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Chapter 3 - Witchwood

Witchwood was alive.

Trees leaned in with twisted trunks. Their branches were gnarled fingers, grasping. The path writhed beneath Briar's feet like a living vein. Every few steps, whispers flitted through the air—too faint to catch, too loud to ignore.

"Do not stray," Corva warned. "The forest has eyes."

A pulse beat beneath the mossy ground. Briar felt it in her chest, as if the land itself was breathing. The fog thickened, curling around her ankles. Lights flickered in the distance—will-o'-the-wisps or something darker.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"To the flame," Corva answered. "The first of three."

They crossed a fallen log acting as a bridge over a slow, black river. Shapes swam beneath the surface, just out of sight. Briar held her breath until they reached the other side.

The forest opened into a clearing. A crooked hut squatted in its center, smoke curling from a chimney made of bones. Symbols were etched into the trees around it, warding off something ancient.

As Briar stepped across the threshold, the door slammed shut behind her.

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