The Dead Forest thickened as they marched south. The black trees closed in, their intertwined branches weaving a net above their heads, blotting out the ashen light of the sky. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of rot and damp earth. Beneath their feet, the spongy ground swallowed their footsteps, turning their advance into something ghostlike.
Alka—now Rika to everyone—walked in the middle of the group. Her stigma throbbed faintly, a constant presence humming in tune with her thoughts. She had learned to ration her energy, drawing just enough to maintain the illusion of a useful, harmless Awakened. But the hunger for more—always more—gnawed at her restraint. Every creature repelled, every soldier calmed by a whisper in their mind, only deepened her craving for a second stigma.
