Dorian Yew stood over the two tall, radiant plants in the moonlight. They shimmered faintly, brimming with magic, but he showed no sentimentality. Drawing one of his bone-handled cleavers, he sliced both plants cleanly at the root with two swift cuts.
He set up a pot over a small fire, chopped the Whitefresh into fine pieces, and began to steam them.
Once the herbs had thoroughly softened and cooked, Dorian filtered out the plant matter using a cloth, keeping only the concentrated greenish juice. He boiled it down further until the liquid evaporated, leaving behind a thick green paste clinging to the bottom of the pot.
This was no ordinary salve—it was Whitefresh Balm, a staple potion in the magical world.
It required no wand, no complicated stirring rituals—just a keen eye, patience, and a little magic. Simple in process but powerful in effect, the balm could heal nearly all injuries short of those caused by dark curses or Dark Arts.
Dorian carefully ladled the balm into two jars—one large, one small. The larger he tucked away for his own use; the smaller he brought to Drogo Baggins as a gift of thanks for his generous hospitality.
Drogo peered into the jar, puzzled. "Dorian, what is this?"
"A potion I brewed," Dorian replied with a calm smile. "It heals wounds. Keep it with you for emergencies."
To demonstrate, he reached into a small cage and pulled out a mouse. With a small knife, he nicked its side—a clean cut, but enough to draw blood.
The mouse squeaked in pain, and Drogo recoiled in alarm. "Dorian!" he gasped, staring at him as if he'd gone mad.
But Dorian simply dabbed a bit of the thick green balm onto the wound.
Before their eyes, the gash closed.
The bleeding stopped.
Within seconds, the mouse was as good as new.
Drogo was speechless. He looked down at the little jar in his hands, now heavy with meaning and power.
"This is... this is too much," he stammered. "I can't possibly accept this. It's—this stuff could be worth a fortune."
Dorian simply smiled again and placed the jar firmly back in Drogo's hand. "It's a gift, Drogo. It wasn't hard for me to make. I insist."
Reluctantly, but with gratitude in his heart, Drogo accepted.
From then on, their friendship deepened.
With the Whitefresh Balm, Dorian now had an extra layer of protection on his strange, wandless journey.
Over the following weeks, he continued his forays into the Old Forest.
He never strayed far from the edge—never deep enough to become lost. He would dart in, collect a few branches, test his skills on hostile trees, and dart out again.
The training was grueling, but rewarding.
Through repeated skirmishes with the sentient trees, Dorian's magic and reflexes sharpened. He grew stronger, faster, and more confident. He tested spells from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1, Jinxes for the Jinxed, and Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection—and found that nearly all were surprisingly effective in combat.
He got injured, of course. No real training comes without wounds.
But the balm was potent. Every night he healed, and every day he returned—pushing further and harder.
To Dorian, the trees had become like sparring partners in a tutorial zone.
He didn't realize the trees had grown resentful.
Deeply resentful.
They were planning something.
He had stayed in Bucklebury for nearly two months—longer than he'd stayed anywhere since leaving Hobbiton.
Now, following the old traveler's instinct of "go further, find more," he prepared for a deeper journey into the forest—hoping this time he could finally "sign in" to the location the way the system had occasionally allowed in the past.
He had already collected dozens of types of wood—ash, poplar, cypress, holly, redwood, and others. Many were passable for wand-making, but all of them felt wrong in his hands. The magic never flowed smoothly.
Clearly, his ideal wand wood was still out there.
He packed his supplies, informed Drogo of his plans, and passed once more through the hidden gap in the hedge.
But the moment he stepped into the forest, he knew something was wrong.
The Old Forest was silent.
Unnaturally so.
It didn't attack. No snapping branches, no groaning trees, no roots rising to trip him.
The air was heavy with something worse than aggression: anticipation.
Dorian kept moving, alert but undeterred.
No sign-in notification from the system. Not even a glimmer of acknowledgment.
Maybe I have to go further... to the very heart of the forest?
Then he saw it.
A path.
A narrow, winding trail had opened ahead of him. The trees on either side had parted just enough to form a tunnel of green—straight, clean, and completely unnatural.
Dorian hesitated.
The trees were still.
Too still.
And the air pulsed with quiet, seething malice.
He took a cautious step forward.
Immediately, the trees closed in behind him, sealing the entrance. The path vanished.
Then, they attacked.
Branches whipped like whips. Roots erupted from the ground like spears. The forest was done playing games.
"Protego!"
"Locomotor Mortis!"
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Dorian moved like water, flowing through spells he had cast a hundred times before. The shield charm blocked the branches. The leg-locking curse tangled the roots. Full-body binds froze trees in place.
He fought back without fear—he knew these enemies.
And all the while, he collected branches from species he hadn't seen before, even as he advanced deeper down the single open path.
But the deeper he went, the more the trees came.
It became obvious—they weren't trying to defeat him. They were herding him.
Toward the center.
Anyone else might have turned back. Might have panicked.
But Dorian Yew wasn't just anyone.
He knew what lay in the center of the forest—and he wasn't afraid to meet it.
He ran.
The path behind him sealed shut with roots and bark. There would be no retreat.
He ran until the moon rose high.
Thick mist blanketed the ground. The canopy became so dense it blocked all light.
He cast Lumos, illuminating just enough to keep moving.
And then he emerged.
Out of the forest, into a valley.
The trees thinned out, replaced by dense shrubs and soft grasses. A stream wound gently through the land. And on its bank stood a tree—the tree.
A massive Old Willow, ancient and terrible.
It dwarfed every tree he had ever seen. Its trunk was thick and split with deep cracks, like the mouth of a sleeping monster. Its limbs reached skyward like crooked gray arms, swaying ever so slightly in the breeze—though there was no wind.
It creaked. Whispered.
Watching him.
Waiting.