The young knight pushed aside a tree branch deep in the Unmade Forest and made his way into a clearing. It smelled of soot and sulphur yet the trees were evergreen and the ground was grassy. There were campgrounds here - not simple tents for travelers but actual log cabins and makeshift huts. At the far end was a miasma of red-orange surrounded by cursed and twisted oak logs: the portal to the Demon Realms that the knight had been pursuing. Wary from his journey so far, the knight drew his sword and approached.
"No need to fight, unless you really want," came a voice from the side. There on the ground sat a man in an aged chain shirt armor, a woven green cloak, and dirtied trousers with a small hole at one knee. He was whittling a chunk of wood into some figure but hadn't gotten to any defining details yet.
The knight took a hesitant step away and kept an eye out for others. "Are you here to stop me, too?"
"You're free to go ahead." the whittler replied. "We'll be here when you come back."
The knight furrowed his brow. There were others closer to the center of this camp minding the buildings or chatting idly with each other. This was no fortification against outsiders like he expected. "Who are you all?"
"Let me guess - you're the one chosen by the divine to slay the Demon King." The whittler paused for a moment to inspect a flaw in the wood. "So were we. From that holy symbol on your sword's hilt you must be sent by Irladar."
The knight relaxed and lowered his sword. "Correct on all counts. And if you were chosen, why does the Demon King still live?"
The whittler ignored the question. "That means you were warned several times throughout your journey to give up too. What have you lost? Family, friends, lovers, home, country?"
The words stung the knight as he recalled seeing his comrades fall, watching his town burn, listening to the last words of so many he cared about. "What could you know of my hardships? I must continue on for their sake and for the good name of Irladar."
"Then go ahead," the whittler replied. He leaned back against a stack of firewood logs. "We've all tried. We've all lost everything in the same fight you're fighting. We'll be here for you, knight of Irladar, whenever you return. I wish you well."
The knight scowled and strode past the failure of a holy champion that sat whittling away. He glared at the others as he pushed towards the gate. With every step he expected them to turn on him, like so many of the traps the Demon King had set along the way. Not a soul moved against him. They merely watched with sorrowful understanding in their eyes. Their pitying looks unnerved the knight but his resolve remained steady as he took a step through the portal to face destiny.
The young knight of Irladar sat at the campfire with his face buried in the metal of his armored hands. It was too much. Irladar promised his sword could slay the Demon King in one slice but it had merely bounced off like he had struck a solid boulder. The Demon King pitied him, and it was that pity that finally drove the knight to despair. He was cast out of the realm and back to the Unmade Forest where he sat with the other Chosen Ones.
"How many?" the young knight asked.
"Thirty-six since we set up camp. We guess at least sixty or seventy before then." The whittler from before had put in much more detail in the two days since the knight walked through the portal. It had taken the shape of a huntress with bow and arrow; her legs were shaped to those of a wolf and her snarl revealed sharpened teeth.
The knight lifted his head and peered at the detailed carving while the sun slowly set. "A token of Ku'estar, the Green Huntress, watching over the forests and keeping balance. Do you still worship after...everything?"
"Yes and no," the whittler replied with a darkened face. "She still grants me the strength to keep the demons from invading from here. But she took everything away from me. She promised a way to lure the Demon King out from his home and slay him."
"You would bring him through the portal? That could have been disastrous."
"Deities are invincible in their own realms," the whittler said. "There is no other way. And convincing or forcing one to leave is extraordinarily tough. The Demon King used to be one of them, you know. He was a god of change and chaos. But they cast him down from their heavens for trying to shake up the entire system of godliness and heavens and hells and the like. There's nothing the rest of the gods fear more than losing their power. If you ask me, the only real motivation any deity has is maintaining the status quo."
The two sat watching the crackling campfire as its aroma mixed with the soot around them. The sun was below the treeline now, sending fading rays through the canopy. The young knight let out a resigned breath.
"A bit ironic, isn't it?" the knight said. "The domain of the Demon King is change yet he is forced to live in his hell away from everything and unable to affect the world." The whittler looked up expectantly. The two met eyes for another few seconds as the knight's mind began to turn. The thought was terrifying to consider but impossible to ignore. The whittler watched as the knight's face turned from understanding to horror to rage.
"The Demon King is unable to affect this world," the knight repeated. "Which means all the battles and traps and bloodshed wasn't his doing. Which means it had to have been...no..." He buried his face in his hands once more.
"Irladar," the whittler finished with a dour look at the wooden token of his goddess in his hand. He turned it over, admiring the detail, before tossing it into the campfire. It burned with the rest of the firewood as night overtook the campsite.