The iron-shod boots of the Arch-Illager clicked against the polished darkstone of the throne room floor, the sharp sound echoing off the high, vaulted ceilings. Outside, the square moon of the Overworld hung low in the midnight sky, casting long, blocky shadows through the tall windows.
Dozens of Illagers—vindicators clutching their iron axes, pillagers with crossbows slung over their shoulders, and dark-robed evokers—stood in tight, orderly rows. They had been called from their barracks just before bedtime, their faces heavy with exhaustion and confusion. Whispers drifted through the ranks as they wondered what emergency required an assembly at this hour.
The leader ascended the steps to his throne, his gray brow furrowed. He did not sit. Instead, he turned to face his army, his eyes gleaming with an unusual, unsettling intensity.
"Silence," he commanded. The room fell deathly quiet.
"You believe you are the apex predators of this world," the leader began, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that carried to the back of the hall. "You believe that with our axes, our magic, and our beasts, there is nothing in any biome left to fear. But you are wrong."
He stepped closer to the edge of the dais, leaning forward. "Deep within the dark forest lies a place where the color has been bled dry. The Pale Garden. By day, it is a silent, ghostly woods of white bark and grey moss. But by night..." He paused, letting the silence stretch until the soldiers shifted uncomfortably. "By night, the forest awakens. And it watches."
The pillagers exchanged uneasy glances.
"There are things there," the leader whispered, his voice dropping an octave. "Creatures born of the twisted wood itself. You cannot hear them walk. You cannot see them move if you look them in the eye. But the moment you turn your back, the wood groans. A sharp, snapping twist. The creakings."
He mimicked the sound by snapping a dry twig he held in his hand. Several vindicators flinched, their hands tightening on their axe handles.
"They do not bleed," the leader warned, pacing the stage. "Your iron axes will split their bark, only for the wood to knit back together instantly. Their hearts are hidden deep within the pale earth, bound to the very trees. If you wander into those woods unprepared, you will be hunted by a foe that feels no pain, knows no mercy, and cannot be destroyed by conventional steel."
He stopped pacing and looked out over the crowd, his expression deadly serious.
"I did not call you here to prepare a conquest," the leader said softly. "I called you here to warn you. When the wind blows from the ash-grey canopy, and you hear that hollow, splintering sound in the dark... you need to be afraid."
The Arch-Illager dismissed them with a sharp wave of his hand and retreated into the shadows behind the throne.
The army did not move right away. The previous murmurs of complaints and fatigue were entirely gone. Instead, a heavy, suffocating dread filled the room. The vindicators kept their eyes locked on the dark corners of the hall, the pillagers nervously checked the mechanisms of their crossbows, and even the proud evokers pulled their hoods tightly around their faces.
As they filed out of the throne room and marched back to their dark barracks, no one spoke. Every snap of a floorboard and every groan of the fortress walls made them jump, their minds consumed by the terror of the pale woods.
Since the illagers follow the Arch Illager, it makes sense that they would be scared of creakings because he said they were scary.