The North Gate

The first accounts differed in detail. They always did when fear took hold of a city. Yet afterward, every witness agreed on three things.

The Thorn Elf entered Voolnishart through the North Gate shortly after midday. He walked into Delrat Cogsson’s Curiosity Shop before dusk. And something inside that building screamed for far too long.

Voolnishart had seen nearly every race beneath the sky.

The harbor city stood where trade routes, river roads, and caravan trails converged into one sprawling mass of ambition and humanity. Gao pearl-divers walked beside Dracartian caravaneers. Mangar spice haulers drank with Innarlithian sailors. Mithrini traders argued contracts beside Kadathe’ fur merchants while Deccan factors counted coin from shaded balconies overlooking the harbor districts.

The people of Voolnishart prided themselves on being difficult to shock.

The city smelled of saltwater, wet timber, forge smoke, hot oil, fish markets, river mud, roasting meat, and spices imported from half the eastern continent. Noise never truly ceased there. Teamsters shouted at overloaded grots hauling cargo through crowded streets. Bells rang from harbor towers. Hawkers called in competing languages beneath hanging banners and suncloth awnings.

Yet the city quieted around him.

Not immediately. At first only in fragments. A conversation ending halfway through a sentence. A merchant forgetting his sales pitch. Children stopping in the middle of a game. Then heads turned. Then whole crowds began to follow.

The Thorn Elf entered through the North Gate alone.

No caravan.
No horse.
No escort.

The gate guards later swore they had never seen him approach along the northern road. One moment travelers filtered through inspection lines beneath the gate towers. The next, he was simply there, standing calmly among them.

Even guards accustomed to strange travelers struggled afterward to explain why they had let him pass so quickly. One veteran later admitted that looking directly at the Thorn Elf for too long produced an overwhelming urge to step aside.

Not fear exactly.

Something older.

The instinct prey animals possess when confronted by something that does not need to threaten in order to kill.

He carried no visible supplies for long travel.

No bedroll.
No waterskin.
No pack animal.

Only the weapons.
And himself.

Witnesses argued endlessly afterward about his exact height. Some claimed he was merely tall for an elf. Others insisted he stood eye-to-eye with large Mithrini dock guards. Fear distorted memory. But all accounts agreed he possessed the build of a predator rather than a nobleman.

Broad shoulders.
Long arms corded with hard muscle.
A body built not for courtly elegance, but for climbing, hunting, and violence.

And the thorns.

No one forgot the thorns.

They emerged naturally from his flesh in dark clusters along his shoulders, spine, forearms, and jawline. Not decorations. Not armor. Actual growths piercing through tan skin like hooked black briars forcing themselves from beneath the body. Smaller thorn patterns framed his collarbones and wrists.

Worst of all, some of them moved.

Not much. Tiny flexing adjustments whenever he shifted.

Like living barbs sensing the air.

The guards at the gate reportedly debated stopping him after noticing them.

None did.

One later confessed:

“I think we all believed that if we touched him, something terrible would happen.”

His eyes were a vivid, unnatural green that many later described as luminous, though no witness agreed whether they truly glowed or merely seemed to in shadow. Those eyes missed nothing. Experienced adventurers later remarked upon the same detail independently: he observed entrances, rooftops, distances, weapons, crowds, and lines of escape continuously without appearing to move his gaze at all.

Like a hunting animal pretending to stroll.

His hair was coal black and hung to his shoulders in loose strands partially intertwined with thin living vines threaded through naturally grown braids.

The clothing unsettled people nearly as much as the Thorn Elf himself.

Nothing he wore appeared dead.

His cloak resembled layered leaves stitched together without seam or thread. Bark plates wrapped portions of his chest and forearms, yet bent naturally when he moved. Moss spread across sections of it in intricate patterns. Tiny pale blossoms no larger than fingernails slowly opened and closed near one shoulder.

Several witnesses later swore dew formed on the garments despite the heat.

Others insisted insects landed upon him and simply remained there calmly, as though mistaking him for part of a tree.

At his left hip rested the sword.

That weapon would become the subject of extensive study afterward.

The blade appeared carved entirely from black ironwood polished smooth with age. Pale green venomwood veining spread throughout its length in branching patterns resembling roots beneath dark soil. No metal edge existed anywhere upon it, yet hardened sellswords who saw it up close later admitted they felt immediate certainty that the thing could kill as easily as steel.

The whip at his opposite hip disturbed people even more.

At first glance it resembled braided thornvine.

Then it moved.

Not swaying.
Moving.

Slowly coiling against his hip like a resting serpent.

Tiny hooked barbs lined its length beneath folded dark leaves. Witnesses near the gate swore portions of it tightened reflexively whenever nearby guards rested hands upon their swords.

One child asked if it was alive.

The Thorn Elf glanced down briefly at the vine.

“Yes.”

The child immediately burst into tears.

From there, the crowd followed him through Voolnishart.

Children first.
Then laborers.
Then merchants stepping from their shops.
Then guards pretending not to escort him while absolutely escorting him.

Within twenty minutes, a crowd trailed behind the Thorn Elf through the harbor district.

He acknowledged none of it.

Questions followed him constantly.

“What are you?”

No answer.

“Where’d you come from?”

“East.”

“East where?”

Silence.

“Can that thing bite?”

A glance toward the whip.

“Yes.”

That answer spread through the crowd faster than plague.

A fishwife later swore the Thorn Elf passed directly beside her stall and paused because her youngest daughter had offered him a flower.

Not in fear.
Simply because children did foolish things.

The Thorn Elf stared at the little blossom for several seconds before kneeling to the girl’s height.

“What flower is it?” she asked.

“Marrow-bloom.”

“You know flowers?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you got spikes?”

The Thorn Elf regarded her calmly.

“Protection.”

Then he continued walking.

The girl reportedly cried afterward because she thought he looked sad.

That detail disturbed her mother more than anything else.

Voolnishart thrived on spectacle. Exotic visitors drew attention constantly. A Mangar fire-eater could gather fifty people in minutes. A chained swamp drake from Kishroh might halt wagon traffic entirely.

But this became something else.

The crowd did not laugh.

No one shouted insults.

No one attempted bravado.

Even the usual dockside drunks kept their distance.

People whispered instead.

“What is he?”

“Forest spirit.”

“No spirit carries weapons.”

“That’s no elf.”

“It is.”

“No. No it isn’t.”

The Thorn Elf ignored all of it.

He moved with the same calm, measured stride regardless of who spoke to him. He never craned his neck to admire the city. Never stared upward at towers, harbor cranes, or the layered bridges crossing the canal districts.

Travelers always looked at Voolnishart.

He did not.

That unsettled people more than anything else.

It implied familiarity.

Or indifference.

Both were troubling.

Near the spice quarter, two young caravan guards attempted to block his path out of what several witnesses later described as sheer stupidity.

They were not malicious. Merely young men trying to impress nearby women.

One stepped forward with a grin too forced to be convincing.

“Quite a crowd you’ve got there, friend.”

The Thorn Elf stopped.

The crowd stopped with him.

The young guard swallowed visibly but continued anyway.

“What are you supposed to be then?”

The Thorn Elf regarded him silently for several long seconds.

The guard’s smile slowly faded.

“Traveler.”

His voice surprised everyone who heard it.

Quiet.
Deep.
Controlled.

The second guard forced a laugh.

“Traveler from where?”

“Marth.”

The reaction rippled outward instantly.

Some in the crowd stepped backward.

Others frowned in confusion.

Not everyone in Voolnishart knew the stories.

But enough did.

The Marth Wood was not discussed comfortably anywhere in Mithrin.

The first guard tried to recover.

“You don’t look much like the stories.”

The Thorn Elf tilted his head slightly.

“They are wrong.”

Then he resumed walking.

Neither guard attempted to stop him again.

