The forest gave no greeting as Wilmot crested the rise. Only the sigh of wind through brittle limbs marked his return. Clover trod beside him, patient and unhurried, the cart behind them shifting with the soft clatter of oil tins, salted meat, and fresh-cut rope. The road, empty now, bore the hush of late autumn, and the trees stood like sentries on either side, tall and grave, watching with eyes made of bark and shadow.
Wilmot had walked half the day with little more than the donkey for company, and his boots were caked with the damp breath of the forest. He was tired, though he would not show it—not here, not now. He tightened his grip on Clover's lead and inhaled the scent of pine needles and smoke still clinging faintly to his cloak. The city had not left him; it merely followed at a distance.
At the gate, Halward waited. His helm rested on the bench beside him, the iron catching the dusk light like a slivered moon. He stood still as a carved idol, one hand on the ledger, the other at his side. He did not speak, but Wil saw the slight incline of his head as they approached—a ritual of reception more ancient than speech.
Wil halted the cart and lowered the gate's latch with care. He stood straight, though his shoulders ached. “Everything you asked,” he offered, his voice rough with road-dust. “And something from Bertram.”
He reached into the side pouch of his cloak and withdrew a velvet-wrapped bundle that had been in the cart—a pouch of dark leather tied with a green ribbon. “A message,” Wil added. “And this. He called it ‘fitting.’”
Halward unwrapped the bundle and let the ribbon fall away. Within lay a single silver ring, plain but polished, and a short note, signed with Bertram’s mark: A trifle, for the one still guarding rust. May it fit your finger, if not your post.
Halward’s jaw tensed. He said nothing, but the set of his mouth sharpened like frost on stone. He folded the note once and slipped it into his coat, the gesture slow, deliberate.
Wil stepped back and gestured toward the donkey. “This is Clover. The cart was part of Bertram’s orders. She’s stubborn, but steady. I named her.”
From the path that wound back toward the chapel, Oswin appeared, his walking stick tapping against the stone as he descended toward the gatehouse. The chapel stood a short distance up the hill, its windows lit by fading sun. Oswin moved slowly, but his eyes were alert.
“Well met, Clover,” he said, arriving at last. He reached to pat the donkey’s flank with a warm nod. “You’ve chosen a kind one, at least.”
“She’s clever,” Wil said. “Stopped at the clover patch just past the well. I thought that meant something.”
“Most names do,” Oswin replied. “Whether we know it or not.”
Wil turned back to Halward, fumbling in his cloak. “And this…” He withdrew the fox token, extending it with both hands. “I shouldn’t have taken it. I thought it was just a charm, something to keep. But I know better now. I’m sorry.”
Halward took it without a word. He studied the token—its shape, its weight, the way the wood caught the last rays of light. “You were told not to speak of it.”
“I know,” Wil said, voice low. “But I thought if I could understand it… I might be more like you.”
Halward exhaled slowly, not with anger, but with something wearier. “You’re not meant to be me. And I was never meant to be someone else. You are yourself, Wil. Let that be enough.”
He tucked the token into his belt. “Thank you for your honesty. See that it remains a habit. It may yet keep you well.”
Wil glanced toward the chapel. “Arrow's doing better. I found a thimble for him in the city. Pewter. Small, but it caught my eye. Thought he might like something bright for his nest.”
Before Halward could respond, a gust of wind swept down from the east, cold and sudden, as if drawn from a place older than the trees. Arrow, perched now at the gates edge near the lantern post, stirred sharply, his good wing flaring.
Then the forest changed.
A shadow detached from the trees—not with noise, but with intention. It did not walk so much as move, slipping between the boundary of shape and absence. Wil’s eyes caught it first, and for a moment he froze, his breath caught halfway in his chest.
Oswin turned at the shift in the air. He raised his lantern. “To the chapel. Now.”
Clover stamped once. Arrow let out a guttural croak and flapped his wings. Wil obeyed.
The shadow grew taller as it neared the border of field and wood. It stepped just past the first line of trees, then paused. A torch flared to life in its hand—not bright, but controlled, casting long flickers across the underbrush. Behind the light, a deep green hood obscured the figure’s face entirely. Yet beneath the hood, Wil felt the gaze—a burning, ageless awareness.
The torch rose.
Halward stepped forward. “Halt.”
The figure did not.
“I said halt.”
The torch dipped. A response. Or a challenge.
Halward drew his sword.
Oswin gripped Wil by the shoulder and turned him up the path. “Take the bird. Take the beast. Go.”
Wil resisted for only a second. “Who is it?”
Oswin’s voice lowered. “Go.”
Clover brayed, uneasy. Oswin walked beside them now, leading them up the path toward the chapel. Behind them, the gate creaked, and Oswin turned long enough to drop the iron latch. It fell into place with a dull clunk, a sound that echoed deeper than it should have.
