The forest had grown silent.
Matt noticed it first—the way the birds had stopped singing, the way the wind had died, the way the very air seemed to hold its breath. It was the kind of silence that pressed against the ears, that made the hairs on the back of the neck stand up. The kind of silence that preceded something terrible.
He stopped walking, his hand going to the steel rod at his belt.
"Something's wrong," he said.
Yvonne stopped beside him, her eyes scanning the treeline. Her hand found his, her fingers cold. "I feel it too. Like we're being watched. Like the forest itself is waiting for something."
Maren stepped forward, her face pale beneath the grime of their journey. Her eyes were fixed on the shadows between the trees, her nostrils flaring as if she could scent the danger.
"This is the place," she said. "The old magic. I've heard stories, but I never believed them. Not really. I thought they were just tales to frighten children."