Years later, the second guard admitted that during the brief pause he had become absolutely certain the Thorn Elf could kill both of them before either managed to draw steel.

Not suspected.
Known.

Certain in the same instinctive way one knows fire burns.

The first true disturbance occurred outside a canal bridge near the eastern markets.

An old beggar woman saw him approaching and began shrieking before he came within twenty feet.

Not startled screaming.
Not surprise.
Recognition.

Witnesses described genuine terror overtaking her instantly.

“No no no no no—”

She dropped her bowl and scrambled backward across the stones hard enough to tear skin from her palms.

“Don’t look at me!”

The Thorn Elf stopped again.

The crowd held its breath.

The old woman curled against the bridge railing, shaking violently.

The Thorn Elf watched her silently for several moments.

Then:

“You remember.”

The woman began sobbing.

Several nearby witnesses later swore the Thorn Elf sounded almost disappointed.

One brave—or foolish—dockworker called out:

“You know him?”

The woman screamed back immediately.

“No!”

Then, quieter:

“I saw one before…”

No further explanation could be dragged from her afterward.

She vanished from her usual place within the week.

Some claimed the city watch relocated her quietly after questioning.

Others insisted she fled Voolnishart entirely.

No one ever confirmed which.

The Council Hall

The Thorn Elf entered the Council Hall unannounced.

No herald named him.
No servant announced lineage or purpose.

He arrived armed, alone, and silent beneath the bronze arches overlooking the inner harbor canals while clerks, magistrates, petitioners, and merchants slowly realized something deeply unusual had entered the chamber.

Later testimony became contradictory almost immediately.

Some guards swore they attempted to stop him.
Others insisted no such attempt occurred.
One clerk claimed the Thorn Elf had already been standing inside the hall before anyone noticed him at all.

Whatever the truth, within minutes he stood before the council table beneath the banners of Voolnishart’s merchant houses.

He gave no name.
Nor did he ask for any.

Councilor Ven Alike reportedly attempted to assert authority first.

“You enter armed before the council of Voolnishart. State your business.”

The Thorn Elf looked at him calmly.

“The accord is broken.”

Silence followed.

Not dramatic silence.
Confused silence.

Several councilors exchanged glances immediately.

“What accord?” one finally asked.

“The old accord.”

Again confusion.

But not universal confusion.

A handful of older councilors reportedly stiffened at the phrase.

The Marth Wood possessed old stories attached to it. Most dismissed them publicly. Few did so privately.

Councilor Dres leaned forward slowly.

“What was taken?”

The Thorn Elf answered with a single word.

“Grenhet.”

The room remained silent.

One councilor frowned openly.

“What is Grenhet?”

The Thorn Elf regarded him without expression.

“Grenhet.”

No elaboration followed.
No description.
No explanation.

As though the answer should have been sufficient.

That detail would later become central to decades of argument among scholars and historians.

At no point did the Thorn Elf explain what Grenhet actually was.

Not once.

Some later claimed he refused.
Others argued the council had been too frightened to ask properly.
Still others insisted the Thorn Elf genuinely believed no explanation necessary.

Whatever the truth, the council left the meeting knowing almost nothing beyond several deeply troubling facts.

Something called Grenhet had been taken from the Marth.
An old accord had therefore been violated.
And the Thorn Elf had come to reclaim it.

Nothing more.

“How did it reach the city?” Councilor Merrow eventually asked.

The Thorn Elf answered in the same measured tone he had used throughout.

“Three men took it.”

Again, no names.

Only facts.

“From where?”

“The fringe wood.”

“And now?”

“One dead. One taken. One fled south.”

That phrasing reportedly disturbed the chamber greatly.

Not killed.
Not missing.
Taken.

No clarification followed.

The Thorn Elf spoke only enough to establish the trail.

Three northern thieves or scavengers had entered the outer Marth months earlier during severe rain. Something there had been removed. Afterward, misfortune followed every hand through which it passed.

Animals refusing proximity.
Illness.
Night terrors.
Disappearances.
People abandoning possessions suddenly and without explanation.

The final surviving thief eventually sold the object somewhere within Voolnishart’s harbor districts before vanishing shortly afterward.

That was all the Thorn Elf knew.

Or at least all he chose to say.

Importantly, he did not know who possessed Grenhet now.

He was tracking it.
Following signs no one else perceived.

Councilor Ven Alike reportedly grew increasingly irritated throughout the exchange.

“You crossed half the continent chasing a stolen trinket?”

The Thorn Elf looked at him for a very long time.

One guard later swore the chamber temperature dropped during the silence.

Finally, the Thorn Elf answered.

“No.”

Nothing more.

Yet afterward even Ven Alike spoke cautiously.

Because everyone present understood instinctively they had just been corrected in a manner they did not fully comprehend.

Councilor Dres eventually asked the question that mattered most.

“If this thing remains in the city…”

The Thorn Elf met his gaze.

“It will be reclaimed.”

Not threat.
Not anger.
Certainty.

The distinction terrified several councilors more than open hostility would have.

Because throughout the meeting the Thorn Elf never once threatened Voolnishart itself.

He behaved instead like a man informing others that consequences already existed independent of his wishes.

The debate afterward became heated almost immediately.

Arrest him.
Shadow him.
Expel him.
Aid him quietly.
Tell the watch.
Tell no one.

Several argued the city should mobilize immediately and scour the harbor wards.

Others feared panic if word spread that something from the Marth had entered trade circulation.

One older councilor finally voiced the concern haunting the chamber.

“If the people believe the Marth sends hunters into cities…”

No one wished to finish the thought aloud.

Eventually Councilor Merrow turned back toward the Thorn Elf.

“If granted leave to search our city, can you find Grenhet?”

The Thorn Elf nodded once.

“Yes.”

“And if found quickly?”

A pause.

Then:

“Peace.”

Not reassurance.
Not promise.
Statement.

The council granted leave before dusk.

Officially, no such meeting ever occurred.

After Delrat’s death, that lie became impossible to maintain.

By the time the Thorn Elf descended from the Council Hall toward the lower wards, word had already begun spreading ahead of him through Voolnishart in broken fragments and contradictory whispers.

Something from the Marth.
An envoy.
A hunter.
A curse.

No two versions agreed except on one point:

the council had allowed him to pass.

That frightened people more than armed escort would have.

In Voolnishart, power protected itself carefully. Dangerous things were stopped at the gates, drowned offshore, imprisoned quietly, or bought.

The idea that the council had simply allowed this unknown figure to walk freely through the city implied either confidence—or fear.

And the Thorn Elf did not walk like a man being tolerated.

He walked like someone already certain of the outcome.

The Thorn Elf ignored all of them.

He neither hurried nor wandered. His path through the city possessed an unnerving certainty, though he paused occasionally at intersections or crowded market crossings as though sensing something imperceptible to others.

Not searching with his eyes.
Listening.

Once, near a crowded fish market, he stopped entirely and turned slowly toward a narrow alley between two warehouse rows.

The crowd behind him fell silent instantly.

For several long seconds he stared into the dark passageway while harbor noise continued around them.

Then he resumed walking.

Nothing was found there afterward.

That somehow disturbed the witnesses more.

Voolnishart was not unfamiliar with unusual peoples.

Mithrin sat at the center of trade and sea traffic. The city saw northern trappers, Aurisian grain merchants, Kadathe’ caravans, river traders, island sailors, even the occasional foreign scholar or wandering mercenary company.

But peoples from the distant eastern reaches remained rare enough to draw attention immediately.

Aarakieli traders appeared perhaps a handful of times each year, usually wealthy and heavily escorted. Deccan merchants were rarer still, arriving almost exclusively through contracted trade ventures or diplomatic arrangements. Most citizens knew such peoples more through rumor than familiarity.

The Thorn Elf belonged to neither world.

Nothing about him resembled a foreign merchant or traveler.

He looked like something that belonged to the deep wilds beyond settlement and law.

