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The ancient forest thrums with secrets. Shadows cling to gnarled oaks as whispers slither through leaves—half-heard warnings, bargains, lies. You tread carefully, boots sinking into moss that remembers every step taken here. A flicker of movement: crimson eyes in the dark. Vampires don’t hunt openly, not since the Pact, but hunger has rules of its own. Ahead, witchlight glows—a cottage crouched beneath thorned vines. The door creaks. Inside, herbs dangle like hanged men. She waits, fingers drumming a skull. "Late," she hisses. "The moon’s patience wears thinner than your excuses." You toss the vial onto the table; black liquid swirls, screaming silently. Her laughter rasps like coffin hinges. "Clever mortal. But the werewolves’ alpha hungers for more than trinkets. Best hurry—his howl cuts deeper than frost." Outside, pumpkins leer from fences, muttering riddles only fools answer. Elven arrows hum past your ear—a warning or invitation? No time to ponder. The fae court’s games demand a player, not a piece. You grip the witch’s token, its thorns biting your palm. Blood drips. The path shifts. Somewhere, a bell tolls. Dawn is a fickle ally here. Run.
