Watchtower City

Tinder realised a direct confrontation with the shadows might trap them deep in the Wildwood forever. She looked down at the young woman, then at the dying light of the firefly in her hand. "We need to find another path," she murmured, her eyes scanning the twisting terrain.

The young woman nodded quickly, pointing a small, trembling hand toward a narrow fissure in the rock face behind the decaying oak. It was a tight squeeze, a hidden game trail that wound upward rather than backtracking toward the meadow and Pennyroyal Creek.

As the wall of angry shadows surged forward, snapping like jaws at the heels of their feet, Tinder ushered the young woman into the rocky crevice first, then followed. She turned, then pressed her hands against the stone walls, letting her intense elemental heat sear the narrow passage, creating a barrier of white-hot air that the darkness could not cross. Tinder's fire smouldered now, as powerful as she was, her inner flame was almost spent from the effort.

They scrambled upward through the tight, pitch-black tunnel, guided only by the soft, ambient glow radiating from Tinder's skin. After a tense few minutes of climbing, the air grew sweeter, and the oppressive weight of the shadows began to lift. With one final push, they broke through a curtain of thick ivy and tumbled out onto a high, rocky ledge.

Ahead of them, they saw an enormous watchtower and beyond that, what appeared to be, a large city. Tinder stared in disbelief. Looking down from the ledge, she expected to see the familiar grassy banks of Pennyroyal Creek. Instead, the landscape across the water had warped into something entirely alien.

Gone was the sunny clearing that she loved. In its place stood a cluster of bizarre, towering structures. They were constructed entirely from blackened iron, rusted gears, and massive watch pieces. Huge brass cogs turned with a heavy, metallic groan, and giant clock hands swept across the facades of the buildings like mechanical scythes. Puffs of white steam hissed from iron pipes, drifting over the water.

The natural Wildwood was being crowded out by this strange, clockwork architecture. Staring at the ticking structures with a mixture of awe and absolute dread, the young woman whispered, "The Iron-Weavers. They are changing the forest. That's why the darkness is hunting . . . the balance of the wildwood is completely broken."

Tinder looked at her for a moment, as if her mind had wandered, then asked "What is your name? If we are going to be hunted together I should know what to call you." The young women replied, "I am called Hazel, Hazel Sweetbush to be precise".

The name tasting like fresh earth and autumn rain against Tinder's fiery tongue. "A good name for a creature of the Wildwood," she said, her head nodding and eyes shifting back to the colossal, ticking watch faces that dominated the horizon.

Down below, the grinding of the massive cogs grew louder, a rhythmic clank-tick-clank that seemed to pulse right through the stone beneath their feet. The natural harmony of the forest was drowning under the cold, mechanical heartbeat of the Iron-Weavers.

Hazel looked down at her hands, which were trembling slightly. The her matted tunic was beginning to dry and fray, reacting poorly to the metallic, soot-heavy air blowing off the iron structures. "We can't stay on this ledge for long," Hazel warned, her fox-like ears twitching under her hair. "The scouts of the Iron-Weavers have ears made of brass and copper. They can hear a footstep from a mile away."

"Then we had better move quickly," Tinder said, her eyes flashing like embers. "The other elementals must be at the Whispering Pools. If the balance is broken, they will feel it too." Hazel nodded, as she scanned the perimeter, then she led Tinder down a steep, narrow path on the reverse side of the ridge, away from the rhythmic clank-tick-clank of the iron city. Here, the Wildwood was still fighting to survive, its roots wrapping stubbornly around chunks of discarded scrap metal.

As they hurried through the dense undergrowth, the air grew increasingly heavy, the distant, rhythmic pounding of heavy machinery still echoing through the gloom. It wasn't the ink-like darkness from before, but a suffocating shroud of smog and soot that drifted from the Iron-Weaver buildings. Tinder's flames grew a little lower, starved of clean oxygen, while Hazel moved with quiet agility, her eyes darting between the trees.

Hazel stopped suddenly, dropping low into a crouch and raising a hand to signal Tinder. The powdery ash gave way to where ancient roots of the canopy met the stone beneath. Tinder slid to a halt beside her, where Hazel pointed at the split base of a massive, petrified trunk. Exposed in the depression was a metallic plate, etched with sharp, geometric grooves. It didn't belong to the forest, and it certainly didn't belong to the old world.

"Oh what a relief," Tinder exclaimed, she recognised the markings, they weren't geometric grooves at all, they were peck marks of Twilight the raven. Hazel feeling a little suspicious, asked "How could a raven make marks like that in metal?" Tinder's expression shifted, the initial relief fading into a thoughtful frown as she stared at the sharp, mechanical lines etched into the plate.

She reached out, running a finger along the precise, deep grooves. "Twilight isn't just an ordinary bird," Tinder said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "But you're right. No beak, no matter how strong, cuts into alloy like this." She leaned closer, studying the way the ash settled into the edges of the design. "I know the pattern though. It's the exact sequence he uses when he pecks messages into the bark near the clearing . . . the three quick strikes, the long drag, the twin dots. It's his signature. But you're right, he didn't use his beak to do this."

Hazel knelt beside her, her hand resting instinctively on the cold metal of the hidden plate. It felt out of place against the ancient, petrified wood. "Then how?"

"He must have used a tool," replied Tinder, looking up into the grey canopy as if expecting the dark-feathered bird to materialize from the gloom. "Maybe someone, or something, etched his message into this metal for him."

Hazel rubbed her hand back over the symbols and felt a small round lump, similar to a button one would press to make an elevator work, "Feel this!" she exclaimed. Tinder felt it, then pressed it hard, and a hiss of air broke the quiet as the metal plate lifted to reveal a hidden compartment below. A faint blue glow came from the dark opening, Tinder leaned closer to look inside.

"It's a tunnel, an escape tunnel. Come on Hazel this is the way back to the Wildwood clearing, I'm sure of it." The glow cast long, eerie shadows across Tinder's face as she peered deeper into the darkness. Hazel hesitated, the scent of damp earth and crushed pine needles wafted up from the opening . . . a stark contrast to the stale, heavy air of what they were leaving behind.

"Are you sure, Tinder?" she whispered, looking back over her shoulder at the looming shadows of the mechanical towers. "The Wildwood clearing is miles from here. How could a tunnel stretch that far?"

"It’s ancient magic, or ancient engineering," Tinder said, her voice buzzing with excitement. She swung her legs over the edge, dangling them into the glow. "Either way, it’s better than waiting around for those Iron-Weavers, trust me."

With a soft thud, Tinder dropped into the opening. For a terrifying second, there was silence. Then, her face reappeared in the blue light, a grin breaking through the dust on her cheeks. "The floor is solid. It's a bit steep, but it leads straight down. Come on, before that door shuts." Hazel took a deep breath, gripped the edge of the smooth stone frame, and lowered herself into the hidden depths.