The mist closed around them like a living thing.
Once the beach's laughter and bonfires were swallowed behind a thick wall of fog, the world changed, as if the very air had been steeped in memory. The sand turned to a path of compacted earth, ringed by skeletal trunks whose branches clawed at the sky like blackened hands. Fallen stone markers jutted from the ground. Every step the group took was swallowed by silence, save for the soft crunch of leaf-litter and the distant creak of timber.
Shaurya walked at the head. His expression was steady, eyes scanning the fog and the uncanny geometry of the graveyard-forest with a leader's precise calm. Behind him, the Sanatan Flame Sect formed an ordered tide: elders in poised ranks, disciples aligned by training and trust. The Moonlight Pavilion followed, their movements hesitant—like people who had wandered into a dream that had teeth.
