After Solin disappeared into the thick fog, no one spoke for a long moment. Silence settled over the group, but it wasn't a comfortable quiet. It was thick and heavy, like a load pressing down on their chests. The kind of silence that makes your skin crawl, as if even the forest around them was holding its breath. The trees seemed to lean in, branches creaking softly, waiting to see what they would do next. Even the air felt tighter, almost compressed, as if something unseen and darker than the shadows was pushing at the edges of their camp. It wasn't just quiet. It felt wrong, like the quiet itself was warning them to stay alert. The darkness stretched out, thickening the feeling of uncertainty and fear in the air. It was as if the very forest was conspiring to keep them silent, to make them doubt what they saw and heard.
Ash was the first to break the silence. He started pacing near the firepit, now smoldering with just a few dying embers. His hands ran through his hair repeatedly, restless and tense. His face was tight with frustration, pushing him toward the edge of panic. With every step, he seemed to fight an internal battle, trying to hold back a flood of confusion and fear. Finally, he muttered under his breath, "Alright, someone say it." His voice was rough, almost desperate. "Say how all of this doesn't make sense. Say we're just seeing things. That we're dreaming." His words hung in the air, loud enough to break the oppressive silence but still filled with uncertainty. "I don't care how you do it. Just say it's some kind of joke, or we're crazy. Anything but this chaos."
Mira sat cross-legged on the damp ground, her sketchbook lying closed beside her. She seemed calm at first, even reflective. Her gaze was focused on the flickering shadows cast over the dark forest. She looked tired but determined, as if she already knew the truth but didn't want to voice it. She shook her head slowly, her voice quiet but firm. "We're not dreaming," she said, almost to herself.
Ash spun around sharply, clearly frustrated. "We've fought something made out of stitched smoke, a shadow creature that twisted the air around it," he snapped. "Remember that? We've seen fire that reacts to us, flames that seem to listen and follow commands. We've seen drawings that come true, images predicting what will happen next. And now, a plague doctor from the past appears out of nowhere to tell us we're part of some old prophecy. Do you think any of this could be just a coincidence? That maybe it's too much stuff to be real?" His voice cracked slightly as he voiced his fears, the weight of everything crashing down on him.
Varyon, sitting nearby, eyed the others carefully. His expression was flat, almost unreadable. He finally broke the silence with a simple statement. "No, we're not dreaming. But I think things are going to get worse—much worse before they get better." His words carried a hint of warning, as if he knew something dangerous was coming and that they weren't ready for it.
Rylan stood completely still, arms crossed over his chest. He stared at the place where Solin had vanished, his gaze fixed and unblinking. The name 'Veyr' echoed in his mind, loud and clear. It wasn't just a sound. It felt like the whisper of something deep inside him, as if he'd always known that name was connected to him. The feeling chilled him more than the cold wind that brushed through the trees. Knowing this made it harder to breathe, harder to accept what he was beginning to realize.
"They said I have to choose," Rylan finally broke the silence, his voice soft but steady. "Choose what?"
Lina, standing nearby, looked at him with quiet concern. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, trying to hold herself together. Her usual calm was faded, replaced with worry. "Maybe it's to fight or run," she suggested softly. "Or perhaps it's to finish what was started long ago, before we even knew what we were getting into." Her words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken fear.
Mira looked up at Rylan, her eyes searching. "Solin said the Ninth must choose," she said carefully, her voice echoing her own doubts. "But there are only five of us now. How can we be the Ninth?" Her question was simple but filled with doubt.
Rylan lowered his gaze, voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe there were more before," he said quietly. "Maybe we're what's left of them. The last ones standing after everything else fell apart."
Lina shook her head slowly, her expression distant. "No," she murmured. "I don't think we're the first. I believe we're just the next in line—those who come after what's been lost. The survivors, yes. But not the first to face this darkness. Whatever this is, it's been around longer than any of us, and probably longer than we can understand." Her voice was soft, almost haunted, as she gazed into the shadows of the trees.
