Ruins Of Reality

Something had gone wrong in Arlathan Forest. That much was clear to Strife as he dodged a rampaging tree branch that nearly tore off his head. The leaves solidified into serrated blades, so he nicked an ear to avoid losing his skull.

But the pain wasn't what bothered the silver-haired elf. It wasn't even the confusion of the last three days he'd spent lost in these woods, confidently hiking north only to discover he'd been headed south. Or the fact that he could only remember the sun rising and setting once. Or the bewildering realization that his time-worn, always reliable map of Arlathan Forest—a map that detailed every hidden trail, cave, and elven ruin—could no longer be trusted. A ravine that once took an hour to hike now took five. Somehow, the landscape itself had stretched. Transformed. Not even the murderous branch alarmed him all that much. He'd dealt with sylvans before, trees possessed by rage demons, and they weren't the problem. That honor belonged to the inexplicable sight darting into view…

Himself. Strife. Scrambling through the brambles, dodging the bloodthirsty forest with a familiar urgency. Another him. The other elf hid behind a weathered stone column shrouded in vines, stealing a glance at a leatherbound journal—the same journal he was holding. It was a relic of the Morlyn clan, handed down over generations. Their Keeper had given it to Strife when it started rewriting itself last month. Mysterious entries appeared of their own accord, describing sacred ruins in Arlathan Forest that guarded an artifact of fabled power.

Strife was looking at it now. On the other side, so was his double. Both transfixed by a statue of elven goddess Ghilan'nain holding a crystal halla figurine, exactly as the journal described.   

"What now?" was all he could think to ask the other him. He didn’t get an answer. A jagged branch had whipped into position behind his double, the snap of wood giving his other self a moment's notice to dive for cover… and that's when Strife understood he was about to suffer the same fate. Snap! Like some bizarre deja-vu, a branch cracked behind him just as a razor-sharp branch nearly impaled him. 

"He's not real," a voice growled nearby. "Like a mirage. Or an echo." Strife spun around to see a wolf sizzling with magical energy. When the glow faded, Irelin, his shapeshifting elf companion, stood in its place. "Happened to me yesterday. I saw a pack of wolves. Turned out they were all me."

"What? I saw you an hour ago."

"I haven't seen you in four days.” Both elves stared at one another with a shared sense of dread: this was ancient magic at work. Eons old. "Quick, before it fades. Go left!"

Strife ran left, trusting she had a plan. In mirror-like fashion, so did his echo, drawing the attention of the murderous sylvans. Apparently, the plan was to act as a lure.

"I'm bait!” Strife complained loudly. 

"You've got a spare! Meet you back at camp!" Irelin shouted as she launched into the air, shapeshifting into an enormous eagle. As the Strifes drew the attention of the merciless trees, Irelin swooped in and snagged the figurine with her talons, tearing it from Ghilan'nain's grip. The statue didn't let go easily, but neither did Irelin. With an angry squawk, she yanked the prize free and disappeared into the sky.

The other Strife vanished. The sylvans fell silent. The spell was broken. But Strife knew an omen when he saw one. 

Something had gone wrong in Arlathan Forest.

(Illustrated by Albert Urmanov)