That distinction spread unease through the crowds quickly.

The living garments did not help.

As more people gathered close enough to truly see him, descriptions became increasingly difficult to dismiss as exaggeration.

Leaves shifted subtly upon his cloak without wind.
Thin rootlets occasionally emerged from seams in the bark-like armor crossing his torso before withdrawing again.
One elderly herbalist later swore tiny thorn buds along his forearms slowly opened and closed during the walk through the city.

His whip moved openly now.

Not enough to be mistaken for attack.
Enough to remove all doubt that it was alive.

The vine occasionally coiled tighter against his hip or loosened again in slow serpent-like motion. Tiny hooked barbs flexed independently along portions of its length.

Children stared in horrified fascination.
Adults moved them farther back.

Questions followed constantly.

Some brave.
Some stupid.

“Are you really from the Marth?”

“Yes.”

“What’s Grenhet?”

No answer.

“Did the council send you?”

“No.”

“What happens if you find it?”

The Thorn Elf continued walking several paces before answering.

“Peace.”

The crowd did not find that comforting.

The Path to finding it

The Thorn Elf continued toward the harbor district while the city gathered around him like filings drawn to a magnet.

People ran ahead to spread word.

By the time he reached the lower markets, entire streets already knew.

Thorn Elf.
Marth Elf.
Forest devil.
Green-eyed killer.
Living briar man.

Rumors multiplied faster than truth could follow.

Through all of it, the Thorn Elf remained perfectly calm.

That calm frightened experienced men more than open aggression would have.

Veteran adventurers later spoke about it often.

Predators bluff.
Killers posture.
Dangerous men display confidence because they wish others to see it.

The Thorn Elf did none of those things.

He simply behaved like someone moving through an environment he fully understood and did not consider threatening.

Which meant either he was insane—or he genuinely feared nothing in Voolnishart.

Neither possibility comforted anyone.

It was nearing dusk when he finally entered the eastern harbor wards where Delrat kept his shop.

By then the crowd following him had become enormous.

Dockworkers.
Merchants.
Street thieves.
Sailors.
Laborers.
Guards pretending not to escort the situation.

Even several minor scholars from the botanical halls arrived after hearing the increasingly impossible descriptions spreading through the city.

One of them, Elrian Voss, would later become central to the council investigation.

At the time, however, he simply stared.

The Thorn Elf passed within several feet of him.

Voss later wrote:

“The garments were alive. I do not mean decorated with living matter. I mean alive in the same way a tree is alive. The bark flexed subtly with movement. The leaves adjusted toward sunlight. Fine rootlets occasionally emerged and withdrew along the seams. I observed one pale flower bloom and close entirely within perhaps ten seconds.

“The sword appeared to be genuine black ironwood integrated with mature venomwood veining. I still cannot explain how either survived shaping at that scale without catastrophic splitting.

“The vine weapon observed at his hip was unquestionably animate.”

Voss stopped speaking publicly about the matter after the council hearings.

Many believed he had seen something inside Delrat’s shop records afterward that frightened him permanently.

He denied this repeatedly.

No one believed him.

Then the Thorn Elf stopped walking.

The crowd nearly collided behind him.

Across the street hung Delrat’s sign.

DELRAT COGSSON’S CURIOSITIES & ACQUISITIONS

The storefront leaned slightly with age beneath layers of hanging charms, bones, lanterns, driftwood idols, old masks, and foreign relics collected over decades of questionable trade.

And above the door, suspended by black iron chain, hung the branch.

The Thorn Elf became utterly motionless.

He stood before the door of Delrat Cogsson’s Curiosities & Acquisitions while the entire street seemed to hold its breath with him.

No one spoke.

Even the harbor gulls had gone strangely quiet overhead.

Witnesses later argued endlessly about the smaller details. Whether the air had grown colder. Whether the shadows beneath the awnings deepened unnaturally. Whether the smell of wet earth became overpowering or vanished entirely.

For the first time since entering the city, something resembling emotion crossed his face.

Every account agreed on one thing:

the Thorn Elf knew immediately.

Not suspicion.
Not investigation.
Recognition.

His gaze settled upon the shop windows for several long seconds. Past the hanging relics and crowded displays. Past the driftwood charms and fossil shelves.

Toward something deeper inside.

Then he stepped forward and opened the door.

The little bronze bell above the entrance rang once.

A small, harmless sound.

Many survivors later admitted that sound haunted them more than the screaming.

Because afterward it became impossible to separate that tiny ordinary chime from what followed.

The Thorn Elf disappeared into the shop.

The door closed behind him.

And for perhaps five seconds, nothing happened.

The crowd remained frozen outside.

People pressed shoulder-to-shoulder along both sides of the narrow harbor street. Sailors leaned from upper balconies. Dockworkers stood atop cargo crates for better views. Watchmen hovered uncertainly at the edges of the gathering.

Inside the shop, muffled voices exchanged words none outside could clearly hear.

Later testimony conflicted wildly.

Some claimed Delrat sounded irritated.
Others insisted he sounded frightened immediately.
One witness swore the Thorn Elf never spoke at all.

Then came the crash.

Glass shattered somewhere deep inside the building.

Not a window.
A display case perhaps.

The crowd jolted collectively.

A woman screamed in surprise.

Then Delrat began shouting.

Not screaming yet.
Shouting.
Angry.
Confused.

“What do you mean taken—”

The rest vanished beneath another violent crash.

Furniture overturned.
Wood splintered.

Then suddenly every sound inside ceased at once.

The silence lasted only a heartbeat.

Then Delrat screamed.

Years later, hardened veterans still struggled to describe that first scream properly.

Because it did not sound like ordinary pain.

It sounded like realization.

The crowd outside recoiled instinctively.

Several people immediately began backing away from the storefront.

Inside the building, Delrat continued screaming while something heavy slammed violently against the walls hard enough to shake dust loose from the upper windows.

The screaming rose higher.
Broke.
Started again.

A dockworker near the front later vomited directly into the street and claimed afterward:

“It sounded like something was happening to him too fast.”

That became a recurring phrase throughout the investigation.

Too fast.

The city watch attempted to push forward then.

Four guards forced through the crowd toward the entrance while others shouted for people to clear the street.

The first reached for the shop door.

The moment his hand touched it, he staggered backward so violently he nearly fell.

Witnesses claimed blood streamed suddenly from his nose.
Others swore his hand blistered instantly black beneath the glove.

The guard himself later refused all questioning beyond one statement repeated endlessly until his death:

“Something moved under the wood.”

No one else touched the door afterward.

Inside the shop, the sounds became worse.

Far worse.

Delrat no longer sounded entirely human.

His screams interrupted themselves strangely now, choking off into wet gasping noises before beginning again.

Wood cracked.

Not furniture.
Something heavier.

Deep tearing noises echoed through the walls accompanied by sharp splintering pops many witnesses later compared to entire tree roots ripping through frozen ground.

Then came another sound.

A low creaking groan.

Slow.
Rhythmic.
Immense.

Like great trees bending in storm wind.

People farther down the street began fleeing openly now.

Others remained rooted in place despite their terror.

No one wanted to leave.
No one wanted to hear more.

Both instincts fought visibly across the crowd.

A woman near the rear of the gathering reportedly began praying aloud to every god she could name.

One old sailor collapsed to his knees weeping uncontrollably.

Children screamed.

Dogs throughout the harbor wards erupted into frantic barking all at once.

Then abruptly, they stopped.

Every animal sound in the district ceased together.

That silence frightened witnesses more than the screaming had.

Because Delrat was still making noise.

Only Delrat.

The sound coming from inside the shop no longer resembled a man crying out in pain.

Witnesses struggled for decades afterward to describe it.

Some called it choking.
Others compared it to drowning.
Several insisted they heard words buried somewhere inside the noises.

