The forest grew stranger the farther north they went.
What began as woods soon became somewhat like a deadly silent cathedral. Trees thickened until their roots rose like ramparts, great twisting veins that curled over the earth. Leaves no longer rustled in the breeze, because there was no breeze.
There was not even the faintest breeze.
Not in a dead way, not even in a silent one.
It felt as if the forest was listening.
Miles walked ahead, his club in one hand, the other outstretched to brush moss-thick trunks as they passed. Each time he touched one, the pulse deep inside him, the same one that had started small, weeks ago, flickered in response.
It was growing more frequent, more precise.
It did not hum like System notifications. It did not announce itself with Skill pings or cold little status boxes.
It felt instead, like recognition.
Like the world saying…
"Oh, you are still here…"
