The obsidian token felt heavier than it should have.
It lay cold against my palm as I moved through the forest at dawn, its surface smooth except for the faint grooves of root shaped symbols etched deep into the stone. I did not know how long I walked with it clenched in my hand before I realized I was doing it unconsciously, as though my body understood its significance before my mind could catch up.
Recognized.
Not protected.
Not allied.
The words echoed again and again, unsettling in their precision.
By midmorning, the terrain changed. The dense forest thinned into rolling land dotted with ancient trees whose trunks twisted skyward like frozen lightning. I slowed instinctively. This place carried history, the kind that seeped into the soil and refused to be forgotten. Old pack bor
