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The forest hums with ancient magic, its roots coiled around secrets older than time. Shadows cling to gnarled branches like guardians, whispering warnings to those who dare enter. Creatures with eyes like smoldering embers prowl the undergrowth, their forms shifting between flesh and mist. At the heart of the woods, a stone altar pulses faintly, etched with runes that bleed darkness into the soil. Tales speak of a forgotten pact between mortals and the primordial spirit dwelling beneath the trees. Travelers who linger after dusk vanish without trace, their voices joining the chorus of the lost. Even sunlight here feels thin, strained through leaves that rustle in a language no human mouth can shape. Some claim the air itself is alive—a slow, predatory breath that watches, waits, hungers. To survive, one must heed the old rules: never answer a voice without a face, never drink from water that reflects no sky. Bind your promises in iron, for lies here take form, teeth sharpened on broken oaths. The forest tolerates no weakness; it devours doubt, feasts on fear. Yet fools still come, lured by rumors of power hidden in the earth’s black veins. Few emerge. Those who do bear hollowed eyes and stories of a presence that followed them home. It nests in their dreams, a thorned vine curling through memory, until they return—willing or otherwise—to kneel before the altar. The forest always reclaims its own.
