They moved together, quiet and steady, as if the clearing itself demanded reverence. Each step across the grass felt heavier than the last, though not from fear. It was the pull. Danielle could feel it thrumming in her chest, stronger with every stride.
Her boots brushed through the tall grass, dew soaking the cuffs of her jeans. The sun filtered through the trees at odd angles, casting shadows across the ruins like reaching fingers. Moss curled over fallen stone and vines wound through every crack like nature was trying to reclaim something sacred.
But the magic here hadn’t left.
It was still breathing.
Danielle’s breath hitched as she stepped over the edge of a collapsed stone, her fingers trailing across the top of what may have once been an altar or pedestal. Cold. Rough. Familiar.
