At noon, beneath a canopy of shifting light and half-whispered leaves, the pair shared a silent meal. Water, cool and sweet, had been drawn from a nearby stream and poured into carved wooden cups. They drank as fellow warriors, not companions. The silence between them was not empty — it was watching, waiting.

The Forgotten Forest had begun to lean in.

Its branches curled slightly inward, its roots bulged through the underbrush like buried serpents. Shadows fell wrong. Moss pulsed gently as if breathing. Gwyn, still and vigilant, let her aura bleed out subtly, a soft pressure like heat off sun-warmed stone. Bedwyr let his ripple and twine in lazy arcs, threading it into the trees, warning them, seducing them, daring them to react.

"This place is not a fan of our presence," Gwyn said, finally. Her voice was low, but solid.

Bedwyr sat cross-legged beside the fire, tuning his ethereal lyre. "No, it is not. But I lay not the blame at its feet. We entered uninvited."

As if in offering, he uncorked a wine flask and poured a measure onto the forest floor. It hissed softly against the roots, then vanished.

Gwyn narrowed her eyes. "I’d rather offer my sword than vintage."

"How charming," Bedwyr mused, raising his goblet in a silent toast to the sky. "A blade for every mood."

She scoffed. "Careful. I might name this one after you."

"And here I was hoping you'd name a tree."

They fell into a strange rhythm that afternoon. Not camaraderie exactly, but something adjacent. Gwyn sat sharpening her blade with slow precision, watching the way light filtered through the shifting boughs above. Bedwyr hummed soft songs to the fire, letting his notes dance through the underbrush like silver mist.

He thought of the Dryads. Of the Spirit Trees.

Death among their kind was unnatural. Dryads did not simply wither. Their fates were tethered to ancient groves, bonded to bark and bloom. When they died without their trees perishing first, something had gone very, very wrong.

That night, Bedwyr did not press for conversation. Instead, he took a position beneath a low-hanging bough and began to sing.

His voice was precise and hollowed with old pain:

"In twilight's whisper, a shadow fades...

Beneath the gentle of a sunlit ray..."

The funeral song. One sung only when the Courts joined in mourning. Gwyn did not speak during it. She lay by the fire, eyes closed, but not sleeping. Listening. Perhaps remembering.

The moon rose pale and alone. The trees listened.

Bedwyr never finished the song. He rarely could.

By morning, Gwyn was already awake, her blade strapped across her back, hair braided tightly. Her eyes met his as he handed her a cup of tea, steam curling like spell-smoke into the crisp morning.

"Was that you last night?" she asked, quietly.

He nodded.

"It was... kind."

No sarcasm. No jest.

"Thank you, fair Gwenhwyfar," he replied.

The trees loosened their grip slightly that morning. Their steps felt less heavy, their breaths more free. Bedwyr offered thanks to the roots beneath his feet. The forest did not answer, but it did not hinder them.

The path narrowed. The air darkened. They pressed on.

"How is it the daylight doesn't slow you?" Gwyn asked, at last.

Bedwyr offered a half-smile. "Once, during my knightly years in the Dusk Court, I was sent to face the Dawn Dragon."

She turned, eyebrows raised. "Wait. What?"

"The battle lasted from twilight through noon. Its breath, golden and blinding, nearly consumed me. But the Dusk in my soul held firm. I sang to it."

"You sang to a dragon?"

"I did. Of Ilia and Rose, and their love beneath the moon."

She walked beside him now, caught in the rhythm of the tale. Even the trees leaned closer to listen.

"What happened?"

"It cried. One silver tear. I caught it in my waterskin."

"And? Did you drink it?"

He only smiled. "Must I tell the tale again?"

She groaned. "You’re impossible."

"It’s part of my charm."

The charm faded quickly when the first creature attacked.

It looked like a corpse wrapped in roots, moving on two limbs with four long arms tipped in claws. Moss spilled from its mouth in gobs. Insects crawled beneath its bark-skin.

Gwyn reacted first. Blade out, aura flaring. A sun rising in the gloom.

She cleaved it in half. Another took its place.

Bedwyr joined the fray, sword drawn, aura sharpening like a blade of its own. His movements were artful, deadly, efficient. Between her fury and his precision, the creatures fell.

And rose.

The moss dragged itself back together. Limbs regrew. Faces reformed.

"Summoner!" Bedwyr called, eyes scanning the treeline.

Gwyn's roar was all the answer he got.

She hacked, slashed, bled. Her strength was awe-inspiring. But even titans tire.

Then she saw it. A figure cross-legged at the treeline, threads of magic stretching from its hands into the forest like spiderwebs.

She charged.

Bedwyr covered her, clearing a path of shrieking bark-things. Her aura grew wild, radiant and furious. She reached the summoner just as it looked up with wide, froglike eyes. It hissed, casting a gurgling spell that struck her in the chest.

She staggered. Then screamed. Then kept walking.

She cut off its head in a single blow.

The magic snapped. The creatures crumbled to mulch.

And Gwyn collapsed.

Bedwyr caught her, barely. He whispered starlight into her skin, his aura wrapping her like silk.

"Awake, fair lady," he murmured. "There is more left to do."

She groaned. Sat up. Spat blood.

"What did you do to me?" she asked.

"Healed you. Mostly."

"Stars above. That was worse than hangover wine."

"You’re welcome."

She looked around. "They’re gone?"

"Thanks to your blade. And my, ah, gentle encouragement."

Her eyes narrowed. "You gave me a command."

He grinned. "Would you have listened to anything less?"

She didn’t answer. She stood. Stretched. Winced.

"I feel like a forest hit me."

"It did."

They limped forward. The forest did not stop them.

But it watched.