The last vestiges of Celeste's light fade away, swallowed by the overwhelming darkness that presses in on us from all sides. The only light now comes from the compass in Lucas's hand, a small, steady point of radiance that seems to hold the oppressive gloom at bay.
The path has become a tight, claustrophobic tunnel, the massive trees on either side leaning in so close that their branches scrape against the sides of the wagon with a soft, scratching sound. The glowing moss is gone now, replaced by a deep, absolute blackness that seems to absorb all light, all hope.
The wisp lights, which were once a beautiful, mesmerizing spectacle, have become something else entirely. They're no longer just a temptation, a subtle suggestion to step off the path. They're a constant, overwhelming presence, a swarm of silent, glowing eyes that watch our every move, their light a cold, indifferent glow that seems to mock our small, fragile circle of illumination.
