The Encounter at the Weeping Brook
The mist in the Silver Grove didn't just obscure the path; it felt heavy, like wet wool against Elara's skin. Every time she consulted the Grimoire, the ink seemed to shift, the letters squirming like frantic insects.
"Left at the stone with the hollow heart," she muttered, her voice trembling. "Then three paces toward the—"
"Toward the death-cap mushrooms you're about to step on?"
The voice was dry, cutting through the fog like a cold blade. Elara froze, one boot hovering inches above a cluster of pale, ghostly fungi. A man sat perched on a low-hanging branch of a Rowan tree, his legs swinging with practiced ease. He wore leathers stained the color of damp earth, and his eyes—a startling, predatory amber—didn't look entirely human.
The Standoff
"I'm following the map," Elara snapped, pulling the Grimoire closer to her chest. "It says the Silver Grove accepts those who seek the Truth."
Kaelen dropped from the branch, landing without making a single sound on the dry leaves. He was taller than he looked from above, and he smelled of crushed cedar and ozone.
"The Grove accepts those who belong here," Kaelen corrected, walking a slow circle around her. "You? You smell like library dust and city smoke. That book is a leash, girl. And you're let's just say... the wrong end of the