One scholar later recorded nearly twenty separate witness accounts and concluded:

“All descriptions differ except upon one horrifying point: everyone believed Delrat was trying desperately to beg for something.”

Not mercy.
Not help.
Something else.

One dockworker swore he heard Delrat screaming:

“GET IT OUT!”

Another insisted the words were:

“IT’S GROWING!”

A third claimed Delrat repeatedly shouted:

“NOT IN ME!”

The council eventually discarded all direct verbal testimony as unreliable due to panic and magical influence.

That phrase—magical influence—would become central afterward.

Because every witness was changed by the event.

Not cursed.
Not permanently enchanted.
Affected.
Subtly.

People lost time.
Forgot sequences of events.
Remembered impossible details inconsistently.

Several witnesses developed recurring nightmares involving roots beneath floorboards.

One council scribe became unable to enter buildings containing heavy timber beams without shaking fits.

Two guards abandoned the watch entirely.

A fishwife near the front of the crowd reportedly tore every decorative plant from her home afterward and burned them in the street.

Most disturbing of all, the witnesses agreed too little.

Ordinary crowds stabilize stories over time. People influence one another into shared memory.

This never happened.

The accounts grew less consistent instead.

As though everyone had witnessed only fragments of something too large or unnatural for the mind to properly assemble afterward.

Inside the shop, the noises reached their peak.

Something massive struck the floor hard enough to shake the entire storefront.

Shelves collapsed.
Glass exploded outward through the front windows into the street.

The crowd scattered screaming.

Through the shattered opening, several witnesses glimpsed movement inside.

None agreed on what they saw.

Branches.
Hands.
Roots.
Antlers.
A face in the ceiling beams.
A tree growing too quickly.
A man splitting open.

One terrified witness insisted the walls themselves had begun bending inward like living bark.

Another swore the interior appeared far larger than the building should physically contain.

The council later concluded all such accounts were unreliable.

Privately, none of them believed that conclusion.

Then came the final sound.

Not a scream.

A deep wet cracking noise followed by sudden silence.

Absolute silence.

No movement.
No voice.
Nothing.

The entire harbor street stood frozen.

Even the sea wind seemed absent.

After several long moments, the shop door slowly creaked open by itself.

The sounds inside Delrat’s shop ended all at once.

Not fading.
Not weakening.
Ending.

One instant the building shook with screams, splintering wood, and those vast groaning noises like trees bending somewhere far underground.

The next there was only silence.

The harbor street stood frozen.

No one moved.
No one spoke.

Even afterward, survivors struggled to explain why the silence felt worse than the screaming had.

Perhaps because the mind always expects suffering to stop eventually.

But not like that.

Not instantly.

Not as though something had simply decided it was finished.

For several long moments the crowd remained exactly where they stood, staring at the shattered storefront while broken glass settled across the cobblestones.

Nothing emerged.

No movement came from within.

No voice called for help.

The Thorn Elf did not appear.

That detail would later become one of the most fiercely debated aspects of the entire affair.

Because despite hundreds of witnesses surrounding the building, not one person ever successfully testified to seeing the Thorn Elf leave.

Not one.

Some later claimed they saw movement near the doorway after the silence.

Others insisted shadows shifted within the broken interior.

One sailor swore someone tall crossed behind the ruined display shelves.

None of the accounts aligned.

And under council examination, every witness eventually contradicted themselves in small but troubling ways.

The official investigation later concluded only one thing with certainty:

the Thorn Elf entered Delrat’s shop.

After that, no reliable witness account existed.

This fact haunted the council for decades.

Because the implications were deeply unpleasant.

If the Thorn Elf left unseen despite the crowd, then he possessed means beyond ordinary understanding.

But if he never left—

then what exactly had happened inside that building?

No one wished to pursue that possibility too closely.

The city watch did not enter immediately.

No one wished to.

Not after the sounds.
Not after what several guards described as “feeling watched” merely standing near the doorway.

The first men eventually forced themselves inside only because the council ordered it directly under threat of dismissal.

Four guards entered.

Three emerged.

The fourth stumbled from the shop several moments later vomiting violently into the street before collapsing unconscious.

He survived.

Technically.

But according to later records, he never again slept indoors if he could avoid it.

The surviving guards gave testimony separately.

All three accounts differed substantially.

The council found this deeply alarming.

Because trained men accustomed to violence and death usually remembered scenes consistently.

Not this time.

One guard described roots everywhere.
Another insisted the walls themselves had become wood.
The third repeatedly claimed the ceiling “went too high” and refused further clarification.

Yet several details appeared in all accounts.

Delrat remained alive when they found him.

Barely.

And something had happened to his body that none present possessed language adequate to describe.

The investigation consumed Voolnishart for years afterward.

Officially, the matter became classified under restricted harbor authority and merchant council seal.

Unofficially, it became obsession.

Not merely because Delrat died horribly.

Voolnishart had seen horror before.

But because nothing fit together afterward.

Nothing.

The council gathered every witness they could locate.

Dockworkers.
Sailors.
Merchants.
Street children.
Balcony onlookers.
Watchmen.
Scholars.
Even drunkards who had been nearby.

Hundreds of testimonies were collected.

The result only deepened the confusion.

Witnesses agreed upon emotional truths.

Fear.
Wrongness.
The sense that something impossible had occurred.

But factual details fragmented constantly.

People remembered sounds differently each time they were questioned.

Some forgot entire minutes.

Others inserted details later proven impossible.

One woman swore she heard birds singing inside the shop during the screaming.

A watchman became convinced for nearly a year that rain had been falling during the event despite clear weather recorded throughout the district.

The council eventually concluded all witnesses had suffered some form of magical contamination or perceptual distortion simply from proximity.

That conclusion terrified them privately.

Because magic existed in Thirnavar.

But this—

this was something else.

Not spellcraft.
Not illusion.
Not sorcery.

No known mage had ever produced effects like this merely through presence.

The investigation into Grenhet’s origins proved equally disturbing.

The council managed to reconstruct most of the object’s passage southward through painstaking interviews, caravan records, ferrymen logs, and trade receipts.

The three thieves themselves became infamous afterward.

Not because anyone knew much about them.

Because of what happened to them.

The first two had physically entered the Marth fringe.

The third had not.

That distinction became extremely important later.

The thieves themselves were unremarkable men. River-road scavengers and smugglers operating along northern caravan trails. Petty criminals accustomed to stripping abandoned camps, robbing burial sites, and smuggling rare alchemical materials southward.

They entered the Marth during heavy rain seeking blackroot fungus and rare fungal growths valuable to illicit apothecaries.

That much investigators established with reasonable confidence.

What they found there remained unknown.

No surviving witness ever described Grenhet directly.

Only the aftermath.

The first thief reportedly touched it.

What followed became fragmented legend almost immediately.

Animals fled their camps.
Fires burned strangely.
People sleeping nearby experienced vivid nightmares involving roots beneath skin and voices speaking through trees.

The first thief vanished near a river crossing.

Not killed.
Vanished.

His boots remained beside the fire.

Standing upright.
Still laced.

No tracks led away.

The second deteriorated rapidly afterward.

Travelers later described him screaming at forests from roadside camps, hacking apart saplings, and refusing to sleep near wooden structures.

One caravan witness testified the man became convinced branches were slowly turning to watch him.

He died several weeks later near the southern roads.

His body was discovered partially engulfed by thorn growth unlike any species local herbalists recognized.

The vines had emerged from beneath the corpse itself, piercing through skin and clothing before rooting into the surrounding soil.

Several investigators refused to examine the remains closely afterward.

But the third thief frightened the council most.

Because he never entered the Marth at all.

He had remained outside acting as lookout with the horses.

He never touched Grenhet.
Never saw where it had been taken from.

Yet whatever followed the others eventually found him too.

According to surviving testimony, it hated him worst of all.

Perhaps because he fled.
Perhaps because he profited.

No one knew.

