The river murmured under a grey sky as dusk settled over the wooded hills. Timberflow’s northern patrol route was quiet, almost too quiet for Bram’s liking. The woodchuck soldier moved steadily along the ridge above the Silverstream, his pike held loosely in one paw, his other adjusting the strap of his battered leather satchel.
Bram’s eyes were sharp. He had served too long to ignore instincts, and tonight, they stirred uneasily in his gut.
Then he saw them.
Two small figures stumbling along the muddy riverbank below: not wildlife, not shadows. Otters. Young ones. Soaked, staggering, and terrified. One collapsed in the reeds, too exhausted to speak. The other scanned the shadows like something might leap out of them any second.
Bram didn’t hesitate. He slid down the slope, boots slipping in the wet soil, and approached them with caution but speed.
“Hey!” he called, lowering his pike and raising one paw in peace. “You’re safe now. You’re in Timberflow.”
The pup barely looked at him. “No,” he whispered. “We’re not.”
Bram knelt, checking the smaller one for wounds, shallow cuts, bruises, fever-hot skin. They’d been running hard, maybe for days.
“Tell me what happened.”
The older one, a young otter with a gashed shoulder, lifted his muzzle and looked him in the eyes. “We tried to stay quiet. We tried. But it heard us. It’s big. Bigger than any beast we’ve seen. Like a snake but wrong. It took them.”
“Took them?”
The pup swallowed hard. “The snake… it attacked our family. Mother is gone. Father… taken. River … We had to leave River.”, he gestured behind them. “We only got away because it… it let us.”
“Let you?”
The pup looked at him, eyes wide. “It watched us leave.”
Bram felt the chill then. Not just the river wind, but something older, deeper, the way a storm feels before it hits. He didn’t press for details. There were none to give.
“Name?” he asked instead.
“I’m Finley, This is my sister Brooke.”
“All right, Finley. I’m Bram, First Watch of Timberflow. You did right to run. Let’s get you inside.”
He stood, pulled a small signal horn from his belt, and gave a single sharp blast. The call for emergency assembly.
Timberflow’s central chamber filled fast, lanterns swinging as council members filed in: anxious, half-prepared. Rain tapped the wooden shingles above.
Mayor Bramble was already waiting, arms crossed, cloak damp from the rain.
Bram stood near the hearth, dirt still clinging to his uniform, a fleck of blood not his own drying on one sleeve. The two otters slept nearby, wrapped in cloaks and watched over by a healer.
“They were found just outside of town,” Bram said without preamble. “Their holt’s likely destroyed, and a sibling left upstream. The older one spoke of something in the river. Something that doesn’t move like a beast. Something that thinks.”
Councilor Nerin frowned, arms crossed. “A bear, maybe. Or a rogue gator. Pups exaggerate when they’re frightened.”
“They didn’t exaggerate the blood. Or the speed they ran.” Bram’s voice didn’t rise, it didn’t need to. “They described a snake. But not one I’ve ever heard of.”
“Serpent?” someone muttered near the back.
Mayor Bramble straightened. “Do we have any records of such a creature? Old attacks? Legends?”
There was a pause. Only the crackle of fire answered.
Scribe Weller, the archivist, cleared his throat. “There are… fragments. Ancient references. A ‘river shadow’ said to haunt the upper Silverstream, long before any of our great grandparents were born. Nothing with a name. Just stories. Warnings carved on stone too old to trace.”
“No name?” asked Bramble.
Weller shook his head. “If it ever had one, it’s been lost.”
The council fell silent.
Then Bram said, quietly, “That doesn’t mean it’s gone.”
Mayor Bramble looked to the council. “Prepare the militia. Alert the outer farms. We meet again at first light. Bram take a group and see if you can find this sibling.”
The silence that followed wasn’t consent, it was the weight of something ancient shifting back into the world.
And somewhere beyond the river, in the gathering dark, something cold and serpentine moved beneath the water.
Morning in Timberflow was usually a gentle thing, sunlight dappling through the tall oaks, the smell of fresh bread from the millhouse, river mist catching the first light like soft thread.
Today, it broke cold and gray.
Bram stood on the watchtower overlooking the river’s bend, chewing the inside of his cheek as the mist churned thicker than usual. It swirled in strange patterns, sluggish, like it didn’t want to lift. Like it knew something was wrong.
Behind him, the door creaked. Councilor Nerin stepped up beside him, wrapped in a wool cloak.
“They say the smaller pup had nightmares all night. Kept whimpering something about the eyes.”
Bram didn’t look away from the river. “It was watching them. That’s not the way of beasts.”
“No,” Nerin said softly. “It’s not.”
“Let’s head to the council”
The town hall of Timberflow was built like a dam, thick-beamed, low-ceilinged, and rooted deep into the riverbank. Inside, the air was heavy with wood-smoke and damp fur. The council of beavers sat around their time-worn table, tails twitching with unease.
At the head sat Mayor Bramble, his fur peppered with age, his broad paws folded tightly. He slammed his flat tail on the floor with a loud thump.
“Let’s get on with it,” Bramble said, voice gravelly. “We all heard the otters.”
The room quieted.
“They came downriver wild-eyed, starving, speaking nonsense. They claimed it was five days to get here.”
Councilor Terns gnawed a twig nervously. “They said it was a serpent. Big as a barge.”
