The trees swallowed the light.
One moment they were beneath open sky—cold and gray, stretched over distant clouds—and the next, they stepped beneath the shadow of the Forsaken Forest, and everything changed.
The sun did not reach the floor here.
Even midday felt like dusk.
The air was thick with the scent of old bark, damp moss, and the quiet hum of a world that hadn't moved in centuries. It wasn't dead.
It was waiting.
Argolaith was the first to step beyond the moss-covered stone markers at the forest's edge. The carved warnings etched into their faces had long since worn away, overtaken by vines and decay.
He didn't look back.
Kaelred followed reluctantly, muttering under his breath as he adjusted the strap on his satchel. "Ten thousand miles of this. Might as well be walking through the bones of a dead god."
Malakar entered next, silent, his long cloak trailing over the forest floor. His violet eyes flicked toward every subtle movement—of leaves, of light, of breath.
