Control
Any drawing will make you run
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The ancient forest breathes with secrets, its gnarled roots twisting like serpents beneath a canopy choked by centuries. Moonlight bleeds through fractured leaves, painting shifting glyphs on moss-eaten stones—markers of a language forgotten before kingdoms rose. You tread where shadows have teeth, where the air hums with the weight of buried wars. Every snapped twig echoes. Every rustle hides a dozen eyes. This isn’t a place for maps; the trees rearrange themselves when you blink. Your torch gutters, revealing claw marks raking the bark—too high for any beast you’d name. The compass spins, needle drunk on whatever thrums beneath the soil. That’s when you hear it: a melody woven from creaking wood and distant whispers, pulling you deeper. Legends spoke of a heartwood throne, a relic that bends time itself. But tales lie. They never mention the cost—the way the forest *bargains*. You clutch the dagger, its hilt cold despite the sweat on your palm. Choices coil like vipers. Trust the half-mad trapper’s warning? Follow the crow with eyes like smoldering embers? Or cut your own path, blade hacking through vines that weep black sap? Survival’s a currency here. Every step spends it. Dawn won’t save you; the sun never pierces this green hell. Turn back? The path’s already gone. The forest drinks memories. Press onward, and you might forget why you came.