The third thief survived long enough to reach Voolnishart.

But by then he had become nearly feral from terror.

Witnesses remembered him refusing enclosed rooms and screaming whenever roots broke through cobblestones after rain.

He changed lodgings repeatedly.

Animals reacted violently to his presence.

One stable horse reportedly tore its own mouth bloody trying to escape when he entered the building.

The man sold Grenhet desperately through intermediary brokers for a fraction of what such a curiosity should have fetched.

Not greed.
Panic.

Multiple witnesses later testified he begged buyers to take it without even naming a price.

One broker eventually accepted the item purely because the thief seemed so terrified.

The thief disappeared two nights later.

Not vanished.
Found.

Or what remained of him was.

Dockworkers discovered him in an alley behind the harbor smokehouses shortly before dawn.

At first they believed he had simply died there during the night.

Then they looked closer.

Roots had emerged from his mouth.

Tiny pale tendrils no thicker than thread rooted through the cracks between his teeth and into the damp mortar wall behind him.

The growth continued down his throat.

Investigators later determined he had still been alive when it began.

That detail spread quietly among the watch despite suppression attempts.

Several guards resigned afterward.

The body was burned immediately under council order.

The wall behind it continued producing pale root growth for nearly a year afterward whenever heavy rain fell.

Workers eventually tore the entire alley section apart and rebuilt it from stone.

No one involved in the reconstruction would speak publicly about what they found underneath.

The Aftermath

They found Delrat Cogsson in the center of the shop.

Or rather, they found what remained of him.

Later scholars would spend decades arguing whether the thing discovered inside Delrat’s Curiosities could still properly be called a man at all.

The council records avoided definitive language entirely.

Subject discovered alive but undergoing extensive botanical transformation.

That was the phrasing eventually agreed upon after thirteen revisions.

No one involved liked it.

But no better description existed.

The interior of the shop had been destroyed.

Not burned.
Not smashed in the ordinary sense.
Changed.

Shelves leaned at impossible angles beneath masses of dark root growth, splitting directly through the floorboards. Display cases had burst outward from within, as though pressure had suddenly expanded through them. Hanging charms and relics swayed gently despite completely still air.

Several guards later insisted portions of the room appeared larger than the building should physically allow.

The investigators officially dismissed this as panic.

Privately, none of them fully believed that conclusion.

And everywhere—roots.

Black roots.

Not natural wood.
Not vine.

Something denser.

Glossy in places like wet bark after rain.

They spread through walls, ceilings, shelves, support beams, counters, even stone foundations.

Not growing around the shop.
Growing through it.

As though the building itself had become soil.

The center of the transformation stood where Delrat had apparently fallen.

Or knelt.
Or been placed.

Witnesses disagreed.

The remains fused into the floor so completely no clear boundary existed between body and root structure anymore.

Delrat’s legs no longer appeared entirely human. Dark root masses had split downward through flesh and bone alike, driving into the timber beneath him and disappearing into the foundations below.

His torso remained partially recognizable.

That somehow made it worse.

One arm still possessed a human hand.

The fingers occasionally moved.

Not deliberately.

Slow contractions.

Like branches shifting in wind.

The ribs had opened outward violently beneath the skin.

Not broken outward.
Unfolded.

Dark wooden structures emerged between them in layered spirals resembling twisted sapling trunks, forcing themselves through a cage too small to contain them.

Black thorn growth spread across his shoulders, jaw, and throat.

One eye remained intact.

The other had become a hollow knot of dark wood leaking thick amber sap.

And from the center of his chest, the tree emerged.

At first, investigators described it merely as a sapling.

That word disappeared from later reports.

Because the thing growing from Delrat’s body did not behave like any tree known to Mithrin.

It stood perhaps seven feet tall upon discovery.

Black bark.
Smooth in some places.
Ridged in others.

Its trunk twisted subtly as though several smaller trees had grown together improperly.

No leaves grew from the lower limbs.

Only thorns.

Long black thorns curving backward like hooked teeth.

Higher branches possessed sparse dark leaves with faint green veining visible beneath their surfaces when light struck them.

Several witnesses later claimed the leaves moved slightly even without wind.

The growth continued while investigators watched.

Slowly.
But undeniably.

One council scribe assigned to inventory the scene recorded branch positions changing over the course of several hours.

A guard reported fresh roots emerging visibly through the floorboards near sunset.

Another swore he saw one branch bend toward nearby torchlight.

No one remained in the shop alone after that.

Most horrifying of all, Delrat still lived.

Barely.

His breathing came irregularly through a throat no longer entirely shaped correctly for speech. Every inhalation produced faint creaking noises somewhere deep within the root mass.

The guards attempted repeatedly to question him.

The results shattered several men emotionally.

Because Delrat seemed aware.

Not fully coherent.
Not sane.
But aware.

When approached closely, his remaining eye tracked movement.

His mouth moved constantly though speech emerged only in fragments.

Most witnesses heard different things.

“Still growing…”
“Cold…”
“Inside…”

Several guards later insisted he begged repeatedly for fire.

One investigator claimed Delrat whispered:

“Roots below the city…”

That statement never appeared in the official record.

The council ordered it removed immediately.

The scholars who were brought to examine the phenomenon argued constantly.

Botanists declared the growth impossible.

Druids refused prolonged exposure to the tree after initial examination.

Alchemists reported physical nausea near the roots.

One hedge mage suffered seizures after attempting simple detection rites and afterward refused ever to discuss what he saw.

No known magical discipline satisfactorily explained the event.

That frightened the council more than anything else.

If this had been sorcery, then sorcery possessed rules.

If cursecraft, then perhaps countermeasures existed.

But Grenhet—whatever Grenhet truly was—did not behave like known magic.

It behaved more like an intrusion.

Or reclamation.

That distinction quietly spread through the higher council chambers afterward, though none wished to voice it openly.

Because if Delrat had not been attacked—if he had instead been reclaimed—then what exactly had been taken from the Marth in the first place?

No answer ever emerged.

The tree continued growing for eleven days.

The council concealed this from the public successfully at first.

The entire harbor block surrounding Delrat’s shop was sealed under the authority of structural collapse and dangerous alchemical contamination. Workers erected canvas barriers while guards controlled entry points day and night.

Official statements changed repeatedly.

Alchemical pollution
Toxic mold.
Contraband powders.
Smuggling fire.

None fully explained the situation, but Voolnishart was accustomed to harboring secrecy and dangerous cargo incidents.

Most citizens accepted the lies publicly.

Privately, rumors spread uncontrollably.

Especially after the smell began.

Not rot.
Not decay.
Forest.

Wet soil after rain.
Flowering growth.
Fresh-cut bark.

The scent spread through neighboring streets, strongest after sunset.

People living nearby reported dreams afterward.

Trees growing beneath houses.
Roots inside lungs.
Branches pressing against windows from outside despite upper-story rooms.

The council quietly relocated three entire families after repeated disturbances.

Several homes near the shop developed black root growth beneath floorboards despite no visible spread above ground.

Those houses were demolished immediately.

No public explanation followed.

Attempts to destroy the tree failed.

Axes dulled.

Fire spread unpredictably through the roots without consuming them properly.

One laborer attempting removal suffered deep thorn punctures despite standing several feet away from the nearest branch.

The wounds blackened within hours.

He died three days later, delirious and begging not to be buried “where it could reach.”

The body was cremated before dawn under council order.

After that, fewer volunteers stepped forward.

Eventually, the council ceased speaking of destruction entirely.

Instead, they focused upon containment.

That word appears repeatedly throughout surviving sealed records.

Containment.

As though the council itself no longer believed the thing could truly be killed.

The tree did not stop growing.

That realization broke the first containment effort entirely.

In the days immediately after the incident, the council still believed they were dealing with some form of magical contamination or a transformative curse. Scholars argued endlessly regarding methods of removal while laborers dismantled neighboring structures and guards sealed the entire district under emergency authority.

