The sigil hadn't been there the night before. Not a trace or a hint that it was ever meant to be part of their camp. They knew this deep in their bones. Rylan was the last to leave the fire circle as the night faded into early dawn. He had checked the area, making sure everything was in place, and Ash had taken first watch, sitting quietly by the dying embers. When the first rays of sunlight broke through the thick canopy of leaves and spilled across the ground, they saw it—there, smack in the middle of the stone ring they had used as a table. It was carved deep into the rough surface, precise yet disturbing—a swirling spiral of what looked like flames. Only it wasn't flames, not really. That's what made it even more unsettling. The symbol resembled Rylan's own mark, familiar and comforting, but warped. The lines were jagged and fractured, as if someone had tried to copy it hastily or perhaps twisted it on purpose. It looked chaotic, wild, almost like a failed attempt or a deliberate act of defiance.
Ash was the first to spot it, and it showed in how he dropped his canteen with a muted curse. It clattered loudly to the ground as he snapped his head downward, eyes fixed on the strange mark. Without thinking, he took a step back, his gaze peeling away from the symbol and landing on his friends. "Uh. Guys?" His voice was low, tense. It carried the weight of confusion and something else—maybe fear. In a flash, the others converged, drawn by the same sense of unease. They all stared at it, each trying to grasp what it meant. Rylan's expression darkened as he studied the carving. A cold dread twisted within him, curling tight in his stomach. "That's not one of ours," he said quietly but firmly. His voice carried an edge, as if he already knew the truth but didn't want to accept it.
Mira knelt close, her face soft but serious. She traced a tentative finger above the carved lines, hesitating before speaking. "It's close to yours—that symbol of yours, Rylan. But no, this isn't fire. This feels...different. It's something else entirely." Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Varyon stepped forward, his brow furrowed. He looked at the engraving with a critical eye. "Rot," he said after a moment. "Or ruin. It looks like something's been burning backward, like a reverse fire. Not natural. Not normal." Lina reached toward the symbol but stopped short, her fingers curling just above it. She hesitated, clearly unsettled. "This wasn't carved by hand," she finally said softly. "The edges are molten—glazed, like the heat melted the stone. It's scorched, but not by us. Something burned into this surface while we were still asleep." Her voice trailed off, filled with the weight of her discovery. The implication sank heavily—someone, or something, had come during the darkness, and it had left its mark without interference from them.
Ash muttered under his breath, frustration clear in his tone. "Then it had to be while we were asleep," he said grimly. "While we guarded the camp." Rylan's heart thudded hard. That familiar echo of dread grew sharper inside him—the sensation that something had invaded their space, an invisible threat that reached beyond what they could see or touch. It reminded him of the feeling he always got near the ancient book or during the circle ritual, that chill that hinted at old memories stirring. But this time? It felt different—brutal, sharper—less like a whisper from the past and more like a blade cutting through their defenses. "This isn't one of the five we follow," he said quietly, voice strained. "This is from something else. Or someone else." The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of their implications. Mira nodded slowly, her face serious. "Or someone," she echoed. Their eyes met, silent understanding passing between them. No one needed to say what they all must have been thinking—if their powers had awakened old memories before, maybe those memories weren't just theirs alone. Maybe others had been touched by them, too. Maybe this sigil was a message, or a warning. A sign that something ancient and dangerous had stirred once more on the edges of their world.
The book still sat untouched, closed and silent on Rylan's pack. He hadn't dared to open it since that day in the grove. Not after he'd seen the seventh mark forming inside his mind during a restless sleep. Not after the ghostly figure wrapped in flames turned toward him, eyes blazing with secrets. The others had given him space that day, respecting his quiet distress. Lina busied herself among the plants near the camp's perimeter, gathering leaves and herbs with careful, deliberate motions. Mira remained nearby, her sketchpad in hand as she drew the latest sigil, trying to capture every detail before it faded. Ash sat cross-legged on the dirt, flipping his blade absentmindedly, his expression distant. Varyon had moved to the edge of the woods, watching the towering trees like he was listening for something beyond their sight. That was the moment they all sensed it.
A single root, thick as a wrist, curled from the base of a tree. Its movement was slow, precise—like it had a purpose. Carefully, it uncoiled from the earth, dragging itself across the forest floor. No rush, no hesitation, only deliberate intent. The root moved past the new sigil, close enough that it seemed to brush against it, an unspoken message. Then it stopped abruptly, frozen like a warning etched into the land itself. Unlike typical roots, it didn't retreat into the earth again. It didn't bury itself or try to hide. It just lay there, still but undeniable—like a sign left for those who knew how to read it. Varyon turned sharply to the group, his face grim. "Something moved," he said, voice low but urgent.
Ash looked up, shrugging but with a hint of skepticism. "No kidding. Roots move all the time in this place," he said. "Even the plants have opinions now?" There was a flicker of sarcasm in his tone. Varyon shook his head, more serious this time. "It wasn't reacting like a normal movement. It was marking something. An unspoken message, something meant for us to see." The silence that followed was heavy. No one spoke, but the truth was clear enough. The forest was alive in ways they didn't fully understand. Whatever had prompted that roots' strange behavior was no coincidence.
That night, Rylan kept the fire burning long after the others had settled into sleep. His eyes stayed fixed on the sigil just outside the circle of light. It was visible, faint but persistent. Every time he blinked, he felt sure the symbol grew darker or larger—like an insidious shadow inching closer. Frustrated, he grabbed a stick from the fire and carefully tried to scrape some away from the edge of the mark. The moment the wood touched the carved surface, it blackened, not from fire but from rot—a sickly, decayed appearance. It was almost like the sigil was eating itself from the inside out. His heart hammered in his chest as he dropped the stick, staring at the spreading darkness on the wood.
In that instant, clarity struck him. This wasn't a remnant left behind by something long gone. It was an invitation—a beckoning. Someone or something had responded. The sigil had been waiting, maybe watching, for the right moment to make its presence known again. His pulse thundered in his ears as the realization sank deep. The signs were undeniable now. Whatever had carved that symbol was still out there, listening. Watching. Lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right time to act.
That night, sleep was cruel and restless. The dreams came again, dark and unsettling. In his visions, seven figures stood in a circle, the core of their gathering. The sixth was still missing, a dark hole in their line. But now, there was an eighth figure—standing just outside the circle, watching. Its face was hidden, but the smile on its lips was broad and unsettling. It watched with quiet patience, almost amused, as if savoring the moment. The eyes gleamed with secrets, and Rylan felt a cold shiver run down his spine. The warning was clear: this was far from over, and something ancient had begun to stir once more.