# Chapter 951: The Voice in the Wood
The silence in Kael's workshop was a familiar comfort, a heavy blanket woven from the scent of resin and sawdust. It was a silence he cultivated, a stark contrast to the ever-present, gentle hum of the World-Tree that permeated the rest of their sanctuary. Here, in his small, circular workshop carved into a sturdy mid-level bough, the only sounds were the scrape of his tools and the steady rhythm of his own breathing. A single glow-crystal, suspended from a living root by a leather thong, cast a warm, steady light over his workbench, illuminating the intricate grain of the wood before him.
Kael was a carpenter, a man who found more truth in the curve of a branch than in the words of men. His hands, calloused and scarred from a lifetime of shaping wood, moved with a practiced economy. He was working a piece of timber that had been a gift of the tree itself—a branch that had shed naturally in a recent storm, its fall a soft thud that had echoed through the bough. It was considered good fortune to receive such a gift, and Kael intended to honor it. He was crafting a decorative screen for the new nursery, a commission that brought him a quiet sense of purpose. The wood was unlike any other; it was warm to the touch, and its grain seemed to shift and flow like liquid amber when the light hit it just so.
He ran his thumb over the surface, feeling the subtle texture. The air was cool, carrying the faint, sweet perfume of the blossoms that grew just outside his open doorway. A breeze rustled the leaves, a sound like a thousand soft whispers. Kael picked up his smoothing plane, its wooden handle worn smooth by his grip. He set the blade to a fine depth and drew it along the length of the plank. The sound was a satisfying shhhh, the peel of wood curling away from the blade like a ribbon of sunlight. He worked for an hour, lost in the meditative rhythm, his mind as clear and smooth as the wood he was preparing.
And then he heard it.
It was so faint he thought he'd imagined it. A whisper, not on the air, but *inside* the sound of the plane. A sibilant sigh that seemed to emanate from the wood itself. He paused, his hand hovering over the plank. He tilted his head, listening. Nothing. Only the breeze, the distant hum of the tree, the frantic beating of his own heart. He shook his head, a wry smile touching his lips. Too many hours alone with his thoughts. The peace could play tricks on the mind. He dismissed it as fatigue and returned to his work.
He switched to a smaller hand plane, working on a delicate section of scrollwork he intended to carve. As he guided the tool, the whisper returned, clearer this time. It wasn't a word, but a feeling, a sudden, sharp pang of anxiety that bloomed in his chest without cause. It felt alien, intrusive. He stopped again, his brow furrowed. The feeling vanished as quickly as it had come. He looked around his workshop, at the half-finished projects leaning against the curved walls, at the neat rows of chisels and gouges. Everything was as it should be. The glow-crystal hummed softly. The world outside was peaceful.
"Just the wind," he muttered to himself, though the workshop was sheltered from any strong gusts.
He picked up his mallet and a chisel, his focus narrowing to the point where steel met wood. He began to carve, tapping the chisel with light, precise blows, shaving away tiny slivers to define the curve of a leaf. The whisper was back, a thread of sound woven into the crisp *tink* of the chisel. It was a voice, he was sure of it now. Feminine, strained, as if speaking from a great distance or through a thick barrier. It was fragmented, a jumble of sounds and emotions that bled directly into his mind.
*…cold… so cold…*
A sudden chill washed over Kael, making the hairs on his arms stand up. The workshop, which moments before had been comfortably warm, now felt like an ice cave. He could see his breath plume in the air. The glow-crystal flickered, its light dimming to a sullen purple. The wood in his hand felt frigid, its life-giving warmth replaced by a deep, unnatural cold that seeped into his fingers.
*…can't see… dark… spreading…*
The voice was clearer now, a desperate, breathless plea. The images it conjured were not his own. He saw flashes of darkness, a creeping blackness that oozed like tar, consuming vibrant green. He felt a suffocating pressure, a sense of being trapped, buried alive. His own breath hitched in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was not his imagination. This was real. The wood was not just wood; it was a conduit, a vessel for something else.
He dropped the chisel, his hand trembling. The mallet followed, thudding dully onto the workbench. He stared at the half-carved piece of wood, the scrollwork now looking less like a decorative leaf and more like a clawed hand reaching out from the grain. The whispers intensified, no longer a background hum but a torrent of fragmented thoughts and raw feelings pouring into his consciousness.
