The forest did not sleep.
All night, the mist crept thicker, and with it came movement. Branches creaked though no wind stirred. Shapes slid through the fog, just beyond sight. Sometimes they looked like men. Sometimes like beasts. Always shifting. Always watching.
Aric gripped his sword tighter. His knuckles were white against the hilt, sweat slicking his palm. His scar pulsed beneath the skin, faint but insistent, as though it too felt the forest drawing near.
Seraphel’s staff glowed bright, yet its light seemed swallowed by the fog, devoured inch by inch. The priest’s jaw was tight, his voice low as he murmured protective words beneath his breath. The girl clung to Aric’s sleeve, silent but trembling, her fear a constant weight against his side.
And then the first sound came.
A hor
