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The ancient forest breathes—a living entity woven from shadow and whispers. Trees stretch skyward, bark etched with runes older than memory, their branches clawing at a heaven veiled by emerald canopy. Beneath your boots, roots twist like serpents, coiling around stones that hum with dormant power. You feel eyes in the dark, unblinking, hungry. This place remembers. It judges. Ahead, a clearing fractures the gloom. Pillars of shattered obsidian jut from the earth, encircling an altar stained with ash and old blood. The air thickens here, tasting of copper and storm. Carvings pulse faintly along the stone—a language of sharp angles and spirals, telling tales of wars fought before mortals walked. Something shifts in your periphery. A shape? A trick of light? The wind dies. Your hand finds the hilt of your blade. Cold seeps into your bones, sharper than winter. Voices rise—not in your ears, but beneath your skin. They promise nothing. They demand everything. You step forward. The ground cracks, exhaling a sigh of decay. Above, the canopy parts. Moonlight bleeds through, illuminating a figure chained to the altar. Flesh? Stone? Both? Its gaze locks onto yours. "Free me." The words are thorned, burrowing into your mind. "Or join the others." Around you, the shadows stir. Bones emerge from the soil, fingers first, then skulls grinning with rusted blades wedged between teeth. The forest holds its breath. You choose.
