Chapter 7: The Forest's Deception

Kalo entered the Dark Forest, treading a narrow path. The trees here were giants, their gnarled branches reaching out as though to ensnare trespassers in their wooden claws. Their immense canopy blotted out all but the faintest glimmers of light, leaving the world below in an eerie half-darkness. No creatures stirred—no deer darted through the underbrush, no fox padded through the leaves. Only the distant cawing of unseen crows and the occasional haunting cry of a night owl disturbed the oppressive silence. Moss hung from the trees in long, sagging strands, swaying faintly like ghostly veils. It clung to branches in such abundance that it seemed as if the forest itself wept green tears.

Kalo pressed onward, the chill of the forest seeping into his very bones. The branches clawed at his cloak, scraping his face and hands, and the ground beneath him was treacherous. The decaying leaves were damp and slick, a slippery carpet over unseen roots and stones. His footing faltered more than once, but still, he pressed on, his determination undimmed. Hours passed, and the twisted forest seemed unending. Finally, when his legs burned and his breath came heavy, he paused.

From his rucksack, he pulled a crumpled handkerchief and unwrapped a small pork pie. Though the crust broke apart like dry leaves, the spiced jelly within carried the taste of hearth and home. It gave him a fleeting sense of courage in this forsaken place. Yet, he dared not linger long. The forest felt alive, watching, waiting. He rose again and trudged onward, but soon realized he had lost his way. The path had vanished into the thick, tangled undergrowth.

Determined to find his bearings, Kalo chose the tallest tree he could find and began to climb. The bark was rough, its crevices filled with grime that blackened his hands. His muscles strained as he pulled himself higher and higher, each branch narrower and more precarious than the last. At last, the canopy parted, and he emerged into the open air. There, perched high above the dark sea of trees, he gazed out over the vast, oppressive expanse of green. High above from out of the clouds, his broom swept down. He waved, signaling he was safe. With that acknowledgment, the broom shot up and away, the evoker's scout in a threatening place.

Far in the distance, the forest broke like a wound in the land, revealing a barren rise of granite. Upon that desolate slope stood the Dark Kooplings' stronghold—a grim and monstrous edifice of blackened stone, jagged and vile, as though carved from malice itself. Black smoke rose from its chimneys, twisting into the sky like writhing serpents. The sight made Kalo's heart sink, but it also steeled his resolve.

He began his descent, each movement more treacherous than the last. The branches swayed and creaked, and more than once he nearly slipped, but finally, he reached the ground. Now with his path clear in his mind, he set off toward the stronghold.

As he pushed onward, a faint, flickering light caught his eye. It hovered in the shadows, bobbing like a will-o’-the-wisp. It seemed to beckon him, drawing him deeper into the forest. Curiosity and longing overtook caution, and he followed. The light danced ahead, always just out of reach, until at last, it led him to a clearing. There, the light began to shift, its shape morphing until it resolved into a figure—a figure he knew all too well.

His mother stood before him, pale and sorrowful, her arms outstretched. Her voice, soft and mournful, called to him.
“Kalo, my son,” she pleaded, “come to me. I have missed you so terribly. I am so lonely without you.”

Her words pierced his heart, and tears welled in his eyes. Against his better judgment, he stepped forward, desperate to reach her. But as his boot touched the soft earth, it gave way beneath him. The ground was not solid but a sucking mire, a bog that hungrily pulled him in. The illusion shattered, and his mother's form dissolved into mist. The forest had tricked him, lured him into a deadly trap.

The mud was thick and stinking of rot, clinging to him like greedy hands. The more he struggled, the deeper he sank. His strength began to wane, and despair filled his heart. This, he thought, would be his end. But then, a rustling above caught his attention. Sprig, his steadfast asp familiar, had wrapped himself around a sturdy branch that hung over the bog. Slowly, carefully, the snake extended himself, reaching out to Kalo. With a final, desperate effort, Kalo grasped Sprig, and together they pulled him free.

He collapsed on the edge of the bog, gasping for air, his body caked in filth. The stench of decay clung to him, and his limbs trembled with exhaustion. But he was alive. Turning to Sprig, he whispered, “Thank you, old friend.” The asp flicked out his tongue, a silent acknowledgment of their bond.

After a brief rest, the two pressed on. The forest began to thin, its oppressive shadows giving way to faint light. At last, they emerged from the trees and stood at the base of the granite slope. Before them loomed the Dark Kooplings' stronghold, a fortress of jagged black rock that seemed to sneer at the world. It was an eyesore, a blight upon the land. Kalo sighed, his heart heavy with the burden of what lay ahead.

“Let us finish this,” he muttered, and together they began the

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