– What else, you think, speaks at night when you're sure you're alone?
He said it calmly. Without mysticism. Almost offhand. Which made it worse.
They made camp closer to sunset. Ellie laid out her pot, started cutting dried meat and roots.
Syres, without asking, stepped over and threw a few twigs into the boiling water – strangely scented, almost coniferous.
– Anti-swelling mix. Don't worry – not poisonous, – he sat down beside her.
– Do you often add things you pick up off the roadside to food? – she asked.
– Everything I eat once grew somewhere. Why not trust it? The real question is – do you trust yourself when you pick it?
A strange answer. Too winding. Not immediately clear.
Ellie only nodded. Memorized it.
When he stepped away – supposedly "to relieve himself" – she caught out of the corner of her eye how he stopped at a tree.
Placed his hand on the trunk. Whispered something.
And left a mark – three thin lines, almost invisible. It wasn't on her map.
When he returned, she didn't ask. And he didn't explain.
Late at night, they settled to sleep. The fire barely smoked. Syres rolled his blanket out, lay down closer to the trees, head to the trunk.
– Your back will thank you, – Ellie noted.
– Better it does, than something else that might come if I don't listen.
He smirked, staring into the dark.
– The forest whispers. You just have to not interrupt.
Ellie lay down, staring up at the ceiling of branches.
"He's charming. Very. But I want to know what exactly that charm is hiding."
They entered at dawn.
When the air is still cool, and birds are silent. When the leaves rustle softer than they should, and even insects avoid breathing.
Syres led.
Behind him – Ellie.
The rear was held by a small mercenary named Keven – a former sentry, now freelance. The guild sent him as an "eye" – quiet, sharp, always alert.
With them was Tilda – a priestess with a heightened sense of magical distortions. She didn't chatter. And moved almost soundlessly.
– Don't memorize the color of the foliage, – Syres said quietly as they reached the third clearing. – It doesn't stay the same here.
– What do you mean? – Tilda asked.
– Yesterday it was red. Today – gray. Tomorrow, if we're lucky – violet.
He turned to Ellie.
– Better to record not how it looks, but how it sounds.
– Leaves don't make sound, – Keven scoffed.
– Then you don't know how to listen.
The first thirty minutes were ordinary. Then the deviations began.
Here is the precise and carefully edited English translation, preserving the original meaning, structure, and tone, while ensuring it reads naturally in English:
One of the markers Tilda had placed vanished the moment they passed it and came back. Keven's bootprints were literally disappearing after ten steps. Ellie had a compass – the needle had started to tremble, as if it felt sick.
But there was no fear. Only the sense that the forest… was breathing.
– How many times have you been here? – Ellie asked as they stopped for a snack.
– Enough to know when it accepts. And when it rejects.
– It?
– You think a place like this doesn't have a will?
He took a bite of bread. Chewed. Swallowed.
– Don't worry. It's not driving you away.
– Then what is it doing?
– Watching.
In the afternoon, Ellie noticed: the grass bent as she walked through. Not broken. It tilted toward her, as if greeting.
She slowed down. Crouched. Touched the stems with her palm. They were softer than usual. Warmer. And seemed to… quiver.
– Tilda? Do you feel anything? – she asked, without looking up.
– No. The forest's quiet. Too quiet, actually.
– And you? – she asked Syres as he approached.
Ellie didn't answer right away.
Then she said, almost in a whisper:
– They… feel me. I can almost hear what they're saying. It's not words. It's… a state. A tone.
He smiled. And for the first time, there was no irony in Syres's voice. Only warm, gentle wonder.
– A blessing, – he said. – The forest gave you a part of itself.
A pause.
– I was waiting for this to happen. Just didn't think it would be so soon. – He inclined his head. – Congratulations, Ellie. You're one of those it won't forget now.
– And if I leave?
– It will call. Softly. With the wind. With color. With dreams. – He looked at her for a long time. – But never again a stranger.
Keven just snorted at the exchange. Tilda looked thoughtful. Ellie, for the first time – didn't feel fear, but… a touch.
As if this forest, old and forgotten by all, had learned her name.