The silence of the forest was no longer comforting—it was oppressive. The kind that made every step sound too loud, every snap of a twig echo like a warning shot. The sun filtered weakly through the canopy above, its golden light smothered by the dense tangle of branches and frost-dampened leaves. Wind whispered through the pines, tugging at Rhea’s threadbare cloak like a cold hand trying to pull her back.
She pressed on, boots aching and heavy from hours of walking. Her muscles ached with fatigue. The soles of her feet throbbed from blisters. Her hands, raw and red from the chill, trembled as she clutched the edge of her cloak tighter around her body.
She had stopped counting the days. Time blurred when there were no warm meals, no fireside comforts, no familiar faces. She hadn’t eaten