Outside, Halward passed through the threshold.
He was no longer simply Halward. He the Warden of Woodgate. The forest had stirred, and he had answered.
The torch moved—side to side, back and forth. It danced like something testing the edge of firelight and memory. A dare. A signal.
Halward followed.
His sword glinted faintly in the last of the dusk. With steady breath and heart ready, he passed beneath the branches.
Sherwood swallowed him whole.
***
As Halward advanced into the deeper reaches of Sherwood, the path constricted and softened beneath his boots. Each step pressed into a carpet of decaying leaves and moss, the forest’s breath rising in a damp, earthy hush. This was no ordinary woodland. Here, time slowed. Trees leaned inward like listeners at a confessional, their bark gnarled with stories untold. He kept his sword drawn—not from fear, but reverence. This was not the king’s land, nor the domain of men. It was an ancient threshold, consecrated by root and ritual. The old laws slept here, but did not forget.
The torchlight that had guided him vanished without warning, claimed by the boughs. Darkness came not as void, but as presence. Moonlight, pale and uncertain, filtered through the twisted canopy in shards, painting the ground in fragments of silver. The scent of loam and moss soaked the air. Wind moved between the oaks like a monastic chant, slow and purposeful. Even the birds had fallen silent. The hush was not absence. It was vigilance, reverent and complete.
***
Halward stepped into a small glade, the heart of the ancient wood. The earth beneath his boots thrummed with old power. Before him rose the largest oak he had ever seen, a titan of twisted trunk and spiraling limbs that spread like an open hand holding the sky. At its base sat a lone figure, cloaked and hooded, torch resting in hand but unlit. The man raised one hand—not in threat, but invitation. Halward advanced, slowly, across the moss-softened earth.
As he crossed the grove’s threshold, others emerged.
Figures materialized from the shadows, not with speed but with rhythm, like a breath exhaled. One by one they stepped from the margins of the clearing, cloaked in green and brown, their movements as fluid as falling leaves. Their faces were hidden, their hands empty. They made no sound. A dozen, perhaps more, formed a quiet circle around the glade. It was not menace but ritual. They stood as if summoned—not to judge, but to bear witness.
At the grove’s center, beneath the oak whose roots spread like the spines of a great beast, the hooded figure remained seated. The torch rested across his knees, unlit. He wore no armor, carried no sword, yet he held the silence with authority. The folds of his cloak seemed to blend into the moss beneath him. His presence was not announced, but accepted—as if the forest itself had chosen him.
Halward stopped a pace before the encircling men, studied the line of their shoulders, the utter stillness of their vigil. Slowly, he sheathed his sword. The rasp of steel returning to scabbard rang louder than any voice.
“I know when I am not meant to draw first blood,” Halward said, his tone steady.
The hooded man did not move for some time. Then he spoke, his voice quiet, yet weighted, each syllable thick with history.
“The wind speaks to me,” he said. “It told me a boy bore my mark.”
Halward nodded. “He did.”
“Where was it found?”
“Near the old cedar. The one with roots like clenched fists. It was embedded in the earth—not dropped, but placed. Clean. Waiting.”
The man tilted his head slightly. “It was not lost. It was hidden. The fox does not misplace what it buries.”
A silence fell again—dense, listening.
“You kept it,” the man said. “Did you know its meaning?”
“No,” Halward replied. “But I know better now.”
“Then you know it must return.”
“To the boy?”
“Yes. Only to him. The promise belongs to the one who awakens it. You are the bearer, not the keeper.”
Halward narrowed his eyes. “What promise does it hold?”
The man’s voice dropped, slow and deliberate.
“If the boy finds himself in need—not the kind solved by coin or command, but the kind that bends the soul—he must place the token back where it was found. The forest will hear. The wind will stir. But nothing is given freely. The token is not a gift. It is a bond. And every bond must be paid.”
Halward’s voice hardened. “And what payment do you require?”
The circle did not move. Yet something shifted—the weight of air, the scent of the leaves, the gaze of trees.
The man in green rose with a motion like lifting fog. His steps toward Halward were silent, his path unquestioned. Draped over one shoulder was a linen bundle. The moonlight caught its curve—arched, elegant, unmistakably a bow.
He stopped before Halward and offered the bundle with both hands.
“For the boy,” he said. “A bow of yew, seasoned through storm and quiet. Arrows of ash, drawn from the grove’s own boughs. Fletched with silence. Let him learn not how to strike—but when to listen.”
Halward accepted the gift. It was lighter than he expected, yet somehow more solid than any steel. He unwrapped a corner of the cloth—beneath it, the grain of the yew shimmered in the moonlight.
“And the price?” he asked.
