Henry Joel led with the unearned confidence of a man on a mission only he understood.
The trail narrowed, then vanished entirely beneath a thick carpet of moss and fallen leaves. Tree trunks, thick with lichen and age, pressed in closer, the forest exhaling around them. Sunlight flickered through the canopy like a nervous heartbeat, and though the day was still young, the woods darkened with every step.
"You're sure it's this way?" Allan asked, his voice tight.
Henry gave a theatrical sigh, sweeping his journal from beneath his coat and flipping through it. "As sure as one can be in a forest that refuses to keep still. These woods shift. Paths vanish. Stones reappear. A cartographer's nightmare. But the Circle lies ahead—within a glade of chalk-trees and silence."
"Chalk-trees?" Canya echoed.
"Ah, just my name for them," Henry said with a grin. "Tall, white-barked things that grow in a perfect ring. Like ribs around a sleeping giant."
That image, vivid and unsettling, settled over their uneasy silence.
Despite Allan's instinctual misgivings, he let Henry lead. The scholar spoke often—sometimes about the forest's history, sometimes in tangents that dissolved into muttering. He referenced obscure tomes, ancient families, half-remembered proverbs. His knowledge was vast, but never quite precise.
Still, the forest did not reject them. No beasts stirred in the underbrush. No storm broke overhead. In a strange way, the deeper they went, the more serene the woods became—almost unnervingly serene.
"I don't like this," Allan muttered at one point. "Too quiet."
Canya said nothing, but her eyes never stopped scanning. Every rustle turned her head. Every gust of wind drew her breath short. Whatever peace had lulled her by the grove was gone, replaced by a taut, dangerous readiness.
Hours passed. The sun above was a ghostly suggestion behind the leaves. Eventually, the undergrowth thinned, and the trees began to change. Pale bark, smooth and unblemished, appeared like pillars in the gloom.
Henry stopped. "Here," he whispered.
They stood at the edge of a wide clearing, ringed by tall, ivory-skinned trees. The ground was flat, oddly bare of vegetation. Stones lay scattered across the floor in no discernible pattern—weathered, broken, unmarked.
The Circle. Just as he promised.
Canya stepped in first, slowly, her boots disturbing the thin layer of dust. Her breath caught—not from fear, but confusion. Allan followed, eyes narrowed.
"It's just… trees," he said.
Henry was last to enter, spinning slowly with arms wide. "Isn't it magnificent?"
Canya knelt beside one of the stones. No carvings. No energy. Not even the gentle thrum she'd felt from the grove. She placed a palm flat against it, eyes closing briefly. Nothing.
"I don't feel anything," she murmured. "There's no pulse. No memory."
Henry beamed like a schoolboy presenting a moth-eaten ribbon. "That's the genius of it! The world hides its wonders in plain sight. Here, the past chose forgetfulness."
"It's empty," Allan said flatly.
Henry paused. For a moment, something flickered in his expression—embarrassment? Disappointment? Then he let out a thunderous laugh that rang unnaturally in the stillness.
"Ah, how delightfully humiliating," he chuckled, patting his stomach. "I've led us to the most underwhelming Circle in recorded history. My apologies, dear travelers. I may have misremembered a landmark or two."
Canya rose slowly. "You brought us all this way for nothing?"
Henry raised both hands in mock surrender. "Not nothing! We shared a journey, didn't we? And perhaps the Circle will reveal itself only to those not expecting it." He paused, then added more quietly, "Or maybe I'm just an old fool chasing myths with the wrong ink."
Allan watched him carefully. Henry seemed genuinely contrite—his shoulders hunched, eyes downcast. But the unease in Allan's gut didn't ease.
"You said you've been here before," Allan said.
Henry blinked. "Well, I said I mapped the region. The specifics—ah, they blur with time. Memory is an unreliable guide."
Canya moved to the center of the ring, crouching again. She pressed her palm to the earth this time, eyes closing once more. Still nothing. Not a whisper from the ground. It was, simply, a clearing—peaceful, unremarkable.
She stood, brushing dust from her fingers. "There's no power here."
"Then perhaps that's the point," Henry said softly. "Not all circles bind magic. Some mark endings. Places where the song stopped. Places the earth deliberately forgot."
The words sounded rehearsed.
"Did you know it would be like this?" Allan asked.
Henry hesitated. "I suspected. But I hoped I was wrong."
Canya looked at Allan. He was watching Henry again with that steady, measuring gaze—the one that rarely missed lies.
"You said you believed the Script could be found," Allan said. "Do you think it's here?"
Henry's smile returned, smaller now. "No. No, this is just a place I wanted to see again. Before what's coming. Before it all changes."
He turned away from them then, walking to the edge of the clearing. His shoulders were stooped. He looked older, somehow. Smaller.
Canya moved to stand beside Allan. "He's hiding something."
"I know."
"Should we leave?"
"Soon."
They stayed a little longer in the Circle. Henry sat on one of the stones and took out his journal again, sketching the trees and scribbling what looked like notes—or maybe poetry. His lips moved as he wrote. Occasionally, he looked up at them and offered a faint, distant smile.
Eventually, Allan said, "We should go. We'll lose daylight if we stay much longer."
Henry rose slowly. "Of course. Lead on, if you will. I've had my detour."
Allan hesitated, then nodded. He walked back the way they'd come. Canya followed. Henry lingered at the edge of the clearing, one hand resting on a bone-tree.
He whispered something to it—too soft to be heard—and then turned and followed.
None of them noticed the shadow that stirred at the far edge of the Circle, where the light no longer touched the ground.
None of them saw the way the trees leaned, ever so slightly, as if listening.