"When body fails, the spirit wanders into realms it was never meant to touch." , Inscription from the Archive of Silent Monks.
Leo staggered through the undergrowth like a man already half-dead.
Each step felt less like motion and more like punishment. His legs were stone pillars, heavy, cracking at the seams. His shoulder burned where the wolf's claw had grazed him, each heartbeat pressed fire into the wound, a reminder of how thin his survival had been. His breath rasped in his throat like torn bellows, shallow and ragged, the simple act of drawing air threatening to topple him.
Behind him, the silence still lingered, clinging to his skin like damp cloth. But this was no simple quiet. The forest's hush was alive. Listening. Judging. Every shadow seemed to lean toward him, and each tree trunk stood like a witness to his collapse.
