Each step Ian took into the darkened grove felt like sinking into something alive.
The air was dense, unnaturally still.
The trees towered overhead like petrified titans, their limbs arching together into a ceiling of twisted black bone and leaves like veins. The soil squelched underfoot, damp and cloying, as if trying to drink his steps.
Somewhere above, light filtered through in threads—scarlet and gold, as if the sun bled instead of shone. Mist coiled low along the forest floor, thick enough to hide the shapes that moved just beyond sight.
Ian's breath steamed from his mouth. Cold.
Too cold.
[Corruption: 36%]
The system alert pulsed faintly and disappeared.
His hand hovered near Vowbreaker, its bone handle warm against his palm, hissing with a dormant hunger.
Then—noise.
Distant at first. Then sharper. Closer.
Shouts.
A shriek. Inhuman. Violent.
