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The sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in molten gold and violet, as the ancient forest stirred with whispers of forgotten magic. Shadows stretched like claws across moss-caked ruins, where crumbling stone altars hummed with dormant power. A lone figure emerged—boots crunching brittle leaves, cloak snagging on thorns that seemed to reach for them—pausing to trace a glyph etched into a monolith. It flickered faintly, a heartbeat of cyan light pulsing beneath their fingertips. Somewhere deep in the thicket, a discordant chime rang out, metallic and hollow, followed by the low growl of something unseen. They gripped their dagger tighter, its blade gleaming with venomous green residue from yesterday’s skirmish, and pressed forward. The air thickened, each breath tasting of iron and rot, as if the woods themselves were testing their resolve. A rasping laugh echoed, then fractured into a dozen directions. *“Turn back,”* it seemed to hiss, *“or feed the roots.”* They smirked, teeth bared—not today. Not when the relic’s song thrummed in their bones, sharp and insistent, promising answers… or a grave.
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