The mist over the Wildwood didn’t just sit; it breathed. It clung to the boots of the ragtag fellowship like a physical weight, smelling of damp earth and something older—something rotting.
They weren't alone for long. Out of the shadows stepped Willow Ufgood. He looked older than the legends said—tired, his robes frayed at the edges. In his hand, he gripped a carved wooden wand, its tip pulsing with a faint, uncertain amber glow. The mist over the Wildwood didn’t just sit; it breathed
Elora Danan, the girl who had spent her life as "Dove," the kitchen maid, looked at her hands. They were trembling. Only hours ago, she had been captured by the , agents of a darkness she barely understood. She had escaped, but the woods felt like a cage. Every snap of a twig sounded like the clicking teeth of the Lich , the terrifying sorcerer-assassin hunting her through the brush. Out of the shadows stepped Willow Ufgood