The lightless groves, lined with blackened timber that seemed to have ceased its very respiration, stood as an omen of disquiet, sowing a seed of dread in every corner of the mind.
Ordinarily, a forest is the very cradle of existence—a sanctuary and a nursery for life in all its myriad forms. Other woodlands would be alive with the ceaseless thrum of insects throughout the night, the melodic courtship of avians, the guttural roar of beasts, and the constant, restless sigh of the wind through the leaves.
At this hour, the Darkwood harboured not a single insect. No nests clung to the boughs; no hidden dens lay nestled within the undergrowth. The deeper one ventured into the timber's heart, the more profound the silence became—a void where even the gale was forbidden. The leaves remained utterly motionless, as if the forest had raised an invisible wall to bar the very passage of the wind.
Yet, despite these auditory and olfactory aberrations, the Darkwood offered no other sign of deviance. No shadow of a demon haunted the groves. No trace of a beast marred the soil. No cold remains were to be found. Every square inch of the forest appeared entirely devoid of peril.
✧ . ✶ . ⛤ . ✶ . ✧
The night drifted onward, carried by the current of restless minds, as an inky sky draped its mantle over the vast wilderness.
Seraph remained concealed atop a towering crest. Below him, the largest assembly of demon hunters—a host numbering over three thousand—had congregated. This was a grand coalition forged from the complements of multiple airships, among whom Myre and his cabal from the tenth vessel were visible.
This legion of hunters had encircled roaring bonfires, feasting upon roasted meats with reckless abandon. The savoury aroma wafted through the air, intertwined with the strains of rowdy songs and spirited dances. Some roared with mindless laughter, their inhibitions dissolved by the sting of strong spirits.
Yet, amidst the revelry, not all had surrendered to lethargy. A faction of demon hunters still pored over charts and journals, fastidiously recording every detail of the timber they'd encountered. Certain groups exchanged intelligence with blunt honesty, while others opened wagers upon a myriad of outcomes. To a man, they remained steadfast in their belief in their own prowess and the sharpness of their steel.
Seraph cast his gaze across the unfathomable breadth of the great timber, yet he could discern nothing. Not a single aberration presented itself. Compared to the hunt for the jester demon within the suffocating sprawl of Arkpolis, the Capital had offered far more threads to unravel than this void.
"Sigh..." The young magis exhaled, a heavy breath laden with inexplicable frustration.
He propelled himself through the mantle of night, navigating toward a singular, towering tree that stood as a monolith at the very heart of the Darkwood.
From dawn until the gathering dusk, Seraph had elected to scrutinise the forest's core first. It was there he'd discovered a titan of flora—a skeletal giant, withered and dead in its isolation. Within the gnarled expanse of its trunk lay a hollow large enough to offer sanctuary.
Though this ancient arboreal was devoid of life, its foliage long since surrendered to the earth, it remained as soaring as the Royal Sentry Tower of Arkflame. At such an altitude, even the most daring avians could not hope to nest, and it was a height no ordinary demon hunter could ever dream of scaling.
For those who interlaced mageia with the art of the blade, tempering their physical essence might render a ten-metre ascent a trivial feat. However, when faced with a wooden spire ascending fifty metres into the heavens, leaping to its summit became a task beyond reach. Atop this sky-piercing crest, the hollow had been transmuted into a lofty spire, offering a pocket of serenity and safety amidst the leaden atmosphere of the Darkwood.
Throughout his inaugural day scouring the timber, Seraph had frequently encountered aspirants from the other vessels. At the initial locking of gazes, each party would manifest a guarded stance, hands hovering near steel in anticipation of a fray. Yet, the instant those hunters discerned the young man was a practitioner of mageia, their demeanour shifted violently. Every band, without exception, began to trail him with relentless entreaties, imploring the young magis to pledge himself to their faction.
Though Seraph maintained a clinical indifference and sought sanctuary in flight, he was beset by these same pleas across the breadth of the forest. Only within this arboreal hollow could his senses find reprieve from the cacophonous blight of human presence.
"Unnatural... the logic of this place is fractured," Seraph analysed in soliloquy, his heart leaden with doubt. "Even if this timber were cleansed of demons, it ought to harbour a few beasts at the very least... yet here, not a solitary insect stirs. It seems I must extend the radius of my search come the morrow."
✧ . ✶ . ⛤ . ✶ . ✧
The days drifted by, yet the situation within the Darkwood remained entombed in a suffocating monotony.
Not a single soul had detected a trace of a demon or a predatory beast. The timber offered nothing to arrest the eye, nor did any shift occur within its lightless groves; the Darkwood persisted as the most tranquil sanctuary in the mortal realm.
Yet, as only a few nights bled into one another, that very stillness began to unsheathe the hidden talons of a burgeoning crisis.
The genesis of the calamity creeping upon the hunters was the harrowing reality that the Darkwood harboured not a single beast. This meant the timber was devoid of any quarry or sustenance to sustain them. Among the myriad of tribulations they'd anticipated for the Bloody Hunting, a crisis of famine was the one ordeal for which none were prepared.
The nourishment consumed by each cabal in the initial days consisted solely of dry rations—the majority of which were pitifully meagre. Even those who'd come most fortified, their packs swollen with reserves, could perhaps endure a sennight or two. Yet, certain aspirants had embarked without so much as a crust of bread. This deprivation extended to the scarcity of potable water, a resource that proved elusive within this sable wilderness.
As nearly all aspirants had elected to cluster together for mutual reliance, they were coerced into fracturing their scant provisions. This communal sacrifice allowed the host to cling to life for a few days more; however, the mounting tension served as volatile tinder, igniting bitter feuds and violent altercations within the bands.
It was a profound enigma—while every chattel within the derelict hamlets remained untouched, the stores of meat within every dwelling had utterly vanished. The rot of starvation began to transmute into a jagged strain of anxiety that festered across every league of the forest.
Amidst the encroaching despair, a flicker of fortune remained: starches and grains had been left behind in those hollow homesteads. This allowed them to prepare rudimentary meals and eke out their remaining breaths for a few days longer.
Yet these scant starches could not begin to replenish what had been lost; the constitution of a demon hunter demanded immense energy each day to sustain their mageia and martial vigour. The total absence of meat spiralled into a crisis of famine that infected every group, long before they'd even unsheathed a blade or faced a solitary foe.