The Brotherhood of the Forest

The taste of blood and iron lingered in the air as Wolfstan approached the injured bandit sprawled on the ground. The man coughed, a wet, rattling sound, and his lips curled into a grin far too wide for someone so close to death. His face was smeared with dirt, and a line of blood trickled from a split in his brow. Despite the agony he must have felt, the bandit's eyes gleamed with something close to amusement.

Wolfstan knelt beside him, his shadow falling over the man's face like a shroud. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice low but firm, carrying the weight of a man who had seen more than he'd ever wanted. "Who sent you?"

The bandit's grin didn't falter. If anything, it grew sharper, like a blade pressed to skin. His eyes, hazy with pain, locked onto Wolfstan's. He breathed shallowly, each inhale catching on broken ribs.

"We come from the Forest," the bandit rasped, his voice as rough as old bark. "The forest never forgets," the bandit rasped, his voice as rough as old bark.

Wolfstan's breath caught in his throat. His eyes narrowed, searching the man's face for any sign of deceit. But he knew. He knew exactly what those words meant. His heart thudded in his chest like a war drum. The Forest in the North. Not just any forest, not just any bandits. It was them.

"No," he muttered, his eyes going wide with disbelief. His lips parted, but no words came. The Brotherhood of the Forest. Five years had passed since their banners had been torn down, their leaders slain or scattered like leaves before a storm. He was too young when the last battle happened, but he'd heard about it. They were supposed to be gone.

But here they were.

Wolfstan's jaw tightened. His fingers curled into fists as he stood, casting a long, jagged shadow over the wounded bandit. He didn't waste words on the man. There was no point. Instead, he turned and made his way toward Osric's hut at the edge of the clearing.

Osric's one-room shelter smelled of smoke, leather, and damp earth. The older man's brow furrowed as soon as he saw Wolfstan's face.

"It's done, then?" Osric asked, his eyes flicking to the clearing where the dead and dying lay. He'd seen this before. Bloodshed was no stranger to him.

"For now," Wolfstan replied, pulling off his gloves, his hands caked with dirt and blood. "They won't bother you this week. But it's not over."

"Aye?" Osric's eyes narrowed with concern. He reached for his pipe, stuffing it with dry leaf and striking a spark. Smoke curled between them like a serpent's coil.

"They're not just any bandits," Wolfstan said, glancing over his shoulder as if the trees themselves might be listening. "They're Brotherhood."

Osric's hands stilled. The pipe's ember flickered once, then faded. He stared at Wolfstan with the hard, steady gaze of a man who'd survived too many close calls. "You're certain?" he asked quietly.

"I'm certain," Wolfstan said, his voice grim as a funeral bell. "Five years I've lived thinking they were finished. But they're back. I'm sure of it."

Osric's eyes darted to the door, then to the woods beyond. His hand tightened on the pipe like it was a weapon. Fear flickered behind his eyes, and his jaw set with quiet resolve. He'd borne the weight of their beatings, seen his goods stolen time and again, and each time he'd been powerless to stop them. "They'll come again, then," he muttered, glancing at Wolfstan with a mixture of worry and hope. "What'll you do?"

Wolfstan's gaze was like steel. "I'm going to Raldel," he said. "I need to speak with lord of Raldel."

"Rest first," Osric said firmly. "Day's light is fading, and you've fought enough for one. You'll think clearer in the morning."

For a moment, Wolfstan's pride bristled, but he saw the sense in Osric's words. He nodded once. "Fine. But help me bury the dead."

They dug shallow graves as twilight stretched into night, the cold bite of the earth seeping into their fingers. No words were shared as they covered the bodies, only the sound of soil thudding against flesh.

At dawn, Wolfstan's resolve was as firm as ever. He gathered his cloak, his sword, and his will. By the time the first light broke through the trees, he was already on the road to Raldel.

The journey was long, but his mind was longer. Thoughts of the Brotherhood's return gnawed at him like a wolf at a bone. When he reached the gates of Raldel, the guards looked him over with suspicion but did not bar his entry. A word was sent to the manor.

He stood before his father's hall, heart steady but heavy. When the doors swung wide and he stepped inside, he saw his father seated at the head of the chamber, surrounded by advisors and attendants. The Lord of Raldel's eyes settled on him like a hawk spotting prey.

"I thought I told you to leave for good," the lord said, his voice carrying sharp authority. "What do you want?"

Wolfstan's throat tightened, but he forced himself to stand tall. "I need a word in private, my Lord," he said, casting a glance at the gathered advisors. "It's a matter of urgency. One I'd rather not have overheard."

Murmurs rippled through the room. His father's eyes narrowed, his fingers drumming on the armrest of his chair. For a moment, it seemed he'd refuse, but after a long, tense pause, he waved his hand dismissively.

"Leave us," he barked to his attendants. They hesitated but obeyed, shuffling from the room. The heavy doors shut with a hollow thud, leaving father and son alone.

"Speak quickly, bastard," his father growled, his eyes hard as stone. "I've little patience for you."

Wolfstan's jaw tightened, but he did not rise to the bait. "The Brotherhood of the Forest has returned," he said, his voice clear as a tolling bell. "I've seen them myself. Killed two of them. More will come."

The lord's fingers stopped drumming. His face was unreadable, his eyes distant as he considered the weight of those words. Silence stretched between them like a taut rope.

At first, his lord's disbelief was plain. His brow furrowed, his eyes hard with doubt. But Wolfstan's words did not waver. He pressed on, unyielding, his voice like steady hammer blows against stone. Then he spoke the words one of the bandits had uttered—"The forest never forgets."

His lord's eyes went wide, his breath catching as if the words had struck him square in the chest. The weight of them hung in the air, heavy as a storm's pressure before the first crack of thunder. For a moment, silence ruled the chamber. Slowly, his lord's face shifted, his features drawn tight with something between fear and fury. His gasp was soft, almost imperceptible, but it echoed louder than a shout in the still room. His gaze sharpened to a point, eyes fixed on Wolfstan like a predator watching prey.

"Never utter those words again," his lord snapped, his voice hard as iron.

His lord's eyes narrowed, his fingers tapping slowly against the armrest of his chair. A flicker of thought passed behind his eyes, sharp and calculating. His lips curved into a subtle, knowing smile as if an idea had taken root in his mind—one that would serve him well.

"I'll grant you swords," he said slowly, his tone like cold steel. "But only if you join them."

Wolfstan's heart twisted. He knew what his lord was doing. The man saw an opportunity to rid himself of his bastard son. It wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last.

He met his lord's gaze with iron resolve. "Fine," Wolfstan said, his voice like the grind of steel on stone. "Give me the swords."

His lord's lips twitched into a small, cruel smile. But Wolfstan didn't care. He had a vow to fulfill. No hurt, no slight, no insult would break him.