Chapter 23: The Great White Tree
My grandfather once told me about White Wood.
He said the city was named after a great white tree that stood outside its walls—so pale you could spot it even under moonlight, so old it looked like the world had grown around it by accident.
When I finally saw it, I almost laughed.
The Great White Tree wasn't white anymore.
It was black.Charred from crown to root, as if lightning had struck it and the fire had never truly forgiven it.
White Wood was rumored to be the second biggest city in the Kingdom of Rovena, but it wasn't even half as large as Ilana. Still, it was busy—wagons rolling, guards shouting, merchants arguing like their lives depended on coin.
I rode toward the gates with my hood down and my patience thin.
"Hey! You!" a guard shouted, pointing at me with his sword. "State your business here.
"I slowed my horse. "I'm looking for a friend," I said, scanning the other guards. "And of course… to make money."
The guard's eyes narrowed. "Who's your friend, and what do you do?"
"Canty of Ennox," I said. "And I'm a blacksmith.
"They stared at me for a heartbeat.
Then laughed.
"Blacksmith?" one repeated, wiping tears from his eyes. "He's a blacksmith, he says!"
"I say we hang him before he tells another lie."
"I say we gut him and stuff him with horseshoes.
"They kept going—creative, I'll give them that—until my smile dried up.I leaned forward slightly in the saddle.
"Ever heard of Grogan Drogba?" I asked.The laughter died like a candle in rain.
"What did you say?" one guard demanded.
"Oh," I said, feigning surprise, "you didn't know?"
"Didn't know what, boy?" another snapped.I shrugged. "Well, before he died, he was teaching someone his skills."
"You're lying," the guard beside me hissed.I didn't argue.
I drew my sword and tossed it down to him."Look at that," I said. "I made it myself.
"He caught it awkwardly, then stared.His fingers moved along the spine. He turned it to catch the light. He tapped the metal lightly with his nail and listened, like the sound might tell him the truth.
All the guards crowded in.
And that was when their faces changed.
Not fear.
Greed.
They threw me in a gaol before the sun finished setting.
Thievery, they said.
They took my lyre too, which meant I couldn't even pick locks in peace.
I could've sworn the cell was empty when they shoved me inside.
Then a voice came from the corner, dry and amused.
"So you're the thief who stole from the great Grogan Drogba.
"I shifted my weight, letting my eyes adjust to the dark.
"I'm no thief," I said, already thinking of the knife in my boot. "Who are you, and when did you get in here?"
"I'm no one," the voice said. "I once tried stealing from Grogan many years ago."
Something metal glinted in the shadows."A hook," he added casually. "Lost a hand trying to escape."
"Well," I said, because it was the only polite response I had left in me, "that's too bad."
He chuckled. "You're famous out there. Everyone wants to meet the legendary thief who stole from Grogan Drogba. I was one of them."
His voice turned disappointed.
"But now that I've seen you… I'm disappointed."
"Thanks," I muttered.
Footsteps and keys clattered down the stairs.
A shadow stopped outside a cell three doors away from mine and called out:
"Where's Leno of Ennox?"
I sat up straighter. "I'm right here!"
The shadow walked to my cell, unlocked it, and yanked the door open.
A tall man with keys stared down at me like I was filth that had learned to speak.
"You're one lucky bastard, thief."
I stepped out. He slammed the door behind me and locked it.
"Oh yeah?" I asked, stretching my wrists. "Why is that, grumpy?"
"You'll find out soon," he said.
Outside, two guards waited—real ones this time.
Maroon cloaks attached to steel plate armor. True knights. Not the gate dogs. Not the jail rats.
"You look nice, sers," I said, glancing at them as we stepped into the evening air. Sunset had painted the streets in copper.
One of them spoke without expression. "Come with us. No questions."
"Wait," I said, holding up a hand. "I need my lyre and my weapons back. And the silver those guards took from me.
"The jailer's mouth twisted."You can have your lyre," he said, "but not the silver and weapons. Not until you're found innocent of theft."
"What theft?" I asked, folding my arms. "Who witnessed it? What proof do you have?"
He ignored me, went back inside, and returned with my lyre.
He tossed it at my chest.
"No weapons," he said. "No silver."
For a moment, I was tempted. My sword always seemed to appear when I reached for it. Same with my knife. Like steel had learned my hands.
But I swallowed the impulse.I wasn't giving him a reason to throw me back into the dark.
"We will meet again, sir," I said sweetly.
Then I faced the two maroon-cloaked guards.
"Lead the way."
We walked in silence through the city until we reached a building that looked new, expensive, and hungry for attention.
The biggest in White Wood.
Not the tallest—that honor belonged to the priests' house—but this one wore wealth like armor.
"I guess this is what the jailer meant," I murmured, admiring the design despite myself. "From a gaol to the best building in the city. Whose house is this?"
"You will see soon enough," one guard replied.
They opened the doors.Inside, candlelight burned brighter than normal candles should. The air smelled of wax and warm bread.
I would've admired the interior properly if the woman standing in the middle of the room hadn't stolen my breath.
Pale skin.
Slender frame.
Shiny brown hair in soft waves.
A baby face I recognized instantly.
Canty.
Except she didn't look like a refugee anymore.
She looked like a lady.Like money had dressed her and taught her how to smile safely.
"Canty?" I said, voice stuck between shock and suspicion.
"Hey, Leno," she replied, smiling like we were meeting under kinder circumstances.
"What are you doing here?" I demanded.
Footsteps sounded above us.
Three people descended the stairs in matching tan clothes, including Canty.
A middle-aged man with a deep voice.
A young man around twenty.
And a young woman a little older than me.
Canty gestured toward them. "I'm staying here now… with my fiancé and his family."I blinked. "Fiancé?"
