The jungle was alive with whispers. Not the kind carried by wind through leaves, but the hushed warnings of things unseen. James Holloway tightened his grip on the brittle parchment spread across the campfire stones. The map was older than memory, its ink faded to the color of dried blood, its edges singed as though someone had tried to burn it out of existence.
He had followed it for weeks—through rivers that stank of rot, across ridges where bones jutted from the soil like pale roots. Every step had been a gamble, every night a chorus of insects and distant screams. Yet here he was, on the brink of the ruins that no explorer had returned from.
The firelight flickered against his leather jacket, casting shadows that seemed to crawl across the trees. He could feel the weight of the machete at his hip, the rope coiled at his pack, the torch ready to be lit. Tools of survival, yes—but against curses, against the dead, against gods long forgotten? He wasn't sure they would matter.
A rustle broke the silence. James froze. The jungle had gone still, too still. He raised his head, and in the darkness beyond the fire, two eyes glowed faintly green. Not animal eyes. Not human. Something else.
The map trembled in his hands. The ink seemed to shimmer, as if alive, and the words scrawled across its bottom edge burned into his vision:
"Beyond the gate lies hunger. Beyond hunger lies ruin."
James swallowed hard. Tomorrow, he would step into the ruins. Tonight, he would dream of them—and pray that the jungle's whispers did not follow him into sleep.