Chapter Nine: The Forest of Unwanted Prophecies
The next morning, Elliott awoke to find Dorian poking him in the ribs with a rolled-up map.
"Rise and shine, Your Majesty. We're being hunted, and your snoring gave us away."
Elliott groaned. "It's not snoring. It's heroic breathing."
Seraphine appeared in the doorway of the inn's smallest room, where they'd crammed three beds, one trunk, two stolen costumes, and a goat named Terrence (don't ask). She looked deadly, elegant, and deeply over caffeinated.
"We leave in ten. A Thornveil agent was spotted near the bakery asking suspicious questions."
"About us?" Elliott asked.
"No. About sourdough starters. But then he said 'may the flames find the heir,' so yes, probably us."
Into the Woods They Regretted Entering
The group made their way into the Mistfen Forest, a gloomy sprawl of trees famous for confusing travelers, whispering their regrets aloud, and producing mushrooms shaped like regretful badgers.
"Okay," Elliott muttered, ducking a low branch. "Is this forest sentient?"
"Technically," said Marlow, pulling out a guidebook. "It was cursed by an overly emotional druid in 1472 after his crush rejected his leaf sculpture."
"Romance really ruins everything," Dorian said, stepping in a puddle of what he hoped was just mud.
"We'll be fine if we stay on the path," Marlow added.
The path immediately split into three.
"Classic," Seraphine muttered. "This is why I hate nature."
The Signposts of Dubious Intent
Each fork had a sign:
One read: "Path of Screaming Owls"
Another: "Path of Mild Existential Dread"
And the last: "Shortcut (Probably)"
"Shortcut," Elliott said without hesitation.
"No," Seraphine said.
"Shortcut," Dorian echoed enthusiastically.
"No," Seraphine repeated.
"Path of Screaming Owls, then?" Elliott offered.
"Still no."
They ultimately took the middle path.
Minutes later, they found themselves surrounded by oddly helpful signs like:
"Are you sure?"
"You've made worse decisions. Remember that haircut?"
"Turn back before your socks get soggy."
Marlow read one aloud: "Beware the Oracle of Mossfern. She sees all. And complains about most of it."
Dorian perked up. "I love complaining oracles."
"You love dramatic women with boundary issues," Seraphine corrected.
Dorian raised a hand. "They're often the same thing."
The Oracle of Mossfern
After half an hour of trees muttering things like, "He still cries at night," and "She never really liked you," the group arrived at a crooked tree stump surrounded by luminous mushrooms.
From it rose a woman draped in moss and jewelry made of teeth (some of which were still whispering). Her eyes glowed faint green. She smelled like cedar, wine, and bad decisions.
"I am Mossfern," she said, yawning mid-introduction. "And I was napping."
"We seek answers," Elliott said, straightening up.
"Everyone does. No one wants the invoice," she muttered.
"We're trying to stop the Thornveil Cabal," Seraphine said. "And possibly your cousin, Lord Corrick."
"Oh that idiot," Mossfern said, waving a hand. "Had a chin you could hang laundry on and the morals of a wet boot."
"Sounds accurate," Dorian said.
Mossfern stared at Elliott. "You. Heir of Harthmere. King of paperwork and improbable luck. You walk into flame."
"Do I… survive the flame?"
"Do you like fire?"
"No?"
"Then no."
Elliott blinked. "That's unhelpful."
"I'm an oracle, not a therapist."
She threw a handful of moss into the air. It formed a brief vision—an ancient fortress wreathed in shadows. A gate made of bone. A throne of vines.
Then it turned into a small dancing badger and disappeared.
"You will find what you need," Mossfern said. "In the place where three truths die and one lie lives."
"Can you be more cryptic?" Marlow asked.
"I could, but I charge extra."
Disguises and Déjà Vu
After escaping the forest with only minor insults from a tree named Cedric, the group changed into disguises to cross the border into Thornwatch territory. Seraphine became a merchant, Dorian a traveling wizard named "Fizzlestick," Marlow a bard with a ukulele, and Elliott disguised himself as…
"A cheese salesman?" Seraphine asked, judging the enormous wedge hat.
"It was the only one left in the trunk," Elliott replied.
"You look like dairy royalty."
"Good."
Their arrival at the border town of Draymere was quiet. Too quiet. Except for the part where a local was shouting, "They're here! The royal cheese heir has arrived!"
Apparently, the hat was culturally significant.
And also cursed.
The Cursed Hat of Havarti
"The hat is bonded to your soul now," the town seer explained.
"It's a cheese hat," Elliott said.
"And you are its vessel."
"I'm allergic to dairy!"
"That may explain the hives."
"Can I remove it?"
The seer shrugged. "Only by winning the Trial of Flavor."
"I'm not doing that."
"You already entered by stepping on the ceremonial cracker."
Dorian burst out laughing.
Seraphine sighed. "We do not have time for a dairy duel."
"Then maybe don't travel with a cursed lactose monarch," Marlow said, patting Elliott's arm.
Letters in the Firelight
That night, as the group camped on the outskirts of town, Marlow showed Elliott a collection of torn letters—old correspondences between her father and someone using the codename "The Candle."
One read:
"When the puppet learns to pull strings, the marionette master burns."
Another:
"The king will fall not by blade, but by echo. The girl carries both."
Elliott stared. "That's not vague at all."
Marlow hesitated. "I think 'the girl' might be me."
Seraphine looked up sharply. "Or it could be someone else. Don't assume a prophecy until it stabs you."
"I have been stabbed," Elliott offered.
"By a toddler with a fork," Dorian reminded him.
"Still counts."
A Message in the Moonlight
As Elliott tried to sleep, a silver owl flew down to his tent, carrying a letter sealed with the royal crest of Harthmere.
He opened it.
"My King,"
You are not alone. There are those within the Cabal who question the fire. The flame that burns now burns too wild. Trust the spider. Fear the rose.
– An Old Friend.
"Spider… rose…" Elliott whispered. "But those were both on the coin."
Marlow stepped out of the shadows. "I saw that owl. What is it?"
"A message," Elliott said, tucking it away. "From someone inside."
He looked at the stars.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we head to Thornwatch."
Seraphine's voice echoed from her tent. "Great. Maybe pack extra bandages. And burn that cheese hat."
End of Chapter Nine