*…Soren… no… not him… it's inside… feeding…*
The name struck him like a physical blow. Soren. The heart of their world, the man whose sacrifice had created this very sanctuary. The voice knew him. The fear in the voice was not for itself, but for him. Kael's mind reeled, trying to process the impossible. Who was speaking? Where was this coming from? The wood in his hand felt impossibly heavy, a dead weight pulling him down. The cold intensified, a biting frost that numbed his fingers.
*…have to warn them… can't… reach… too weak…*
The voice was fading, its strength waning. The desperate urgency was being replaced by a profound sense of despair. Kael felt a surge of his own panic rise to meet it. He had to do something. He had to tell someone. But who would believe him? A carpenter hearing voices in his wood? They would think he was ill, his mind addled by the tree's constant presence. He was a simple man of craft and reason, and he was trapped in a situation that defied all reason.
He looked around the workshop wildly, as if searching for an escape. The doorway showed a peaceful scene, sunlight dappled on the wooden path outside. Children's laughter drifted from a nearby platform. The world was oblivious. The horror was contained within this small room, within this single piece of wood.
*…it sees me…*
The thought was a spike of pure terror. The voice in the wood was afraid. Not of the darkness, but of something within it. Something aware.
*…no… please…*
The whispers dissolved into a choked, silent sob. Kael felt a wave of crushing sadness, a grief so profound it brought tears to his eyes. He was a stranger to this feeling, yet it filled him completely. He stumbled back from the workbench, his legs weak. He had to get out. He had to run. But his feet were rooted to the spot, his gaze locked on the piece of wood.
The silence that followed was absolute. The whispers were gone. The cold receded, the warmth of the workshop slowly returning. The glow-crystal pulsed back to its steady, golden light. For a moment, Kael thought it was over. A bizarre, terrifying hallucination brought on by exhaustion. He took a deep, shuddering breath, the air tasting of sawdust and normalcy. He leaned against the wall, his body shaking with adrenaline.
Then the wood on his workbench began to change.
The grain, which had been a flowing pattern of amber and gold, began to darken. A single, black line appeared, thin as a spider's thread. It writhed and pulsed, not like a natural feature of the wood, but like a living thing. It spread, branching out, forming a jagged, ugly pattern that defied the natural flow of the grain. It was a corruption, a stain spreading through the heart of the wood. It was the darkness from the vision. It was the Blight Elara had mapped.
And it was here. In his workshop. In his hands.
Kael stared in horror, his mind refusing to accept what his eyes were seeing. The black line grew, oozing a faint, acrid smoke that smelled of rot and burnt sugar. The air grew thick and heavy. The peaceful hum of the World-Tree was replaced by a low, guttural growl that seemed to come from the wood itself.
The voice returned, but it was different now. It was no longer a whisper. It was a scream.
The word echoed not in the air, but inside Kael's skull, a spike of pure, undiluted terror that drove him to his knees. His chisel clattered from nerveless fingers, striking the stone floor with a sharp, final crack. The piece of wood he held, a section of the World-Tree's own body, felt suddenly cold as a grave and heavy as a tombstone. The whispers were gone, replaced by a profound and chilling silence, as if the tree itself was holding its breath. He stared at the half-carved scrollwork in his hand, the grain swirling like a frozen vortex, and knew with a certainty that defied all reason that he had just heard a ghost scream. And it was warning him about something that was already inside the walls.
He scrambled backward on his hands and feet, crab-walking away from the workbench until his back hit the curved wall of the workshop. He couldn't take his eyes off the piece of wood. The black line had stopped spreading, but it remained, a stark, ugly scar on the beautiful timber. It was a message. A warning. A declaration of war.
The scream had shattered something in him. The quiet, rational carpenter was gone, replaced by a man who had stared into an abyss and had it stare back. He had to move. He had to act. His mind raced, a chaotic storm of fear and duty. Who would believe him? Elara. The cartographer. She mapped things. She would understand. Lyra. The gardener. She tended the life of the tree. She would know if something was wrong.
He pushed himself to his feet, his legs trembling so badly he could barely stand. He had to get to them. He had to show them the wood. He stumbled toward the doorway, his gaze fixed on the peaceful scene outside. It was a lie. The peace was a lie. A monster was in their midst, and he was the only one who had heard its victim cry out.
He took a step out of his workshop, onto the wooden path. The sunlight felt warm on his skin, a stark contrast to the lingering cold in his bones. The sound of children's laughter, once a source of comfort, now seemed like a fragile shield against a terrible, encroaching darkness. He looked back at the piece of wood on his workbench. The black line seemed to pulse, a dark heart beating in the center of their world.
He had to run. Not away from the danger, but toward it. He had to warn them all.