The moon hung high above the dense forest, casting a silver glow on the ancient trees. Alistair moved silently through the underbrush, his footsteps barely a whisper against the forest floor. The path ahead was faint, almost invisible to an untrained eye, but Alistair knew these woods well.
He paused, listening intently. The night was alive with sounds—the distant hoot of an owl, the rustle of leaves as a small animal scurried away, and the faint trickle of a nearby stream. But there was something else, something out of place. A soft, rhythmic thudding, like the beating of a heart.
Alistair's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, the familiar weight of it reassuring. He moved forward cautiously, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. As he approached a clearing, the source of the sound became clear.
