The night came… and nothing happened. No thunder cracked the skies, no ancient seals burst open, no shadows stirred from the woods. It was peaceful—eerily so. The kind of peace that felt borrowed... probably because it is.
Cecilion sat alone on a large, moss-speckled rock near the riverbank, only a few meters away from where the orange glow of their family campsite flickered weakly through the trees.
Laughter echoed faintly behind him—the soft hum of voices, the clatter of tin cups, someone stoking the fire. The world behind him was warm, safe, familiar.
At this moment, things are no longer surprising to him. He had already settled with the fact that the things happening in this very moment is not something he could tamper with.
Cecilion felt like a prisoner locked inside a story already written.
