The whispering had grown louder.
Thorn sat cross-legged beneath the ancient willow, his eyes closed, hands resting gently on the moss-covered roots. The fire he had built earlier crackled softly beside him, casting flickering shadows up the trunk of the tree. For a time, the forest had been quiet—listening, curious, perhaps even willing.
But now something had changed.
He could feel it in the dirt beneath his fingertips. In the hesitation of the wind.
"What is it?" he whispered. "What has frightened you?"
The trees rustled faintly in reply, but the meaning was scattered—like words whispered in water. Still, Thorn listened. Always.
Then he heard it: soft, skittering footsteps.
His eyes flew open.
He turned, but saw nothing. Only shadows. Stillness. Yet the presence lingered. A shiver
