"The forest does not end. It only burrows deeper." , Fragment of an old hunter's chant, etched on a broken tablet
Morning came without warmth.
A pale, thin light filtered through the canopy, not golden, not soft, but pallid, as though the sun itself feared to pierce the ancient wood. It scattered in fractured beams across the damp undergrowth, painting the moss and tangled roots in a muted green glow.
Leo stirred from uneasy half-sleep, his back pressed to the pillar he had leaned against through the night. Every part of his body ached. His shoulder throbbed where revenant claws had torn flesh, stiff with dried blood, and his legs felt as though lead weights had been shackled to them. But worse than the ache of his body was the unrest of his mind, tangled in the memory of the stone's voice that had spoken to him in the dark.
The clearing was quiet, but not empty.
They were still there.
Revenants.
