The sound of Vergil's footsteps on the dry vegetation became increasingly muffled. Every branch that broke, every leaf that crumbled under his boots was swallowed by a heavy silence, as if the forest itself were afraid to wake what lay ahead. He pressed on, guided not by his eyes, but by an invisible thread of energy that he felt pulsing beneath the earth like a living artery.
Webs now covered everything—trunks, rocks, even the sky seemed to have been sewn together with whitish threads that filtered the light and tinged the world with a spectral pallor. The smell in the air was denser, no longer just dust and blood, but something ancient... and dormant.
Zuri, curled up on Vergil's shoulder, was strangely quiet.
He noticed.
"You've been too quiet. Strange coming from my favorite narrator of misfortune."
Zuri didn't answer right away. Her pupils were dilated, and her tail was wrapped around herself in a tense grip.
"I'm... feeling something. I don't know what. But it's bad."
