They delved deeper.
The valley narrowed as they traveled westward, the walls rising on either side like the ribs of some long-dead behemoth. The trees thinned further, yet what remained was worse than lifeless—it was wrong. Twisted trunks split like ruptured scars, and leaves of ashen glass rustled without wind.
Even the soil changed—no longer earth, but something like calcified bone, cracking beneath their feet with each step.
And always, the fog remained, clutching at their robes, coiling like serpents at their ankles, whispering things that could not be remembered once heard.
They encountered more spirits. But these were not like before.
The first emerged from a pool of shadow pooled beneath a crumbling stone arch. It rose without sound—a Warrior of Long Lost times.
