With every single step Max took, the whispers grew louder.
They did not speak clearly at first. They moved through the leaves like wind, slipping between the ancient trunks, brushing against the glowing grass beneath his feet, sometimes rising near his ears before fading again as if the forest itself was breathing around him. The deeper he walked, the more the colors beneath his feet reacted, soft blue, gold, violet, and silver lights pulsing through the greenery with each step.
But when one of the elves decided to play hero and lead Max astray, the whispers began to weaken.
At first, it was subtle, almost easy to miss. The soft voices thinned out. The glowing grass beneath his feet dimmed slightly. Even the mana in the air, that sweet and pure mana that flowed through this ancient forest like fresh spring water, became a little colder, a little more distant.
Max stopped.
The elf leading him froze.
