The forest had grown quiet in the deep hours of the night. The silver moon hung on the horizon, shimmering its soft light through the branches, casting long shadows on the forest floor. The only sound was the gentle rustling of leaves in the breeze, creating an eerie yet peaceful atmosphere.
Most of the witches had settled into their rest, and even the four of them had finally managed to find some peace despite their strange circumstances.
Rena and Jaenor slept separately after their argument earlier. Rena seemed to be oblivious towards Jaenor's feelings. She was so focused on Morgana and the other witches.
The three camps were lit by dying fires, and only a few sentries remained awake to watch for danger.
Jaenor was just beginning to drift off to sleep when a sound made his eyes snap open—a sound like breaking branches, but wrong somehow, as if the very trees were screaming in pain.
