As the first light of dawn crept over the treetops, Marcus, Kira, and Lyra set out, their breaths visible in the chilly morning air. The Whispering Woods were silent as if the forest itself was holding its breath. Each step seemed to echo, amplifying the tension that lay heavy between them. They knew that beyond these trees lay the temple Elder Alira had warned them about—a place of ancient power and terrible darkness.
They walked in silence, each lost in their thoughts. Kira's eyes darted to every shadow, her hand never straying far from her bow. Lyra muttered incantations under her breath, preparing spells in case they were ambushed. And Marcus felt the weight of his new title—the Guardian of the Whispering Woods—settling on his shoulders like an invisible mantle.