The man leaned in, voice a whisper that cut like chime across the bone.
“When the bell rings twice, you will know.”
No more was said.
The man turned. The others vanished. Not in haste, nor in fear—but like breath leaving a room. The forest absorbed them, branch by branch, shadow by shadow.
Halward stood alone.
The great oak loomed behind him. The moon sat high. In his arms, the gift remained.
Only the wind lingered. It offered no words to him.
But Halward knew.
The forest had spoken.
***
The forest did not speak on Halward’s return, yet its silence was not empty. It was contemplative, almost ceremonial—as though the trees, having borne witness to the meeting beneath the oaks, were now engaged in their own quiet conversation. The moss beneath his boots felt softer, the air denser with meaning. Every fern and knotted root now seemed charged with some lingering echo of what had passed. The yew bow in his hand, the quiver across his back—neither burdened him, but both pressed against him with quiet insistence. He bore them not as weapons, but as a message.
His walk back to Woodgate took longer than he remembered. Or perhaps the time bent differently now. The familiar track wove between skeletal branches and ivy-covered trunks, and he passed landmarks made unfamiliar by the weight of his thoughts: a fallen log now looked like an altar, and the hollow beneath the old sycamore whispered with unseen voices. He did not look back. The forest, though quiet, was still listening.
By the time Halward reached the gate, the stars had scattered westward, and the first thread of light brushed the eastern rim of the world. He passed beneath the stone archway without ceremony and made directly for the chapel. The air was crisp, laden with the scent of leaf rot and coming frost.
Oswin was already waiting.
The old man stood beside the chapel door with his lantern raised, as if illuminating not the night, but Halward himself. His eyes, steady and unreadable, caught the glint of the bow.
“You were gone a long while,” he said, voice low but firm.
Halward gave a slow nod. “The forest required more listening than I had prepared to offer.”
Oswin studied him for a moment. “And did it speak?”
Halward stepped inside without answering. The chapel’s interior welcomed him with its usual warmth. The scent of pine, beeswax, and smoke drifted in gentle currents through the quiet room. Wilmot lay curled near the hearth, cloak pulled close, his breathing slow and deep. Arrow perched atop Oswin's staff, one eye open. Clover shifted but did not stir.
Halward approached without sound. He knelt and gently placed the bow beside Wil’s sleeping form. The boy stirred as if sensing something, one hand brushing the yew curve before slipping back into stillness. The bow remained against his side.
Oswin entered behind him, steps careful on the chapel floor. “You brought him a gift,” he said, glancing down.
Halward kept his voice soft. “It’s more than a gift. It’s a covenant. And there will be a cost.”
Oswin’s brow creased. “Then it wasn’t freely given?”
“Nothing in Sherwood is,” Halward replied. “But he offered it willingly. For Wil. The token was never mine to keep.”
The old man looked toward the window, where dawn approached with the slow reverence of liturgy. “You’ve made a bargain, then?”
Halward nodded. “One I don’t yet fully understand. Only that when the bell rings twice, I’ll know what’s required.”
Oswin gave a slow, measured breath. “Ancient pacts don’t clarify themselves until the moment arrives. That is their nature. You’ll be ready.”
Halward stood. “He’ll need guidance. Sooner than we’d hoped.”
“And he’ll have it,” Oswin said. “In the art of the bow. And in other things.”
Halward reached for the latch, then paused. “You should rest. I’ll take the gate.”
But Oswin lifted a hand. “No. Let me keep this watch. You stay. Teach him. Sit with him when he wakes. The questions are coming—slow, quiet ones that take root before they speak.”
Halward didn’t argue. He placed a hand on Oswin’s shoulder, a gesture brief but heavy with shared burden.
Outside, the rim of the sun breached the edge of the world, gilding the treetops with gold.
***
By morning, the dew lay thick on the grass behind the chapel. Wilmot stood barefoot in the glade, the yew bow resting in his palms like an heirloom relic. His breath hung in the chill air. Halward knelt before him, one hand on the bow’s curve, the other guiding the boy’s fingers with the calm precision of an experienced craftsman.
“Not with your grip,” Halward said. “Let the tension pass through you. The bow remembers. You don’t force it—you respond.”
Wil tightened his jaw, adjusted his stance. “It’s like… holding a breath.”
Halward nodded. “And when it’s time to release, you do so without anger. The wood listens. It never forgets.”
They stood there for some time—teacher and student, master and heir—surrounded by the hush of morning. Arrow resting on Hal's shoulder. The world seemed paused in reverence.
From the gatehouse, Oswin sat watch. He was more shadow than man now, still and seated, the hood of his robe drawn against the wind. His eyes did not stray from the road that disappeared into the forest. He watched not for travelers, but for omens.
The forest had spoken.
And now, it watched.
And waited.