The sky dimmed to a pale gray as the three made their way deeper into the forest, where ancient branches intertwined like vaulted ceilings pressed down upon them. No one spoke. Only the soft crunch of footsteps on the thick carpet of leaves echoed quietly. Sir Cedric led the way, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, ready for trouble. Molvar walked in the middle, glancing left and right nervously, while Karl trailed behind, his eyes fixed on the winding path ahead that led toward a barely visible wooden house.
The house stood beneath an enormous oak tree, its twisted trunk resembling layers of memory coiled tightly together. Beneath its shade, a woman stood on the porch. Her hair was long, smooth, and dark, her face untouched by time—flawless and serene. Despite living in the wild, she exuded a clarity and grace that felt almost unnatural. It was impossible to guess her true age—she looked no older than her early twenties.
