Eveloria sat in serene solitude outside the grand tent, the night's breath cool and crisp, bearing a faint trace of distant campfire smoke. Her hands rested gracefully upon her lap, her gaze fixated upon the enigmatic darkness. In the soft moonlight, she found herself captivated by the pallor of her own left hand, drawn into its ghostly allure for minutes on end.
From behind the tent, a rustling stirred her from her reverie. Tristan emerged from its depths, settling beside her with tenderness.
Gently, he enfolded one of her hands within his, his voice a soothing balm, "Are you well?"
Eveloria nodded, her silence speaking volumes.
"Why is the village cursed?" she inquired, curiosity tingeing her voice.
"It's not the village itself," Tristan replied, his words a whisper, "but the encircling forest. Legends tell of those who venture into its nocturnal embrace alone, vanishing without a trace."