The weight of her words hung in the stale camp air. Everyone was lost in their thoughts, trying to piece together the strange puzzle before them. The fog, the visions, and the whispers of prophecy all created a tangled web of fears and possibilities. Each of them felt the truth slipping further away as the silence stretched on. Yet, in the quiet, one thing was clear—whatever had brought them here, whatever awaited next, change was coming. And they had no choice but to face it.
The thick fog clung tightly to the ruined structures long after noon had passed. It refused to lift, casting a heavy gloom over the area. The mist curled around the standing stones like dark vines, wrapping their rough surfaces in shadow and making it hard to see where one stone ended and another began. Every edge of the dense forest was blurred as if the trees had melted into a muddled silhouette, losing their sharp outlines in the swirling gray. Even the sun seemed weaker now, shrouded behind the persistent fog, giving off only a pale, faint glow. It looked more like a ghost of itself rather than a warm, bright light. The whole place felt frozen in time, caught in a haze that refused to clear.
Varyon carefully paced around the perimeter of the ruins again. He kept his eyes on the trees, scanning their tangled branches and dark hollows. The silence was strange and unsettling; it pressed down on him heavily. He couldn't remember a moment like this, even in Hollowmere, where such a quiet had fallen. This unnatural hush made his skin crawl. It was too perfect, too still, as if nature itself had paused in anticipation or fear. A warning sign, or a trap waiting silently. The feeling of wrongness only grew stronger with each round he completed. Every step he took fed a growing suspicion that something was terribly off.
Then, it happened. His gaze caught a sudden movement at the base of one of the stones. At first, he thought it was a shadow cast by the fading light. But no, it was something else. A dark slash across the weathered stone — not a natural shadow or mold. It looked like a deliberate mark, something with meaning. Closer inspection revealed a long, spiraling cut that seemed fresh, as if it had been made only that morning. The deep grooves carved into the ancient stone looked too precise, too new to be the result of erosion or weathering. It was unmistakably a sign made by someone — or something — with intent. Varyon knelt down slowly beside the half-sunken pillar, careful not to disturb the fragile stone. He drew his knife and traced the shape carefully. The blade pressed into the rough surface, causing tiny chips and crumbles to fall away, but the spiral remained intact. The cut was too deep for natural decay, and the edges looked sharp and clean, far too fresh for an ancient erosion. It told him that this wasn't something that had happened naturally. Someone, or something, had deliberately altered the stone not long before he arrived.
Suddenly, behind him, the fog shifted. It seemed to ripple, as if disturbed by an unseen force. Varyon froze, instinct kicking in. He kept his eyes fixed on the mist, tense and alert. His muscles tensed and his hand went to his belt, ready for whatever might come. A strange, almost inaudible sound reached his ears—like a whisper carried on the wind, but not quite. It was a low, echoing hum, reminiscent of a memory more than a sound. It was ancient, haunting, and filled with warning. Without a word, he rose to his feet, steadying himself.
Rylan appeared a moment later. He was probably drawn by the tension radiating from Varyon, sensing that something was seriously wrong. His eyes flicked from the fog to Varyon's tense posture. "What is it?" Rylan asked quietly, voice edged with concern. Varyon hesitated for a second, then stepped aside to show the recent mark. "Another sign," he said grimly. "Something's trying to tell us that it's not finished with us yet. We're not done here." The words carried weight. This wasn't just a random act; it was a message, perhaps a warning or a threat.
Ash joined them shortly after, his expression dark and alert. He looked at the mark on the stone and then at Varyon. "We need to make a plan," he said firmly. His voice left no room for argument. Life in Hollowmere had taught them how dangerous and unpredictable the forest could be, especially now. Every sign pointed to a dangerous game being played—one they were only beginning to understand. Mira appeared silently behind them, her face pale and eyes wide. She moved closer, voice soft and cautious. "We can't leave," she said urgently. "Solin said it. The forest won't let us go. Not until Rylan—Veyr—decides." Her words echoed the growing sense of helplessness pressing down on all of them. The woods seemed alive, holding them in place with unseen bonds.
