The newly revealed path twisted through narrow clusters of leaning trees, the forest closing in tighter with every step. The air was damp and rich with the scent of old bark, hanging vines, and moss that whispered underfoot with each step.
They walked in silence, boots crunching softly against the strange golden-veined roots that illuminated the trail like veins of buried starlight.
Argolaith led the way, his sword strapped at his back, his eyes sharp, not with fear—but memory.
The deeper they went, the more a strange unease settled over him.
Not danger.
Recognition.
Something in this part of the forest was familiar.
It wasn't until they passed beneath a canopy of ancient widowbranches—trees with long white leaves that looked like torn shrouds—that the path began to widen into a silent clearing.
And that's where it waited.
A figure.
Motionless.
Cloaked in shadows.
