"Some places remember those who tread their stones; others hunger for the living." , Fragment from the Codex of Whispering Shadows
The mist was no longer merely a veil of vapor, it had weight, density, presence. It curled thick around every tree trunk, crawled low across the roots like a predator stalking, and muffled each step until even the crunch of leaves sounded foreign, distant. Paths that should have been clear turned inward on themselves. Familiar landmarks seemed shifted, bent into new shapes, as though the forest itself rearranged its bones with every breath of fog.
Every step forward felt uncertain, not just because of exhaustion, but because the ground itself seemed to shift, moss giving way to stone, then back again, as if the forest was leading them, herding them deeper into its heart.
