The trees greeted them like sentinels—tall, knotted, ancient. The fog that clung to the forest floor seemed not to move with the wind but to breathe. The moment the group crossed beneath the first arch of branches, it felt as though a boundary had been passed—not of land, but of reality.
Lybid led the group, her hand brushing through the thick air as though parting invisible veils. Her skin crawled with energy—some parts cold, others tingling with heat. Beside her, Methodius whispered quiet prayers in Latin, his fingers constantly stroking the cross at his neck.
Kyi kept close behind, one hand on the sacred book, the other clenching a charm Lybid had given him. He kept glancing at Shchek.
Shchek said nothing.
He walked stiffly, his face unreadable, but his eyes… they flicked toward the trees too often. As if he was waiting for something to reappear.
Maksym, ever alert, scanned the shadows. He'd brought a bow and hunting knife that were previously sanctified by Methodius and Kyi, though he doubted either would help if the stories were true. Still, the weight on his back grounded him.
Yurko trudged near the rear, muttering under his breath. Martyn, oddly cheerful, hummed a lullaby no one recognized.
As they moved deeper, the sunlight faded unnaturally fast. The birdsong vanished. Even the sound of their footsteps seemed muffled.
Then the forest spoke.
It started as a hum beneath their feet. The soil itself vibrated faintly, like a taut string pulled to the point of breaking.
Then came the first illusion—or vision.
A girl in white appeared between two trees ahead, standing impossibly still. Her face was hidden by long black hair. Her feet didn't touch the ground.
Lybid raised her hand.
"Stop."
Maksym reached for his bow.
The girl lifted her head—and her mouth stretched far too wide. An inhuman screech exploded from her throat, not through the air, but straight into their minds.
Kyi dropped to his knees, clutching his ears. Martyn began to laugh. Shchek staggered but didn't fall.
Lybid stepped forward, whispered something in the old tongue, and held out a bone charm.
The girl screamed again—then shattered like glass.
The air turned colder.
"What… was that?" Kyi gasped.
"Echo," Lybid replied, her voice tight. "The forest remembers. It throws ghosts at us."
They walked on.
Time bent strangely. Hours passed, but the sky never brightened or darkened. The moss beneath their feet grew thicker, clinging to boots like grasping fingers. At one point, a tree bled where Martyn touched it, red sap running like tears.
And then they heard it.
A choir.
Not beautiful. Not human.
Voices layered in impossible harmony, singing a song with no words.
Lybid turned to the group. "No matter what you hear—do not answer. Not with voice. Not with thought. Just walk."
They obeyed.
Even Methodius.
Especially Shchek.
But deep inside, a small voice whispered in him. Not from the trees, but from within:
"I told you I would help you."
His eyes fluttered. The forest swam before him.
And something in him smiled.
They pressed forward, one step at a time, into the deep heart of the Drowned Forest.