The Woman of the Wet Forest

Timber, iron and law

A Frontier Untamed

In the hundredth year after the Mother’s Birthing, the west was still young. Avalos was barely a kingdom, and King Henry I ruled by timber, iron and the Edicts of the Scale.

But law could not tame a frontier. So Henry turned to the Church.

Swords behind the Church

The Keepers of the Hearth preached obedience, and behind them walked swords in mail—not yet crusaders in name, but crusaders in purpose.

They hunted witches and warlocks: those who whispered of the Old World and the beasts that served it. Rumor was guilt, and guilt burned at the stake.

For years, the swords swept the Hearthland clean. Village to village. Chapel to crossroads. Until only one remained: the woman of the wet forest.

Mist and ruined stone

The Woman in the Forest

They found her at dawn, in a clearing of mist and ruined stone. Upon a great slab lay ancient sigils, cut so deep they seemed to bleed rain.

Some swore they saw Death himself beside her—a figure silent and pale. Still, they obeyed. They bound her, burned her beneath dripping pines, and waited for dawn.

The path did not return

When the sun rose, they turned south. But every road bent back to the same stones, the same symbols, the same clearing.

Hours became days. Their minds frayed like rotten rope. In the end, the forest released them—broken, mud-soaked and half-mad.

The legend remains

The Keepers silenced their tales. The Church rewrote the hunt as victory.

But in the wet forest, the sigils remained—and so did the legend.