Then the roots reached the canal foundations.

Black growths began appearing beneath nearby streets after rainfall. Cellars developed hair-thin root clusters pushing through mortar seams. Two neighboring buildings suffered structural cracking as root masses expanded beneath their foundations.

And at the center of it all, Delrat remained alive.

The council attempted execution repeatedly during the first month.

Those records remained sealed for nearly eighty years afterward.

Fire failed first.

The flames blackened portions of the bark growth but spread unpredictably through the root systems beneath the structure while leaving the central trunk largely untouched.

Witnesses reported hearing violent movement below the streets during the burning, as though immense root structures shifted beneath the harbor district itself.

Axes shattered.
Saws dulled.

One labor crew attempting physical removal suffered catastrophic thorn growth injuries when branches abruptly split during cutting attempts, launching hooked black thorns through heavy leather and chain garments alike.

The wounded died badly.

Not immediately.

Black root structures emerged beneath their skin over several days.

After that, volunteers became difficult to acquire.

Eventually the council changed strategy entirely.

No longer destruction.
Containment.

Always that word afterward.

Containment.

Within three months the entire harbor block surrounding Delrat’s shop had been quietly condemned and purchased through shell holdings tied to merchant council authority.

Walls were erected.
Canals rerouted.
Nearby residents relocated under various fabricated pretenses involving contamination, instability, or hidden smuggling tunnels.

The official story changed constantly because no single lie adequately explained the truth.

Most citizens eventually stopped asking.

Voolnishart was a port city.

Dangerous things happened there.

People learned when not to pry.

But the smell remained impossible to fully conceal.

Wet soil.
Rain.
Fresh-cut bark.
Flowering growth.

It drifted strongest at night.

Especially during storms.

And beneath it all, the sounds.

Because Delrat never stopped making noise.

That became the true horror.

Not the transformation.
Not even the tree itself.
The sounds.

At first he still resembled something partially human.

His remaining eye tracked movement. Portions of his mouth retained enough shape for fragmented speech. Guards assigned to the containment perimeter reported hearing him whisper weakly through the root mass during the early years.

The words differed constantly.

“Cold…”
“Still growing…”
“Don’t sleep…”

But one phrase appeared repeatedly across multiple independent accounts.

“Roots below.”

No one ever determined what he meant.

The council officially forbade direct conversation attempts after the Third Botanical Inquiry ended with two scholars suffering complete mental collapse following extended exposure inside the containment chamber.

Afterward, no one remained alone with Delrat.

Ever.

The Early Attempts

Delrat’s Tree

Calling it a tree remained an act of convenience more than accuracy.

It resembled no known species in Mithrin.

Nor any known species anywhere else.

That fact alone terrified the scholarly circles of Voolnishart more deeply than the common folk ever understood.

Because trees belonged somewhere.

Every botanist in Thirnavar understood lineage, structure, growth patterns, bark types, vascular systems, and seasonal behavior. Even strange flora obeyed recognizable principles.

This thing did not.

Its trunk spiraled upward in layered twisting growths that seemed to merge and separate simultaneously, depending on the viewing angle. Sections appeared smooth and black as wet stone after rain, while others split into deep ridges lined with hooked thorn formations resembling rows of teeth.

No two sketches of it ever matched precisely.

The branches spread in asymmetrical patterns impossible to map consistently. Scholars attempting measured diagrams often found proportions subtly wrong afterward. Angles refused consistency between observations.

One investigator eventually noted in frustration:

“The tree behaves visually like memory behaves after fever.”

The bark itself disturbed experts most.

Not because it was black.

Many trees possessed dark bark.

But because the surface appeared too dense.
Too layered.
Almost compressed.

In torchlight it reflected a dull organic sheen like chitin or wet bone beneath polished oil.

And beneath portions of the outer bark, movement occasionally occurred.

Not insects.
Not sap flow.

Slow shifting contractions, as though deeper structures adjusted beneath the surface.

The leaves proved equally unnatural.

Sparse.
Dark.
Almost waxen.

Each possessed faint green veining visible only at certain angles. Witnesses repeatedly claimed the leaves turned gradually throughout the day despite the vault admitting no natural sunlight.

No scholar ever successfully explained how they remained alive underground for twenty years.

Eventually most stopped trying.

The roots proved worse.

By the sixth year they had spread beneath the surrounding harbor foundations extensively enough that excavations became impossible without destabilizing entire sections of the district.

The root systems ignored ordinary growth logic entirely.

Some remained hair-thin as they penetrated solid mortar.

Others expanded into massive, black, woody structures, thicker than a man’s torso, beneath canal foundations.

Several workers described the roots as “searching.”

That phrasing quietly entered later restricted reports despite official objections.

Because the roots did not merely spread outward randomly.

They moved toward the water.
Toward movement.
Toward life.

The harbor district began reporting strange incidents after heavy rains.

Fish vanished from the tied nets.
Dock pilings cracked overnight.
Boatmen glimpsed black root masses beneath the water surface curling slowly through the murk below the piers.

At first, these stories were dismissed as harbor superstition.

He claimed roots “grabbed like hands” beneath the water.

No one officially believed him.

But he abandoned the harbor permanently within the month and never again entered a boat.

Divers quietly hired by the council reported that entire root tangles extended beneath portions of the bay floor around the quarantined district.

Fish gathered among them in enormous numbers.

Then vanished suddenly whenever the roots shifted.

After several divers refused further work, the underwater investigation ceased entirely.

The council eventually rerouted significant harbor traffic away from that section of docks under fabricated engineering pretenses.

Most captains complied willingly.

The older sailors needed little convincing.

The scholars failed next.

At first, Voolnishart summoned everyone remotely qualified to examine the phenomenon.

Botanists.
Druids.
Alchemists.
Natural philosophers.
Elven archivists.
Foreign scholars from Auris and even distant Kadathe’.

Most arrived skeptical.

None left unchanged.

The final break came when a delegation of elder elven botanists from deeper Mithrini enclaves entered the containment chamber during the third year.

These were not frightened men.

Several had studied dangerous magical flora for decades.

One had reportedly traveled the outer Marth itself in his youth.

They remained inside for less than an hour.

When they emerged, witnesses described all three as visibly shaken.

One refused to speak entirely.

Another reportedly vomited immediately upon leaving the vault.

The eldest eventually addressed the council privately before departing Voolnishart that same night.

No official transcript survives.

Only secondary accounts.

But every version preserves the same essential statement:

“This is Fae.”

Not fae-touched.
Not fae-influenced.
Fae.

The distinction mattered enormously to the elves.

According to later testimony, the elder botanist further warned the council:

“You seek logic where none is owed to you.
Stop asking what it is for.
You are assuming it was made for your understanding.”

Afterward, the delegation refused all further involvement.

No payment changed their minds.
No authority compelled them.

Several prominent elven scholars publicly withdrew earlier papers and refused even private discussion of the tree.

That reaction frightened the council more than any previous examination.

Because if the elves feared it—truly feared it—then the situation lay far beyond ordinary understanding.

And the elves upon the council did fear it.

Not publicly at first.

Elves within Mithrin held positions of immense respect, particularly in matters involving old history, diplomacy, woodland borders, and ancient accords. Their memories stretched farther than those of shorter-lived peoples, and in Voolnishart, their counsel carried enormous weight during matters concerning the Marth.

Until Delrat’s Tree, many among the younger races quietly believed the old warnings exaggerated.

Ancient politics.
Cultural superstition.
Stories grow larger with age.

That illusion died in the containment chamber.

The council session afterward became infamous in the few surviving records.

Not because of shouting.

Because of how frightened the elves appeared.

Witnesses later recalled that none of the elder elven councilors sat comfortably during the proceedings. Several refused wine despite hours of deliberation. One repeatedly rubbed his thumb against an old silverwood ring throughout the entire meeting without seeming aware of the gesture.