“We’ve heard of river monsters before,” muttered Councilor Winna. “Old fisher’s tales.”
Bramble slammed his tail again. “Tale or not, something drove them from their holt.”
“They didn’t just run,” said Bram, the broad-shouldered woodchuck standing near the wall, arms crossed. “We found the youngest. Barely a scratch on his arm, but everything around it is rotted … like a spiderweb. Nothing I’ve seen does that, not in these waters.”
“Except maybe Grimspinner,” Winna muttered.
A few chuckles died quickly in the heavy air.
“We can’t joke about this,” said Councilor Nerin, her voice low and clear. She was the only beaver not seated, pacing the far side of the chamber with a quiet, coiled energy. “Whatever did this forced a them to abandon their home brother. That’s not just panic. That’s terror.”
Councilor Toren leaned forward. “Even so… what can we do? The river’s our lifeblood. If we flee, we leave everything behind.”
“We won’t flee,” Bramble said firmly. “Not yet. But we can’t fight this alone either.”
“Then we fight it smart,” said Councilor Nerin, a lean, scarred beaver who’d once held command of the river-watch. Her tone was clipped. “We send scouts. Get eyes on it. And if it’s what they say… we don’t face it alone.”
Winna snorted. “So we do nothing?”
“No. We go to Cragjaw.”
A long silence followed.
Terns’ voice cracked. “Cragjaw? That butcher? He’ll demand tribute…”
“He’ll demand respect,” Bramble interrupted. “And we’ll give it, if it means saving Timberflow.”
“And who’s going to talk him into that?” Toren asked.
“I will send my son,” Bramble said. “Thatcher will speak for Timberflow.”
Gasps broke out. Winna rose halfway from her seat. “He’s a bard!”
“And a clever one,” Bramble countered. “He can speak ten tongues and knows how to win a room. Cragjaw respects strength, but he listens to charm.”
Councilor Toren nodded slowly. “It might work. But he can’t go alone.”
“He won’t,” Bramble said. “We assemble a team. Soldiers, scouts, everything they’ll need to get there and back safely. They leave straight away.”
Midmorning light filtered through the high canopy, casting golden shafts across the winding trail west of Timberflow. The old forest road, more moss than dirt in places, ran out between root-knotted trees and the shallow rise of the river bluff. A mist still clung to the hollows, reluctant to burn off.
At the trailhead, the Timberflow delegation gathered under the watchful eye of Mayor Bramble and a few townsfolk who had come to see them off.
Ten figures moved among gear and provisions—adjusting packs, oiling weapons, tightening laces. Each wore the burden of purpose. They weren’t a polished company, but they looked the part: lean and sharp and wary.
Bram, thick-shouldered and stoic, tested the weight of his spear. His jaw worked as he watched the others move. He paused only when Lina passed by, her satchel of herbs rustling softly. Their eyes met for a breath, enough to say everything and nothing.
Finley saw it too, peeking from behind a low cedar stump at the edge of the clearing. The young squirrel’s brow furrowed with determination.
“I’m going,” he whispered.
Beside him, Brooke crouched lower. “You’re what?”
“I’m going with them. Someone needs to look out for Bram. And Lina.”
Brooke’s ears twitched. “You’re not a soldier.”
“I’m not a fool either.” Finley adjusted the small pack he’d stuffed with food, cord, and a slingshot.
“I’m faster than Bram, and quieter than Gertie.”
“That’s not hard,” Brooke mumbled.
“She snores,” Finley admitted. “But still.”
He looked at the party again as Koda rolled up a map, his wide tail twitching in irritation. “Two days to Dryroot if the rains hold,” he muttered.
“Three if Shade keeps taking the long path,” Bram said.
The old rat leaned on his bowstaff, his grey whiskers twitching. “Three days means fewer things tracking us.”
His apprentice, Pip, crouched beside him, tying off her boots. “Or more chances to find the things first.”
At the center, Thatcher brushed imaginary dust from his cloak, adjusting the strap of his lute case. His fur was neat, his pack light, his posture full of borrowed confidence.
“Let’s remember this is a diplomatic mission,” he announced. “We’re not trudging into a battlefield.”
Gertie snorted, cinching her stew pot to her back. “Then why bring stew?”
“For diplomacy,” said Slate, deadpan.
“Finally, someone who gets it,” Gertie beamed.
Fennel and Zara counted bundles between them, herbs, trinkets, dried roots. Fennel’s ledger was half-unrolled before Lina gently pushed it closed.
“They’ll buy what we bring or they won’t,” she said softly. “We don’t need ten different inks.”
“Speak for yourself,” muttered Zara.
“Ready?” Bramble asked. He stood at the edge of the road, arms folded, watching his son. “All of Timberflow is with you, Thatcher.”
Thatcher puffed up. “Then Timberflow has nothing to fear.”
No one said anything to that.
The mayor’s tail slapped the dirt once…soft but final. The group turned and began to walk, the forest swallowing their forms one by one.
As the last of the party vanished into the underbrush, Finley shifted forward.
“Let’s go,” he whispered.
Brooke hesitated. “We’ll get in trouble.”
“Maybe,” Finley said. “But if something happens to them, I’d never forgive myself. Would you?”
Brooke looked at the trail, then at her brother. “You’re still dumb.”
“But I’m your brother,” he said with a grin.
And that was that. Together, they slipped quietly into the ferns, just two more shadows on the long westbound road.