The first men to enter the Zentrian Forest did not return alive, not truly.
Only one survivor was ever found, kneeling at the outskirts of Zentra, a forgotten town in the borderlands of Boscow. His fingers were sunk into the soil, as if trying to take root. His tongue had split down the middle, veined with bark-like tendrils, twitching as though it yearned to speak. His eyes pits of solid black resin reflected no light, only the creeping shadow of the forest behind him.
When the town's elders asked what he had seen, the man exhaled a breath that reeked of wet earth and decaying blossoms. Without a sound, he carved a single word into his arm with a hooked fingernail:
END.
At sunrise, an unnatural phenomenon unfolded. Vines erupted from his throat, writhing like serpents, spilling spores into the morning air. By nightfall, an eerie chorus of whispers threaded through every crack and crevice of Boscow's mainland.
The Hollow Creed, once dismissed as the lunatic ravings of cultists, had been proven grimly true.
The forest, long entombed in myth and ancestral warnings, had revealed its name:
THE HOLLOW ORCHARD.
That same day, recorded in history as Stain: Zentra's Rootfall, two noble sons from Boscow's capital, Ironholm, arrived in Zentra on a countryside tour meant to separate them from their father's suffocating politics.
Thorne Valtri and Ethan Fenric, seventeen and restless, had no idea their journey would unravel the threads of the realm.
"This town reeks of damp earth and fear," Ethan muttered, glancing around the withering village.
He turned to his companion. "Why are you staring at the dirt like you owe it money?"
Thorne blinked out of a daze. A pebble struck his shoulder. "What the hell, man?" he snapped.
Ethan grinned, slinging an arm over Thorne's shoulder. "Admit it. You're bored."
Thorne shrugged him off. "We're supposed to be appreciating the countryside. Not provoking soldiers. We're incognito."
"Says the guy who threw the first punch," Ethan smirked.
They were both sons of power. Thorne the son of General Marcus Will Valtri-Boscow's war-hardened enforcer and devout believer in the Hollow Creed's doctrine. Thorne admired his father's skill with the blade but harbored doubts about the creed's infallibility. Something about the ancient scripts didn't sit right with him.
Ethan, on the other hand, was born to Minister Aleric Altus Fenric and Royal Advisor Liora Soma Fenric an uncommon blend of guile, intelligence, and battlefield instinct. Groomed for command by General Marcus himself, Ethan instead found himself drawn to the folklore of the Zentrian Forest.
"Hey Thorne," Ethan asked, his voice quieter now. "We're going to the forest today, right?"
Thorne nodded. "We are."
"You're not scared?" Ethan pressed.
"No," Thorne replied, eyes distant. "I just want to understand."
Before another word could be exchanged, a scream cut through the air.
With a fleeting exchange of glances, the boys bolted towards the ruckus.
A crowd had gathered near the edge of town. At the heart of it lay the survivor, barely alive, writhing as veins of vine-like tissue strangled his neck. One of the elders shouted, "What did you see?"
The boys watched, horrified, as the man, barely coherent, etched END into his flesh. He collapsed soon after.
As the town medic rushed him away, Ethan felt a chill settle in his bones. For the first time, he questioned his resolve.
"We're not ready," he said, grabbing Thorne by the shoulders. "We're not strong enough for what's in there."
Thorne said nothing, but the fire in his eyes dimmed. They would return to Ironholm to train, and to prepare.
The Hollow Orchard would wait. For now.