Elias stood at the forest's edge, his breath misting in the cold air. The trees stretched out before him like a wall of blackened spears, jagged and unwelcoming. The sun hung low behind a bed of thick gray clouds, offering only a pale, feeble glow. No warmth. Just that dim, colorless light that made everything look washed out and wrong.
He tugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders, rubbing his hands together. His fingers still ached from the chill. But that wasn't the worst part.
The mark on his palm wouldn't stop burning. It wasn't searing pain, not like an open flame. No, this was something worse — a slow, constant throb like an ember buried under his skin. The jagged, swirling shape pulsed faintly with a dull red glow, barely noticeable unless he stared too long. He'd tried ignoring it. Tried covering it. But it never stopped.
He pressed his thumb hard against it. For a moment, the warmth dulled, and he sighed. Relief, at last. But then it pulsed harder, like it was pushing back. His eyes squeezed shut.
Not now. Not again.
A sound echoed from the woods. A low, sharp crack — like a branch snapping underfoot. His eyes shot open, darting to the trees.
"...Hello?" he called, voice hoarse and uneven. Idiot, he thought. Why would you say that?
Silence. No answer.
The mark on his palm flared suddenly, bright and hot. He hissed, yanking his hand back like he'd been stung. His heart started pounding in his chest, too fast, like something was pressing down on him. He cradled his hand to his chest, eyes flicking back and forth between the shadows.
The woods were still. Too still.
He glanced behind him, back toward the village. The path was there, clear as day. It would take him back to warmth, a fire, and maybe a half-decent meal if old man Joren didn't complain about him "eating like a stray dog" again.
Go back. The thought hit him like a shout. He felt it, like someone had spoken directly into his skull. For a moment, he almost did. Almost.
But then he thought of the whispers. They'd been quiet last night, just murmurs at the edge of his hearing, soft and distant. But every day they grew louder. And they were waiting for him in his dreams now, coiling around his thoughts like vines.
"Go back," he muttered, staring at the path. "Just... just go back."
His legs didn't move.
His fingers curled into a fist, nails digging into his palm. If I run now, it won't stop. The thought wasn't his own, but it made sense. The whispers never stopped. The mark never stopped. None of it stopped. Not until he moved forward.
He turned back to the woods. The trees were closer now, somehow. Not physically, but... they felt closer. Like the space between him and them had shrunk. The air was heavier here. It pressed down on him with that silent weight that makes it hard to breathe.
"Fine," he muttered. His voice cracked, but he didn't care. "You win."
His boots crunched over frostbitten leaves as he stepped past the first tree.
Instantly, the cold deepened. Not by much, but enough to notice. Each breath felt thicker, like breathing through cloth. His feet moved slower now, like the ground was sucking them in. The path behind him disappeared after three steps. He knew it would. It always did.
Branches curled above him, clawing at each other like tangled fingers. Barely any light made it through. Just dim streaks of gray. Enough to see where you were going, but not enough to see where you'd been.
His ears picked up every sound. Every creak of wood. Every shift of leaves. Every gust of wind that made the branches sway. He glanced over his shoulder more times than he could count.
Nothing there. Just trees. Just fog. Just shadows.
Snap.
He spun, heart leaping into his throat. The knife was in his hand before he realized it. His breath came fast, loud. Too loud. He clutched the blade in front of him, his hands trembling. "Who's there?" he barked, his voice sharper than he intended.
Silence.
The fog moved slowly, swirling like something had brushed past it.
His eyes darted between the trees. Back. Forth. Searching. But there was nothing. Nothing.
Two small pinpricks of light appeared from the underbrush. Gold. Unmoving. Watching.
His chest tightened. His fingers twitched on the hilt of the knife.
Don't blink.
He blinked.
The eyes were gone.
"Damn it," he muttered, dragging his hand down his face. His breath came shallow and quick. He turned in a slow circle, eyes straining to see through the gray fog. The mark on his palm throbbed with every heartbeat. It was getting worse.
Something shifted behind him. A soft rustle. He spun so fast he almost tripped. His legs felt weak, like he'd been running for hours.
You're being watched.
"No, I'm not," he hissed through gritted teeth, his eyes scanning the fog. "I'm not."
The air was wrong now. He couldn't explain it, but it felt thicker. Denser. Like walking through a dream. His legs felt heavier. His breaths shallow.
Then he saw it.
An archway.
Two stone pillars jutted from the ground, each one covered in faint glowing runes. Vines twisted around them, slithering like snakes. The space between them wasn't just darkness — it was absence. Not black. Not shadow. Just nothing.
His mark flared, brighter than ever before. White-hot pain shot through his palm, making him yelp. The glow from his hand lit up the ground, casting red light on frost-covered leaves.
"Enter," a voice said.
It wasn't distant this time. It wasn't a whisper. It was right there. Right behind him.
He spun around, knife up, eyes wide. "Where are you?" he snapped, his voice ragged, desperate. "Show yourself!"
The mist churned. Something moved through it. It wasn't fast. It wasn't slow. It just... was.
"Running will only delay it," the voice echoed softly, the words like a lullaby. "You know this, Elias."
He froze. The knife lowered an inch. It knows my name.
His breathing grew faster. His chest rose and fell like he'd just climbed a mountain. "You don't know me," he growled, his voice shaking.
"Oh, but we do," the voice whispered, like a breeze brushing past his ear. "We know all of you."
His eyes darted to the archway.
He could run. He could run back into the woods, find the path, get back to the village. But he knew how that would go. The trees would twist. The fog would thicken. He'd run in circles until his legs gave out.
His gaze locked on the archway. His mark throbbed, faster now, in sync with his heartbeat. The ground shook beneath him, subtle but growing stronger. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Go through.
No.
Go through.
His breath hitched. His feet moved on their own. Slowly, one step at a time. Each step felt heavier than the last. He could still turn back. Still run. Run where? his mind spat.
The air shifted. Warmth brushed past his cheek. It smelled like rain on stone.
"Good," the voice said, closer than ever. "Good, good, good..."
His foot crossed the threshold.
Everything vanished.
No ground. No air. No sound. Just weightless falling. His eyes snapped shut, his heart pounding against his ribs.
Then — impact.
Not hard. Not soft. Just there. Cold stone pressed against his palms and knees. He gasped, lungs burning like he'd been underwater.
He heard breathing.
Not his.
Slow. Steady. Heavy.
He glanced up.
Golden eyes blinked open. Dozens of them. No, hundreds. Watching from the dark.
He raised the knife, heart pounding like a drum.
"Welcome," the voice said softly, so close it might have been right next to him. "We've been waiting."
The eyes moved closer.