The third horn bellowed through the valley, low and endless, like the earth itself groaning in pain. Its echoes tangled in the trees, carrying strange whispers—snatches of voices that did not belong.
Aric staggered to his feet, sword slick with ash, body trembling from the battle with the stag-wolf. The girl clung to his arm, her breath hitching with fear. Seraphel leaned heavily on his staff, his face ashen, lips moving in prayer though no sound emerged.
The forest grew unnaturally still. No insects. No wind. No breath of life. Only silence… and whispers.
Aric froze. One of the whispers carried his name.
“Aric…”
It was the girl’s voice. But she stood beside him, silent, staring wide-eyed at the trees.
The priest’s grip tightened on his staff. “Do not answer. Do not listen. The third
