The wilderness stretched before Emma, vast and untamed. Snow-draped trees towered over her, their skeletal branches clawing at a slate-gray sky. The mountains loomed in the distance, their peaks hidden behind a veil of clouds. Each step Emma took felt heavier than the last, the weight of the valley's survival pressing down on her.
The cold was sharper here, the wind cutting through her layers like a blade. She tightened her scarf and adjusted the straps of her pack, her fingers already numb. The compass Clara had given her hung from her belt, its needle quivering faintly as though unsure of its direction.
Emma pressed on, her breath forming clouds in the frigid air. She had no clear path, only the vague pull of the land guiding her forward. The hum she had heard in the valley was quieter now, a distant echo that seemed to grow louder when she veered from the right direction. She trusted it, though it unnerved her. It felt alive, as if the land itself was watching her, urging her onward.
By mid-afternoon, the snow began to fall, light at first, then heavier, until the world around her was a swirling white haze. Visibility dropped to mere feet, and the path ahead vanished beneath the fresh snowfall. Emma pushed forward, her boots crunching through the drifts, but the storm was relentless.
She found shelter beneath a cluster of rocks, their overhang providing a small reprieve from the biting wind. As she sat and tried to catch her breath, she pulled out Clara's compass. Its needle spun wildly, as if the storm had confused even the simplest of tools.
I should turn back, she thought, the voice of doubt creeping in. This is madness. How can I find the Waking Root in this?
But then she felt it—a faint vibration beneath her, like the distant rumble of a heartbeat. She closed her eyes and focused, letting the sensation wash over her. The hum grew stronger, not in her ears but in her chest, guiding her like an unseen hand.
When the storm eased hours later, Emma emerged from her shelter, her determination renewed. The land was calling to her, and she would answer.
As night fell, Emma came across the ruins of an old cabin, its roof caved in and its walls leaning precariously. She decided to stop there for the night, grateful for even the smallest protection from the elements.
Inside, she found remnants of another life—rusted tools, a broken chair, and a pile of rotting firewood. She lit a small fire, the warmth a welcome relief. As the flames flickered, she explored the cabin, her flashlight casting long shadows across the walls.
In one corner, she found a journal, its pages brittle and yellowed with age. She flipped through it carefully, the words faded but still legible:
"The land is restless. The storms grow stronger, the ground less stable. I fear we've awoken something we cannot control."
Emma's heart quickened. Whoever had lived here had noticed the same disturbances she had. She read on, but the entries became more fragmented, the writer's words devolving into frantic scrawls.
"The tree... It's alive. It's watching. It knows."
The last page was blank, the final entry abruptly cut off. Emma stared at the journal, her mind racing. She didn't know who this person was or what had happened to them, but their words echoed her own fears.
She set the journal aside and tried to sleep, though the hum of the land seemed louder here, as if it was trying to tell her something she couldn't quite understand.
The next morning, Emma awoke to an eerie stillness. The wind had died down, and the air was unnaturally quiet. She stepped outside, her breath visible in the cold, and scanned her surroundings.
The snow was disturbed—a trail of prints leading from the edge of the forest to the cabin and back again. They were too large to be human, the deep impressions suggesting something heavy and deliberate.
Her pulse quickened as she gripped the knife at her belt. She had seen tracks like these before, back in the valley, when the wolves had hunted in packs. But this was different. Whatever had made these tracks was larger, stronger.
She moved cautiously, following the trail to the edge of the forest. The prints disappeared into the underbrush, but she felt the weight of unseen eyes on her. Her instincts screamed at her to move, to get away, but she couldn't shake the feeling that whatever was out there was waiting, watching.
The land was alive, and not all of it was kind.
By midday, Emma reached a frozen river that snaked through the forest, its surface shimmering in the pale sunlight. The hum was stronger here, vibrating through the ice and into her boots. She knelt and placed a hand on the surface, feeling the faint pulse of energy beneath.
She knew she had to cross it. The Waking Root lay somewhere beyond, and this was the only way forward. She tested the ice carefully, each step slow and deliberate. The river groaned beneath her weight, the sound echoing through the stillness.
Halfway across, she heard it—a low growl, deep and guttural. She turned sharply, her knife in hand, and saw it at the edge of the river.
A massive, wolf-like creature stood there, its fur bristling and its eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. It was unlike any wolf she had ever seen, its body larger and more muscular, its presence radiating a primal, almost otherworldly menace.
The creature stepped onto the ice, its movements slow and deliberate. Emma backed away, her heart racing. The ice cracked beneath her, spiderweb fractures spreading outward with every step.
The wolf growled again, its gaze locked on hers. Emma knew she couldn't fight it—not here, not on the fragile ice. She turned and ran, her boots slipping as the ice splintered beneath her. The creature followed, its movements eerily smooth, as if it knew the ice would hold it.
The hum grew louder, almost deafening, guiding her toward the far bank. She pushed herself harder, her breath ragged, and leapt onto solid ground just as the ice gave way beneath the wolf.
The creature let out a furious howl as it plunged into the freezing water, its glowing eyes locked on Emma until it disappeared beneath the surface.
She didn't stop running until the hum quieted, her chest heaving and her legs trembling. She collapsed against a tree, her knife still in her hand, and tried to calm her racing heart.
The land was alive, and it was testing her.
But she wasn't done yet.