Ash scowled, tension edging his voice. "That's assuming Solin is even real," he said sharp and doubtful. His suspicion was clear—he had doubts that anything outside their own experience was trustworthy. Rylan turned a steady gaze on him, eyes narrowing. "You think we're imagining all of this?" he asked slowly, voice calm but firm. Ash hesitated and then shook his head. "No," he admitted quietly. "I believe this place wants us to believe it's real, that it's controlling everything. And I think it's been preparing for this moment for a long time, waiting for us to make our move." His words settled over the group like a stone dropping into a still pond, causing ripples of unease. The group understood the gravity of those words and what it might mean for them moving forward.
Later that afternoon, as the shadows grew longer, the ground vibrated beneath their feet. A sudden, powerful tremor burst through the earth, jolting everyone upright. Mira's lantern teetered, then fell, casting wild shadows across the cracked stones and broken wood. A large crack formed in one of the fire pit stones, and the entire ground seemed to shudder beneath their feet. The others stumbled, some clutching their weapons instinctively. Eyes darted around, searching for the source. Then, from the trees emerged a low, strange sound—not a scream or a roar, but something more primal, more ancient. It was a remembered sound, like a voice from a forgotten past, echoing through the woods and stirring old fears. It carried weight, as if it belonged to something long dead but never truly gone.
Rylan's instincts kicked in immediately. He instinctively turned toward the northern edge of the grove—the very place where he had found that odd book. His eyes swept over the dense trees and thick undergrowth, searching with a mix of hope and dread. There, barely visible through the swirling fog, stood a single standing stone that hadn't been there before. It was different. It was new—or perhaps it had returned. It was upright now, scarred and marked with strange symbols. And you could see it clearly: it had only just appeared. It was a sign, a warning, or maybe something more. Carved into its surface was a single word, written in a language none of them fully understood but all recognized immediately. The word was "Ninth." It was stark, commanding, as if marking a date or a point of no return.
Lina approached slowly, her hand trembling as she brushed her fingers over the cold stone surface. Her face was pale, eyes wide with awe and fear. "This wasn't here yesterday," she whispered, voice barely audible. Her touch seemed tentative, as if afraid that just touching it might trigger something terrible. Rylan stared at the carving, heart pounding hard in his chest. His mind raced, trying to grasp what this could mean. The word "Ninth" echoed in his head as a countdown or perhaps a warning of impending disaster.
Mira's voice trembled as she spoke softly. "This is a warning," she said quietly, not trying to hide her fears. "Or it could be a countdown. Something is coming, and we're running out of time." Her words made the others even more anxious. Varyon's face darkened, eyes narrowing as he stared at the strange marking. "Or maybe it's both," he muttered grimly. "A warning, and a sign that something bigger is about to unfold." The fear in the group was palpable. Ash didn't say anything, his grip tight on his knife, knuckles turning white. The weapon seemed like a lifeline in this strange, threatening place. The quiet atmosphere grew heavier with each passing moment, filled with tension and unspoken fears.
As the evening wore on and the sun finally dipped below the horizon, the fog stubbornly remained in place. It refused to lift or thin out. Darkness spread quickly through the trees, and something else stirred in the shadows. Not close, but lurking just beyond sight. Something watchful, waiting patiently. It wasn't moving now, not yet. It was just waiting. The unknown presence hid in the blackness, blending into the night, biding its time before it made its move. The group sensed it—an entity barely visible, watching them from the darkness, ready to strike when the moment was right. Their hearts beat faster, knowing that whatever was coming was nearer than ever before. The fog and shadows had become a trap, closing in silently, luring them toward whatever lay ahead.