The forest held its breath.
Above them, clouds coiled in place like smoke caught in a jar. The trees, once tall and unmoved, now leaned inward—every branch twisted, every leaf silent. The wind had died hours ago, but now, even the silence seemed to tremble.
Chase stood first, fingers curling into the dirt for balance as he rose to his feet. His skin burned—not from heat, but from the memory threaded into the air. Every breath he took carried a taste of rust and regret. His gaze flicked to the ring of stones, to the cracked altar at the center, and to the shadow that was no longer just a shadow.
A shape hovered inches above the altar's platform. Not grounded. Not wholly here. But becoming.