The deep voice spoke. "Canty, my dear, would you introduce us to our guest?"
Canty lifted her chin, suddenly formal."Leno," she said, "this is Pan Ann Sr—the Mayor of White Wood."
She indicated the young man.
"And this is Pan Ann Jr, the Mayor's son… my fiancé."
Then she gestured to the young woman.
"And this is Annabelle Ann—the Mayor's daughter."
Annabelle smiled. "Please call me Anna or Belle."
She looked nothing like Ashirai.
And yet something about her reminded me of her anyway.
Maybe it was the way she smiled—like she could cut you without showing her teeth.
"I'll go with Belle," I said, returning the smile. "And please, call me Leno."
The Mayor nodded once. "Now that introductions are done, join us for dinner. My father can't stand sitting at a table with food without eating."
I followed them into the dining room, but my eyes kept searching for Canty's.
I needed answers.
Immediately.
A servant appeared beside my chair so quietly I almost flinched.
"Please take a seat, sir."
At the table sat a middle-aged woman and a very old man. The woman's posture was perfect; the old man's posture was tired, like his bones had negotiated with gravity for too many years.
"Good evening," I said, forcing polite.They bowed their heads slightly.
"You must be Leno," the middle-aged woman said. "Canty's little brother. I'm Mela Ann."
My mind stumbled.
Canty's little brother?
What in the name of all iron was going on?
"Yes, ma'am," I said carefully. "Nice to meet you."
Dinner lasted half an hour.
Long enough for me to taste food without tasting it.
Long enough for my questions to stack up like unpaid debt.
When dessert arrived, the old man finally spoke.
"You look weary, young man."
I looked into his eyes and felt something uncomfortable—like he could see past my face.
"I could say the same about you, sir."
He smiled faintly.
"Yes, but all I need is sleep. And I will be fine."
His gaze held mine.
"But not you. What's on your mind is making you weary."
He folded his hands together.
"Do you mind telling me what bothers you?"
Everyone looked at me.I shoved grapes into my mouth, chewed, swallowed.
"I'm not sure what bothers me," I said honestly.
Then I lifted my chin."But I do have questions."
"Ask," the old man said."Have you ever heard of Pecundo of Noel?" I asked.
The old man scoffed softly.
"Nobody has spoken of Pecundo of Noel in eighty years," he said. "Where did you hear that name, young man?"
"It's the first name I ever learned," I said, voice tightening. "Other than my own."
I leaned forward.
"Why did people stop talking about him?"
The old man's expression sharpened.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But every book about Pecundo disappeared—from homes, from merchants, from private collections."
He glanced toward the walls as if they might be listening.
"Even the library has no single parchment of his."
My throat went dry.
"Tell me about him," I said quietly. "Please."
The old man smiled like he was opening a door that should've stayed shut.
"The legend of Pecundo of Noel," he murmured, staring into the candle flames. "Only a few people still know it."
And then he began.
Once upon a time, White Wood was haunted by a terror that killed half a dozen people every night in brutal, grotesque ways. Physicians came and found nothing. Priests and magicians came and came closer—but still couldn't stop it. People fled. The streets emptied.
Until a lone man appeared in a gathering storm, wearing the strangest, finest cloak. Hood up. Head bowed. Face hidden.
He came to this very house.
"My father was the Mayor," the old man said. "He laughed at the man and told him to leave."
The old man's mouth turned faintly self-mocking.
"But I believed him. I was eight. I stole five hundred silver from my father's vault and begged the man to kill whatever was killing my city."
The man told him to keep the money until the work was done.
Then he patrolled the empty streets.
He placed five posts in the middle of the city.
He entered five houses and dragged one person from each.
The people he dragged out fought like madmen. Spoke in a language nobody understood. Tried to kill him.
They couldn't hurt him.
He tied each to a post.
Drew a massive circle around them—marked with runes the old man couldn't read.
He began to mutter spells.
Exorcist spells, the old man said, voice low.
The tied people screamed as black and red mist poured from their mouths.
Clouds spiraled over the city.And when the mist finally stopped, what remained was not human at all—five grotesque, shapeless things.
They tried to claw their way out of the circle.
The man stayed calm.
He pulled out a silvery whip and drove them from the city, striking them whenever they tried to slip into buildings.
Outside the walls, he somehow caught all five at once.
Dragged them to the Great White Tree.
Bound them to it with the whip.
Then he opened a portal beside the tree and shoved each form inside.
The last fought harder than the rest.
It threw lightning.
Most of the bolts struck the Great White Tree.
Some hit empty buildings.
Even this house.
But the man forced it into the portal and shut it.
Then he spoke another spell and stopped the tree from burning further.
"My father came out to witness it," the old man continued. "He invited the man inside. Paid him ten times what I'd stolen."
The man finally gave his name.
"Pecundo of Noel."
He left the next morning, promising he'd placed protection around the city.
He called the shapeless things demons.
And he swore they would not return.
The old man stopped staring at the candles and looked at me directly.
"Since that day," he said, "no one has ever heard of Pecundo again."
He swallowed.
"Some wrote books about him. They were killed. The books destroyed."
His eyes hardened.
"Some simply disappeared."
Silence filled the table like smoke.
Then I asked the question that had been rotting in my mouth since the hidden valley.
"Tell me, old man," I said, voice steady, "if you ever heard someone say Pecundo of Noel raped and killed three young girls bathing in a river…"
My fingers tightened around my wine glass.
"What would you say to that?"
The old man didn't hesitate.
"I would have that person hanged for a terrible lie."
"And if there's evidence that proves otherwise?" I asked.
I stared into the dark red wine like it could answer for me.
The old man's voice went cold.
"Then that evidence is planted."He leaned forward slightly.
"Which means he has been framed."