The first light of dawn barely filtered through the dense canopy. A cold fog curled among the roots and trunks like slow-moving ghosts. The survivors stirred reluctantly, weary from another restless night.
Caleb stood, rubbing his eyes. The trap had worked. They had meat. But the danger felt closer now, more personal.
He scanned the group as they packed up. Ivy clung to Hana's side, her small face pale but determined. Petra was already walking, trailing a faint charcoal line on a tree bark. Yusuf limped slightly but held his head high.
"We should move before the day heats up," Caleb said. "The faceless flame can't stand the sun's glare—at least that's what the diary says."
Carla tightened her grip on her spear. "And what if something else comes? Something worse?"
"We watch," Caleb replied.
Rahul and Dev took point, moving ahead carefully, eyes sharp.
The forest around them felt alive, but not with the usual sounds of birds or insects. Instead, a low hum vibrated beneath the roots—like whispered warnings.
Petra paused, eyes narrowing. "Look."
She pointed to the ground.
In the dirt, a trail of thin scratches—deep claw marks? No, not claws. Something had dragged a long, jagged object through the soil. The marks curved sharply, then disappeared beneath a blanket of moss.
Biran frowned. "Like a warning."
Alya pulled the journal from her pack and flipped through the pages quickly. "There's a symbol here," she said, tracing a crude spiral with her finger. "It means 'stay away' or 'danger.'"
Caleb knelt down, brushing away the moss. The marks were fresh.
"Someone—or something—was here recently," he said.
Suddenly, a rustle to their left made the group freeze.
A shadow slipped between two trees and then stepped into the clearing.
It was a woman.
Tall, gaunt, wrapped in layers of ragged cloth stained with dirt and ash. Her hair was a wild tangle, and her eyes were bright and wild with fear.
"Please," she whispered, voice cracking. "Don't… don't follow me."
Carla raised her spear slowly. "Who are you?"
The woman swallowed, trembling. "I am… survivor. Like you. But I've been running."
"Running from what?" Caleb asked gently.
"From the faceless flame," she said. "From the roots that crawl beneath the ground. From… things worse than death."
"Show us," Petra said, lowering her charcoal stick.
The woman nodded and took a step forward.
Suddenly, the ground beneath them rumbled.
A deep groaning sound filled the air, like trees shifting underground.
The survivors glanced nervously at each other.
"We don't have time," Caleb said. "Tell us everything—now."
She took a breath.
"The forest… it's alive. It listens. It remembers. The roots grow faster at night, hunting. They seek flesh to feed."
Alya shuddered.
"The faceless flame isn't alone," the woman continued. "There are watchers—creatures that can walk in and out of shadow, hear thoughts, and twist reality. They're not always visible. But they always hunt."
"Why?" Biran asked, voice low.
The woman's eyes filled with tears. "Because we're trespassers. This forest… it's a prison."
Caleb's heart sank.
The diary hadn't said anything this clear.
"Are you alone?" he asked.
She nodded. "My group… gone. Taken. Burned. I barely escaped."
"Then you come with us," Caleb said firmly. "We're stronger together."
She hesitated, then nodded.
As the survivors began to move again, Caleb felt the weight of the diary in his pack—and the crushing truth: survival meant trusting strangers, confronting horrors beyond understanding, and facing the dark forest that wanted them dead.
Far above, unseen by any, a figure watched from the twisted branches, its eyes glinting like shards of broken glass.
The hunt was far from over.
The first light of dawn barely filtered through the dense canopy. A cold fog curled among the roots and trunks like slow-moving ghosts. The survivors stirred reluctantly, weary from another restless night.
Caleb stood, rubbing his eyes. The trap had worked. They had meat. But the danger felt closer now—more personal.
He scanned the group as they packed up. Ivy clung to Hana's side, her small face pale but determined. Petra was already walking, trailing a faint charcoal line on a tree bark. Yusuf limped slightly but held his head high.
"We should move before the day heats up," Caleb said. "The faceless flame can't stand the sun's glare—at least that's what the diary says."
Carla tightened her grip on her spear. "And what if something else comes? Something worse?"
"We watch," Caleb replied.
Rahul and Dev took point, moving ahead carefully, eyes sharp.
The forest around them felt alive, but not with the usual sounds of birds or insects. Instead, a low hum vibrated beneath the roots—like whispered warnings.
Petra paused, eyes narrowing. "Look."
She pointed to the ground.
In the dirt, a trail of thin scratches—deep claw marks? No, not claws. Something had dragged a long, jagged object through the soil. The marks curved sharply, then disappeared beneath a blanket of moss.
Biran frowned. "Like a warning."
Alya pulled the journal from her pack and flipped through the pages quickly. "There's a symbol here," she said, tracing a crude spiral with her finger. "It means 'stay away' or 'danger.'"
Caleb knelt down, brushing away the moss. The marks were fresh.
"Someone—or something—was here recently," he said.
Suddenly, a rustle to their left made the group freeze.
A shadow slipped between two trees and then stepped into the clearing.
It was a woman.
Tall, gaunt, wrapped in layers of ragged cloth stained with dirt and ash. Her hair was a wild tangle, and her eyes were bright and wild with fear.
"Please," she whispered, voice cracking. "Don't… don't follow me."
Carla raised her spear slowly. "Who are you?"
The woman swallowed, trembling. "I am… survivor. Like you. But I've been running."
"Running from what?" Caleb asked gently.
"From the faceless flame," she said. "From the roots that crawl beneath the ground. From… things worse than death."
"Show us," Petra said, lowering her charcoal stick.
The woman nodded and took a step forward.
Suddenly, the ground beneath them rumbled.
A deep groaning sound filled the air, like trees shifting underground.
The survivors glanced nervously at each other.
"We don't have time," Caleb said. "Tell us everything—now."
She took a breath.
"The forest… it's alive. It listens. It remembers. The roots grow faster at night, hunting. They seek flesh to feed."
Alya shuddered.
"The faceless flame isn't alone," the woman continued. "There are watchers—creatures that can walk in and out of shadow, hear thoughts, and twist reality. They're not always visible. But they always hunt."
"Why?" Biran asked, voice low.
The woman's eyes filled with tears. "Because we're trespassers. This forest… it's a prison."
Caleb's heart sank.
The diary hadn't said anything this clear.
"Are you alone?" he asked.
She nodded. "My group… gone. Taken. Burned. I barely escaped."
"Then you come with us," Caleb said firmly. "We're stronger together."
She hesitated, then nodded.
As the survivors began to move again, Caleb felt the weight of the diary in his pack—and the crushing truth: survival meant trusting strangers, confronting horrors beyond understanding, and facing the dark forest that wanted them dead.
Far above, unseen by any, a figure watched from the twisted branches, its eyes glinting like shards of broken glass.
The hunt was far from over.