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Ancient woodlands pulsed with unseen energy as fractured sunlight painted the forest floor. She cinched the leather strap biting her shoulder, her father's blade shifting against damp wool with each cautious step. Three moons hadn't reconciled her muscles to its hungry weight, though the engraved fuller now thrummed faintly where Wyldewood's shadow canopy began swallowing all birdsong. Today's stalking rhythm held none of the grove's usual mischief - no chittering leafwyrms or sapling spirits rolled beneath ferns. This pursuer moved like oil across water, synchronizing the blade's resonance with the forest's labored exhales. Her palm ground against the pommel's frost-etched gem. "Guide me," she growled to the mist-shrouded oaks, to the cursed steel, to whatever twin-pupiled hunter now mirrored their path through decaying twilight.
