King and Valjean's bond had become unshakable over the months. Together, they faced challenges with the same fearless determination that had defined their friendship for years. But as summer bled into autumn, an uneasy tension settled over their quiet camp. A shadow was growing, one neither of them could yet define.
Their journeys had taken them farther than ever before, deep into lands they had never seen—dark forests, forgotten ruins, and villages that whispered of a coming storm. There were rumors, strange tales of something lurking in the wilderness. People vanished. Tracks led nowhere. Even the bravest warriors refused to venture too far into the woods after dusk.
One evening, after weeks of travel, they found themselves in a small, isolated village at the edge of a mountain range. The air here felt different, heavy with something unseen. Valjean, usually confident and light-hearted, was quieter than usual, her sharp instincts keen to the shifts in the air. King noticed it too, though he said nothing.
The innkeeper, a hunched man with a nervous twitch, warned them not to venture into the forest that bordered the village. "Strange things happen out there," he whispered, his eyes darting to the dark windows as if something was already watching them. "Things that can't be explained. People who enter never come back the same."
Valjean, always one for dismissing ghost stories, gave a half-smile. "We've seen stranger things than a haunted forest."
But King caught the unease in her eyes.
That night, after a sparse meal, they returned to their small room at the inn. The walls were thin, the wind outside howling like a distant scream. Valjean sat by the window, staring out at the dark treeline. "Something's not right here," she said softly, almost to herself. "I can feel it."
King nodded. "I've felt it too. It's like the air is waiting for something. Something bad."
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.
Valjean's hand shot to her sword as King stepped forward, opening the door cautiously. Standing in the doorway was a girl, no older than sixteen, with wide, terrified eyes. Her hands shook as she clutched a small pendant around her neck.
"Please," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "you have to help me."
Valjean stood quickly. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"
The girl shook her head violently. "It's not me. It's my brother. He—he went into the forest two nights ago. He hasn't come back."
King exchanged a glance with Valjean. This was exactly what they had been warned about. "What was he doing in the forest?" King asked.
The girl's eyes brimmed with tears. "There's something out there. It calls to you. It whispers in your mind, pulling you deeper. He told me… he told me he had to find it. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't listen."
Valjean stepped closer, her face serious. "We'll go look for him. But you need to stay here. Don't follow us, no matter what."
The girl nodded, relief washing over her face. "Thank you. Please… bring him back."
King and Valjean gathered their weapons and set out into the cold night. The village was silent, every window shuttered, every door bolted shut. As they approached the edge of the forest, the wind died down, leaving a thick, eerie silence.
The trees were taller than they had seemed from a distance, their branches reaching out like skeletal arms. The deeper they went, the heavier the air became, as if something unseen was pressing down on them.
"We should stay close," King said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Valjean nodded, her hand gripping the hilt of her sword tightly. "Whatever's out here, we'll deal with it together."
As they moved deeper into the woods, the shadows seemed to shift and swirl around them, the trees creaking ominously. King's instincts screamed at him that something was watching them. The silence wasn't natural—it was the quiet of a predator stalking its prey.
After what felt like hours of walking, they came across a small clearing. At its center stood a stone altar, ancient and covered in strange markings. The air around it buzzed with unnatural energy, and King felt a cold shiver run down his spine.
Valjean stepped forward, her eyes narrowing as she studied the altar. "This must be it. Whatever drew that boy into the forest… it starts here."
Suddenly, a voice echoed through the trees, low and haunting. "You shouldn't have come."
King and Valjean spun around, weapons drawn, but they saw no one. The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Leave now," the voice continued, growing louder, more sinister. "Or you will never leave at all."
Valjean clenched her jaw. "Show yourself!"
The air grew thick, the shadows deepening. And then, slowly, a figure emerged from the trees. It was the boy, pale and gaunt, his eyes vacant, as if something had drained the life from him.
Valjean stepped forward. "Your sister sent us. We're here to take you home."
But the boy didn't respond. His lips curled into a strange, twisted smile as his eyes focused on something behind them.
King turned, his blood running cold.
From the darkness, figures began to emerge. Dozens of them—men, women, children—all with the same hollow eyes, the same twisted smiles. They moved unnaturally, their bodies jerking with each step, like puppets on invisible strings.
Valjean backed up, her sword raised. "King, this isn't right. We need to go. Now."
But the figures moved closer, their whispers filling the air like a chorus of the damned. The ground beneath their feet seemed to pulse with a dark energy, and the trees around them groaned as if alive.
King's heart pounded in his chest. He could feel it—something was coming. Something far worse than the figures in front of them.
Suddenly, the ground beneath the altar began to crack, a deep, guttural rumble shaking the forest. The air filled with an overwhelming sense of dread, and from the crack in the earth, a black mist began to rise.
Valjean's eyes widened. "We need to leave, King. Now!"
But just as they turned to run, the boy's voice—now twisted and inhuman—echoed through the clearing. "You can't escape. It's too late."
The mist surged toward them, and as it did, King and Valjean felt a force unlike anything they had ever encountered. It wrapped around them, cold and suffocating, pulling them toward the altar.
King struggled to break free, but the mist was relentless, dragging them closer to the gaping crack in the earth. The figures around them began to chant, their voices blending into a horrible, droning hum.
Valjean's eyes met King's, filled with a mix of fear and determination. "We have to fight this!"
But the darkness was too strong, its pull too great. And just as the black mist began to swallow them whole, King felt his grip on reality slipping.
Then, everything went black.
---
In the pitch darkness, a single whisper echoed through the void:
"Not all who enter can leave."