Most disturbing of all, they repeatedly spoke in Elvish among themselves.

Not ceremonial court speech.
Old Elvish.
Fast.
Urgent.

One younger councilor later admitted it was the first time in his life he had seen elder elves argue openly with one another from fear rather than principle.

Finally, Councilor Thaelir rose.

He had served upon the council longer than most humans present had been alive.

When he spoke, the chamber reportedly fell silent immediately.

“If a Fae—”

He stopped briefly.

Not from uncertainty.
From caution.

“If a true Fae power is involved, then every one of us is in danger should we provoke it further.”

No one interrupted him.

Even the human councilors who privately disliked elven influence remained silent.

Because Thaelir looked genuinely shaken.

Not frightened for himself.

Frightened in the manner experienced sailors fear storms large enough to sink cities.

He continued carefully.

“Issue an edict immediately. Spread the terms of the old accord again throughout every northern holding and trade route under Mithrini authority.”

Several younger members of the chamber looked confused.

One finally asked:

“The accord still stands?”

All three elder elves reportedly turned toward him at once.

The silence afterward became deeply uncomfortable.

“Yes,” Thaelir answered.

“As it always has.”

Another elf upon the council spoke next, quieter but no less severe.

“Deny any and all petitions seeking passage into the Marth. Refuse expeditions. Refuse surveys. Refuse logging ventures. Refuse relic hunters.”

His expression hardened.

“We cannot risk stirring that which sleeps there.”

Then came the statement many later remembered most clearly.

“Do not ask their names.”

The chamber remained still.

“To name such things,” the elf said softly, “is to invite attention.”

No one asked further questions after that.

Even decades later, surviving scribes recalled the atmosphere in the room changing at those words.

As though everyone present suddenly understood they had been discussing something enormous without realizing it.

Then the oldest in the chamber rose.

Very few living even remembered his original name afterward. Most records refer to him simply as Elder Caradhen. He had been ancient even then, older than portions of Voolnishart itself, and rarely spoke during council proceedings unless matters of profound significance arose.

When he stood, even the other elves fell silent.

Caradhen looked exhausted.

Not physically.
Spiritually.

Like a man watching history repeat itself, something terrible.

“They speak truth,” he said quietly. “But they are restrained in the manner of this threat.”

Every eye in the chamber fixed upon him.

Even the younger elves.

Caradhen looked toward the shuttered harbor district where Delrat’s Tree continued growing beneath containment.

“The few that remain,” he said slowly, “are nearly as powerful as the First Flame.”

Several humans visibly paled at the comparison.

The First Flame was not merely a dragon in the Elder tradition.

It was the first dragon.

Oldest among the Elder Pillars of Creation.

A being from the earliest ordering of the world.

Caradhen continued before anyone could speak.

“They are older than reckoning. Older than kingdoms. Older than our oldest songs.”

His eyes moved across the chamber deliberately.

“They are not as we are.”

That line appeared repeatedly in surviving private journals afterward.

Not as we are.

Caradhen spoke the words not with hatred, but with terrible certainty.

“They pass by us without thought. No more than we would notice blades of grass beneath our feet.”

A long silence followed.

Then:

“But if the grass scratches…”

He did not finish immediately.

When he finally continued, his voice had become very quiet.

“Their reactions are not based upon anything we understand.”

No one moved.
No one spoke.

Outside the chamber windows, harbor bells rang faintly through evening fog.

Caradhen looked then toward the sealed investigation records stacked upon the council table.

“Delrat drew attention,” he said.

“And paid a horrible price.”

Another pause.

Then the line that survived long after almost every official record had been destroyed:

“Delrat’s Tree was a warning…”

The old elf’s eyes settled on each councilor in turn.

“…from something that does not give warnings.”

Two years

The district slowly emptied over the years. At first, businesses attempted to remain. Harbor property carried enormous value in Voolnishart, and many merchants refused to abandon profitable locations over what they believed would eventually prove temporary.

Most changed their minds after the dreams began.

Not everyone experienced them, but enough did.

Roots beneath floorboards. Branches brushing the upper windows. Dark forests stand silently beneath moonlight, where harbor streets should have been. And always the sensation of being watched from very far away by something that neither hated nor cared about those observing it.

Families relocated quietly through council compensation programs disguised as redevelopment initiatives. Some left eagerly. Others required persuasion.

One stubborn goblin cobbler famously refused every offer made to him. His tiny canal-side workshop sat only two streets from the oldest root growths, and he reportedly declared to multiple council agents, “If the tree wants boots repaired, it can pay like everyone else.”

The story became a local legend afterward.

For nearly two years, he remained there alone while neighboring buildings emptied around him. Then, one autumn morning, he appeared before the relocation office carrying every possession he owned stacked upon a handcart.

According to surviving clerks, he signed the transfer papers immediately and without argument.

When asked what changed his mind, the goblin reportedly answered only, “The roots knock at night now.”

He refused further explanation.

Seventh Year

The council abandoned containment architecture during the seventh year.

Not formally. No proclamation marked the decision. The city simply stopped rebuilding what the tree destroyed.

At first, they tried walls. Then reinforced warehouses. Then, stone foundations were driven deep beneath the harbor district.

The tree ignored all of it.

It did not attack the structures violently. That misunderstanding persisted in later retellings, but surviving council records describe something far stranger.

The tree simply continued growing.

Slowly. Relentlessly. As though the city itself did not matter enough to oppose.

Roots thick as ship masts displaced stone foundations without splitting them outright. Black bark masses pressed silently through walls over months rather than days. Support beams warped around new growth until buildings became unsafe and were quietly abandoned.

Workers would return after weeks away to find entire rooms filled with smooth, black root structures hanging from the ceilings, like the inside of some vast, buried organism.

Eventually, the council realized something deeply unnerving:

The tree was not hostile.

At least not in any way people understood.

It never spread aggressively beyond the surrounding harbor district. It never sent roots rampaging through the city. It never hunted citizens. No known case exists of the tree directly killing anyone after Delrat’s transformation.

It simply grew.

And, in growing, it made normal life around it impossible. The dreams, the memory changes it all, added up, and drove everything away.

The distinction mattered enormously to later elven scholars, because several quietly concluded this proved Delrat’s Tree had never been intended as an attack upon Voolnishart itself.

It was something else.

A statement. A warning.

Or perhaps merely a consequence.

And slowly the story spread.

Trade carried it first. Whispers among sailors. Half-drunk accounts in harbor taverns. Fragments passed aboard grain ships, caravans, and merchant convoys.

Then came the investigations.

Aurisian clerics sent inquiries. Kadathe’ traders quietly questioned harbor officials. Even Deccan merchant houses reportedly purchased sealed reports through intermediaries seeking details regarding “the harbor growth.”

The connection to The Marth inevitably spread with the story.

That was the part people remembered.

Not Delrat himself. Not even the tree.

The lesson.

Something had been taken from the Marth.

Something came to reclaim it.

Sailors avoided the area entirely after dusk.

Not merely from superstition.

From experience.

And an entire harbor district suffered for twenty years afterward.

The story spread across eastern Thirnavar like a slow disease. Parents warned children. Caravan guards repeated fragments around campfires. Sailors made signs against ill luck when discussing the Marth after dark.

For nearly two generations, travelers entering the northern fringe woods carried the same warning:

Take nothing.

Nothing.

Not wood. Not flowers. Not stones. Not bones.

Nothing.

Because no one truly knew what Grenhet had been.

And that uncertainty made the warning worse.

The fifteenth year

By the fifteenth year, the tree stood taller than most harbor towers.

More than sixty feet of black twisting trunk and asymmetrical branches rose from the abandoned district overlooking the bay itself. Great root masses split old dock pilings and descended directly into the harbor waters where they vanished beneath the tides.

Sailors avoided the area entirely after dusk.

