The trees thickened as they neared the edge of the Fold—an invisible veil that shimmered faintly beneath the moonlight, rippling like the surface of disturbed water. Few dared to pass through it. Those who returned—if they did—spoke in fragments, their eyes hollow, their memories broken.
But Cecilion and Zixuan had no choice. The Fold was their last hope.
Cecilion reached out first, his hand vanishing through the shimmer. A sharp chill surged through his veins, like dipping into ice and memory all at once. He glanced back at Zixuan, whose face was pale but resolute. Without a word, they stepped in together.
The world blinked.
Inside the Fold, sound was swallowed. The air was dense, heavy with secrets, and the trees here were wrong—twisted in their growth, bark etched with moving symbols that pulsed softly with light. The sky was a pale, humming gray, as if dawn and dusk were trapped in eternal conflict overhead.
And then they saw it.
The cabin.
But it wasn't the same.