Not merely from superstition.

From experience.

The roots beneath the water moved.

Not quickly.

Not violently.

But undeniably.

Boatmen reported glimpsing long dark masses curling slowly through the bay beneath moonlight. Fish gathered densely among the submerged roots in impossible numbers, creating entire ecosystems within the black tangles beneath the abandoned docks.

And occasionally—

the roots surfaced.

Just enough.

A fisherman pulling lines too close to the district once reported black root structures winding around hooked fish before dragging both catch and line silently beneath the water.

Others saw similar things.

Never attacks upon boats.

Never direct aggression toward people.

Only movement.

Slow deliberate movement beneath the bay.

Enough to ensure no sane captain anchored nearby afterward.

The second decade

The worst years came during the second decade.

By then, the tree had become enormous.

The original shop no longer existed. Neither did the neighboring buildings. Entire streets around the harbor district had been abandoned to the spreading roots decades earlier after the council finally gave up attempts at containment.

Walls had failed. Reinforced warehouses had failed. Deep stone foundations had failed.

In the end, the city simply retreated.

The tree rose openly above the harbor afterward, a towering mass of black twisting trunk and asymmetrical branches overlooking the bay itself. By the second decade, it stood nearly seventy feet tall. Great roots split abandoned dock pilings and vanished beneath the tides while black bark masses consumed entire ruined structures left standing around its base.

And still the growth continued.

Roots emerged periodically through distant cobblestones after storms. Black thorn clusters appeared along cellar walls, blocks away, before being quietly removed by council laborers. Animals refused the district entirely. Dogs would not enter. Horses panicked near the outer streets. Even birds avoided the rooftops overhead.

Most disturbing of all, people nearby continued dreaming.

Not everyone. Not every night. But enough.

Roots beneath floorboards. Branches pressing against windows. Forests growing silently through sleeping streets. And occasionally, a voice creaking softly through wood asking for help.

The dreams became infamous among harbor residents

The council officially dismissed all such reports as mass hysteria. Privately, several councilors stopped sleeping in chambers containing exposed timber beams.

Inside the trunk, Delrat remained alive.

That fact endured as the core horror long after the growing tree itself became almost normalized within harbor folklore.

Delrat lived.

Conscious. Immobile. In agony.

The trunk swallowed him slowly over decades. Bark layered across flesh. Root systems threaded through bone. Branch structures emerged where ribs and spine should have remained. Yet portions of the face survived, visible within the black wood.

His eyes followed movement through openings in the bark.

Always.

Guards assigned to the district eventually learned not to meet them directly.

At times, Delrat begged for death. At others, he muttered continuously in half-coherent whispers about roots beneath the sea and voices moving through leaves during storms. Several witnesses claimed he sometimes answered questions no one had spoken aloud.

One old dock guard resigned after insisting Delrat had whispered his dead daughter’s name from inside the trunk.

The council officially dismissed the claim.

Privately, no one assigned that guard to the district again.

Delrat finally ceased movement nearly twenty years after the Thorn Elf entered the shop.

No witness agreed precisely when death occurred. By then, almost nothing visibly human remained above the root mass except portions of the face trapped within the trunk itself. The final attending physician claimed that the remaining eye continued to track motion even in the last weeks.

Others denied this completely.

On the final night, guards reported that the entire root had become strangely still.

No creaking. No movement. No growth sounds.

Silence.

Just before dawn, one witness claimed a long, slow exhalation emerged from somewhere deep within the trunk.

Then nothing.

The growth stopped afterward.

For the first time in twenty years.

The guards present that final night described the silence as worse than any sound the tree had ever made.

The harbor birds returned briefly to nearby rooftops before sunrise for the first time in years.

By morning, the withering had begun.

The enormous black tree that had dominated the harbor district for decades sagged visibly within hours. Leaves curled inward and darkened. Branches cracked beneath their own weight. The bark lost its strange wet sheen and became brittle gray-black husks.

And then the entire structure collapsed.

Not falling like an ordinary tree.

Disintegrating.

The massive trunk broke apart into cascading gray dust and ash that poured across the abandoned docks like dry soil. Branches crumbled before striking the ground. Roots dissolved within the harbor water, staining portions of the bay dark for days afterward.

By dusk, almost nothing remained.

No usable wood. No seeds. No surviving roots.

Only vast drifts of fine gray dust coated the abandoned district and the hollow spaces where the roots had once spread beneath the harbor.

The council removed the remains immediately, as best they could.

Not from fear of infection.

From fear of curiosity.

Within the month, the entire dock section was replaced and rebuilt, a massive undertaking, but it reopened a section of the docks that had been unused for two decades.   That was worth the cost. No remnant remained.

Because they feared fascination.

Curiosity. Expeditions. Treasure seekers. Scholars. Men arrogant enough to believe old accords did not apply to them.

And somewhere within the surviving sealed testimony of Councilor Merrow appears perhaps the most chilling line preserved from the entire affair:

“We never learned what Grenhet was. Only that it was willing to come for it.”

Then time did what time always does.

It eroded terror into folklore.

The shorter-lived races forgot first the tall tale grampa told, they forgot first. Witnesses died of old age. Records vanished beneath council suppression or simple neglect. Voolnishart rebuilt over old fears.

But the story survived.

Trade carried it first. Whispers among sailors. Half-drunk accounts in harbor taverns. Fragments passed aboard grain ships, caravans, and merchant convoys.

Then came the investigations.

Aurisian clerics sent inquiries. Kadathe’ traders quietly questioned harbor officials. Even Deccan merchant houses reportedly purchased sealed reports through intermediaries seeking details regarding “the harbor growth.”

And inevitably, the story became tied to the Marth.

That was the part people remembered.

Not Delrat himself. Not even the tree.

The lesson.

Something had been taken from the Marth.

Something came to reclaim it.

And an entire harbor district suffered for twenty years afterward.

The story spread across eastern Thirnavar like a slow disease. Parents warned children. Caravan guards repeated fragments around campfires. Sailors made signs against ill luck when discussing the Marth after dark.

For nearly two generations, travelers entering the northern fringe woods carried the same warning:

Take nothing.

Nothing.

Not wood. Not flowers. Not stones. Not bones.

Nothing.

Because no one truly knew what Grenhet had been.

And that uncertainty made the warning worse.

---

Current day no trace remains

Now, in the current age, only the long-lived remember the story clearly.

Humans dismiss it as harbor myth. Half-remembered superstition. Exaggeration passed between sailors and caravan guards to frighten the inexperienced.

But dwarves—old dwarves especially—grow visibly uncomfortable when the Marth is discussed too lightly. Most refuse the subject entirely.

And the elves never deny the story.

That perhaps disturbs people most of all.

They do not argue. They do not attempt to convince skeptics. They simply offer the same quiet warning they have repeated for generations whenever foolish travelers speak too boldly about exploring the Marth Wood.

Take nothing.

The words are usually followed by silence.

Then, sometimes, an elder elf will quietly add:

“It was a lesson.”

No one who hears those words asks comfortably what lesson was meant.

And still the story survived.

Not perfectly. Not accurately. But enough.

The phrase Delrat’s Tree entered common speech first throughout Mithein, then later across much of Mithrin itself. Its original meaning faded with the generations, but the warning endured.

To build a Delrat’s Tree meant pursuing greed beyond reason.

To water Delrat’s Tree meant inviting disaster through arrogance.

Older caravan guards used the phrase more bluntly:

“Don’t plant a Delrat.”

Most who repeat the sayings now no longer understand where they came from. Only the oldest races remember clearly.

Dwarves grow quiet when asked. Elder elves simply repeat the ancient warning in calm, measured tones whenever travelers speak too eagerly of entering the Marth.

Take nothing.

Nothing.

And if pressed why, they sometimes answer with the final lesson left behind by Delrat’s Tree:

“Some boundaries exist because something older than us decided they should.”